Kill Zone

sunglasses pushed up on top of his head. He greeted a few men seated on stools in some nearby shade. Damn! Kyle kept his right hand on the binos while his left dug into a thigh pocket and grabbed a plastic envelope. It contained the small photograph of the Frenchman who was to be the contact for the Marine raiders, and he looked at the picture, then back at the man. Pierre Falais. The Frenchman knocked on the door, said something, and was allowed inside. Fifteen minutes later he was out again, and his truck roared to life. Toyotas don’t roar, Kyle noted, and they don’t wear big desert tires. This was a custom job. He watched it drive to the gate in a low wall that surrounded another flat-roofed house three blocks down the main street, and then he lasered the hell out of the place.

It was finally time to move. Swanson spent two hours backing out of his hide and working his way down the wadi to a new spot a hundred meters to the right to get a better view of the mysterious door before the dinnertime delivery at the House of White Hands. This time, when the door opened, he had a plain view of a big man wearing desert cammie pants and an olive drab tank top. Not only was he white, but he had a line of tattoos on his right arm from shoulder to wrist. He took the food and shut the door.

Swanson was stunned. Who the hell was that and what did he have to do with the situation? The white skin meant westernized: Eurotrash or Aussie or Kiwi or Canadian or Scottish or whatever. Maybe even American. The tattoos helped narrow the field because they indicated a military background. That meant a spook of some sort, or a mercenary, and so much food being delivered indicated more than one in the house. A couple of Frankensteins just happen to be in the neighborhood during a Marine raid? No chance that could be just a coincidence, and it sure as hell didn’t help the odds against him.

Kyle crawled back to his hide, ate some more crackers, and checked his water supply before taking a sip. He had taken two one-quart and four two-quart canteens from the other Marines so that he could be liberal in staying hydrated, because he planned to resupply after dark. But he never drank more than half of the water on hand. Water was life in the Middle East, and he judged that he still had plenty. As he ate, he considered his list-the Zeus and its guards; the house with Pudgy, Beanpole, SpongeBob and Pee-Wee, and a minimum of four other Arab fighters; the frog and his souped-up Toyota; and finally the House of White Hands, which contained at least one non-Arab guy who was most likely a mere.

Places to go and things to do, and Middleton was down there somewhere. The frog will tell me. Lots to do. He cut chunks of C-4, rolled them into tiny balls and put them in an arm pocket. A handful of pencil-sized detonators went into another pocket. From a full roll of black duct tape in his pack, he ripped off a half-dozen long strips and stuck them along the legs of his pants. He cleaned his weapons. He waited for darkness.

CHAPTER 26

NEWS FROM THE FRONT, GENERAL! Guess what? You’re gonna be a fuckin’ TV star again!” Victor Logan squatted before his captive, grabbed Brad Middleton hard by the jaw, and turned him so the prisoner had to look into his eyes. Logan laughed, a mirthless sound that echoed in the small room, and he wore a smile of triumph.

As the heat of the day was easing, Middleton, prone on the bunk, was able to breathe a bit easier, pulling air into his lungs despite the aching rib that had been broken in one of the beatings. The broken finger was useless. He had ripped a strip of cloth from his robe and tied it to the next finger to immobilize it. The room stank so badly it had become part of him. His guts were sore, and he had neither bathed nor shaved since they had used him in that earlier rigged media show.

Middleton’s right wrist was chained to the metal cot, giving him only enough movement to reach two buckets, one about a third full of fresh water and the other a stinking one that he used as a toilet. The loose full-length cotton robe was filthy.

“We just got some new instructions,” Logan said, letting go of the jaw but giving Middleton a medium-strength slap on the side of his head, enough to make the general’s ears ring. “I guess you might consider the good news is that this is going to be our last day in this shithole. The bad news, for you that is, comes tomorrow morning. Jimbo and I are going to clean you up, get you all dressed in that spiffy uniform hanging on the door over there, and hand you to the raggedy-heads. The jihadists plan a big show. Might call it the local version of American Idol.”

Middleton ignored the flash of pain, slowly swung his feet to the floor, and spat on the floor to disrespect Logan. He wasn’t afraid of the giant, because almost by definition a Marine Corps general has a streak of arrogance. His mind had cleared as the drugs wore off and he had thought long and hard about why he had been taken hostage, adding in the snippets of information he overheard through the door as his captors talked. He knew that he would never be released, so damned if he would go down sniveling. Middleton decided to interrogate the big man.

“If you have something to tell me, Logan, just say it. You and your partner: Dumber and Dumbest,” the general said with a condescending sneer. “I can’t understand why a company as big as Gates Global, with hundreds of pretty good people on the payroll, would stoop so low as to bring a couple of losers like you aboard.”

Logan reacted sharply and stood to his full height, glaring down at Middleton. “They came recruiting me, not the other way around! The company uses Shark Teams to handle the uncomfortable side of things.”

Middleton gave a wry smile. “And you were stupid enough to sign on. Look. I know Gordon Gates personally. He eats guys like you and Dumbo for breakfast. Sharks. Jesus.”

“Jimbo, not Dumbo.”

“Right. So Gordon waved his checkbook and you fools jumped on board.” With a couple of oblique probes, Middleton had gotten Logan to admit that Gates was behind the kidnapping. He decided to push harder.

“He’s paying me a hell of a lot better than the military ever did. Way better. I got more money in the bank than you ever dreamed of.”

“Good for you. I hope your 401(k) brings you peace and comfort for the next few hours, because you’re already a corpse, too, and just don’t know it yet.”

“Bullshit.”

The general stretched to loosen his muscles. “You are not going to live long enough to spend it, Logan. I guarantee that a big reward has been put on the street, and your best friends are already looking at you as a piece of meat that is worth about a half-million American dollars, dead or alive.” Middleton tugged at the handcuff chain, let it drop, and faced Logan again.

“Also, you and Dumbo are the only links to my actual kidnapping, and Gates Global is going to cover its own ass. You are loose ends. Another one of your gear-queer Shark Teams probably will be sent out to gobble you up. You may be King Kong today, but between the tickle of a big reward among the ragheads and the double-cross coming from your boss, you’re going to be just another dead monkey.”

DAMN. Logan wanted to hit the general, beat the crap out of him, cut him, make him bleed. That was not allowed. “Shut your damned mouth, Middleton, or I’ll shut it for you. You don’t know nothing.”

“I know it all, Logan,” Middleton said, staring at the mere. “It’s so quiet around here that I can hear the rats fart, and I’ve been listening every time you guys talk. You’re going to have me killed on TV. Big deal. The Marine Corps is a big organization, and six colonels are probably already fighting for my desk. I’ll be missed at the Pentagon about as much as you have been by those wussy SEALs. Let’s make a bet: I say your freedom fighter buddies will bury all three of us in the desert tomorrow: you and me and Dumbo together through eternity.” The general lay back down as if he did not have a care in the world, but continued the questioning. “No wonder they kicked you out of the shitbird SEALs. You weren’t even good enough to meet their low standards.”

Logan snapped at the bait. “Yeah? You think your Marines are such hot shit?” He was pissed that Middleton was ridiculing the Teams. SEALs were the best! “Your Spec Op boys couldn’t even fly two helicopters without running into each other out here. Wouldn’t have mattered if they landed, neither, because we had them in a kill zone even before they fucked up.”

Middleton made a point of grimacing as if disappointed and said nothing while he made another mental note. Confirmation that this whole thing was a setup for an ambush. Blabbermouth.