attempt without notifying the Marine Corps brass in Fallujah. Fargo was known as a “seagull colonel”-an officer who flew in, raised a riot with his infernal squawking, and then shit all over everything before he flapped off to annoy someone else.
At thirty-four, with the rank of Air Force captain, Quinn had no stomach for such leaders or the rancid politics they dragged around with them like a bad smell. If Fargo didn’t see fit to call the Marines, that was his business. But the idiot ran right past Quinn and the target building, hot on the trail of a convoy of bad guys who were surely meant to do exactly what they were doing-drawing the Americans away.
Despite his best efforts, Fargo hadn’t been able to keep the rescue a secret from the Marines for long. The radio net buzzed with activity as angry bulldog brass from Camp Baharia demanded to know what was going on. They were sending troops and advised all others on scene to “stay the hell out of their way.”
Two minutes earlier, Quinn had seen a bright flash to the north and heard the shriek of an enemy RPG- rocket-propelled grenade-followed closely by the unmistakable groan and sickening thud of a chopper going down. Helicopters-likely Marine Super Cobras, dubbed “Snakes” by their crews-that had been on their way to save a missing hostage, now roared toward the crash scene to provide close air support with their mini-guns.
Quinn activated the high-intensity, infrared LEDs he kept in the pocket of the tactical khakis he wore under his dishdasha. Invisible to the naked eye, the tiny Firefly snapped to the end of a nine-volt battery could stay nestled in his pocket and still show up as an exploding fountain of light to patrolling aircraft. Quinn had witnessed firsthand the unholy mess American pilots and their magical weapons could make of unsuspecting insurgents. He didn’t mind blending in on the ground, but he wanted the good guys in the sky to know he was a friendly.
Quinn raised his head just high enough to peer through a night vision scope at a clay building that slumped like a child’s mud creation across the deserted street. Rusted oil drums, filled with sand and stacked two high, flanked the sides and much of the front of the rough two-story structure, giving it a bunkered, junkyard appearance. A hand-painted sign in Arabic swung from one broken hook above a dark, double-garage doorway. The faintest shaft of light peeked from the edges of shuttered windows on the second floor.
Quinn touched the tiny throat-mike that lead to the portable radio clipped beneath his dishdasha. “Tiger Four, Tiger Four, this is Copper Three-Zero…”
Fargo’s aide de camp, Major Tidwell, answered. Despite his tendency to brown nose, Tidwell was a decent and capable soldier. “Go for Tiger Four.”
“Tiger Four, Copper Three-Zero,” Quinn hissed. “You went past me…” He consulted a wrist-mounted GPS and gave his coordinates. “My guy says the missing Marine and at least one other friendly are in the two-story building twenty meters west of my location. The sign out front says it’s some kind of tire store.”
Fargo came back, his voice crackling with energy. The pop of gunfire, likely his own whether he had anything to shoot at or not, caused the radio to cut in and out. “Stay put, Copper Three-Zero. Do not move. We’re meeting resistance, but will work our way back to you.” Fargo kept the button pressed on the radio while he shouted strained, nonsensical orders to his men. Quinn was forced to listen to an enormous amount of yelling and staccato gunfire before the officer finally came back to him. “I say again, do not take action! We’ll rally at your location!”
Quinn tapped the Sig Sauer nine millimeter under his robe, to make certain it was where it was supposed to be. It was a habit he’d developed over his years of carrying a gun. He wore the pistol low on his thigh, in a tactical holster, so the ballistic vest he normally wore wouldn’t interfere with his draw. The handgun was only for emergencies. The job of hunting men required something larger. Quinn’s primary weapon was a Colt M4, the pug version of the venerable M16.
Rifle in hand, he rose up to peer at the shop but froze at a sudden hiss from his right.
“Copper Three-Zero? United States Marine Corps. I got your Firefly in my sights.”
Quinn held his breath. “I’m a friendly.”
“No shit,” the voice chided. It was rock steady and rolled onto the night air on a heavy Southern drawl. “I’d have smoked your ass thirty seconds ago ’twere that not the case.”
“How many men you got?” Quinn whispered at the dark shape, his brain already hard at work on a plan. It was a relief to have someone around besides Fargo.
“Two, but we’re Marines so that’s a dozen mortal men,” the voice said. “We augered in hard on that Huey three blocks north. Damned hajji got us with an RPG. Crew chief and three of my men had to stay behind to move the pilots. Both of ’em got banged up on impact. Rat bastard Iraqis’ll be swarming the place like maggots in no time flat. Me and Diaz broke away to come see about this missin’ Marine y’all been squawkin’ about on the radio.”
Two forms scuttled up next to Quinn in the darkness under the lone palm tree.
“Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux and Lance Corporal Diaz.” Even in the inky black, Quinn could tell the gunny was built like a professional body builder. Biceps the size of grapefruit bulged from the rolled sleeves of his uniform blouse. Massive shoulders heaved with each deliberate breath. Corporal Diaz, who lay somewhere on the far side, was eclipsed by his giant sergeant.
Thibodaux gave Quinn a once-over, raising an eye at his Iraqi clothing. “You a civilian?”
“Air Force, OSI.”
“Figured as much,” Thibodaux grunted, his voice gumbo-thick with a Louisiana drawl. A square-jawed Marine Corps poster child, he put up with pilots from other service branches because they offered close air support when he needed it. Everyone else was a wing waxer… or worse. “So, Chair Force, where exactly is our Marine?”
Quinn rolled half on his side to look through his night vision scope at the shimmering green hulk of the Cajun. Thibodaux could have easily been an NFL lineman if he hadn’t listened to the recruiter back in Baton Rouge.
“My information puts your Marine and at least one other American up there.” Quinn nodded toward the dilapidated tire shop. “They’re supposed to be executed tonight.”
The muscles in the big Marine’s jaw tensed at the news. “And your shitbird colonel wants you to wait ’til he gets here?”
“Those are his orders,” Quinn said.
The men hugged the sand as an Opal sedan, covered in a layer of dust thick enough to obscure the color, sputtered up the road. Feeble headlights barely dented the night. The car ground to a creaking stop across the street, blocking the front door of the building from view.
A heavily bearded Iraqi got out and looked up and down the empty street, craning his neck as if stretching would help him see in the dark. When he was apparently satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he opened the trunk to retrieve a video camera and a large wad of clear plastic he stuffed under his arm. He gave the street another furtive look in either direction, then pulled an AK-47 from the back seat and disappeared into the building.
The giant Cajun took a knee. His voice was grim. “That dude just took in a camera and tarps. We all know what these rags like to get on video…” The M4 looked like a toy in his shovel-sized hands.
Quinn slipped out of his dishdasha and tossed it under the palm tree. “We can’t wait,” he said. “That a problem for you?”
He could see from the look on the Cajun’s face that it wasn’t.
“You kiddin’ me, Chair Force?” Thibodaux snorted. “I ain’t responsible to orders some sand crab didn’t even give me.” He nudged Quinn in the side with his elbow. “Fact is, I was never gonna wait anyhow.”
“Outstanding.” Quinn pushed into a standing crouch. He tapped the CRKT Hissatsu fighting knife tucked in his belt before taking up the M4 from where it hung on the single-point sling around his neck. He paused to look at both Marines through the sullen darkness. To trust him, they had to hear this from his mouth: “No time for diplomacy here. We shoot anyone who isn’t a hostage.”
“Roger that,” the Marines said in unison, stone-faced. That had always been their plan.
Quinn sensed the same torrent of white heat he felt before any life-threatening action-a fire, low in his belly.
Thibodaux turned and gave Quinn’s shoulder a nudge as they began to move. “Time we got to know each other a bit, Chair Force. Let’s me and you play a little game. Apart from the spending time in the company of a good woman-what are the top two things you wish you were doin’ right now?”
Quinn broke into a fast trot, speaking as he went. His first wish was a no-brainer. “First, I’d be riding my BMW motorcycle up the Alaska Highway to see my little girl.”
“Good choice,” the Marine said, jogging beside him. “And if you couldn’t do that?”
Quinn focused on the darkened building ahead, full of people who wanted nothing more than to see him and
