They were looking down into the bivouac of a platoon of Iranian soldiers. Two trucks were parked at the edge of camp, clearly the group’s transportation. Not using them to leave the mountains ASAP was going to be their last mistake.
It had taken the Kurdish fighters just under twenty-four hours to catch up with the men who had butchered their fellow villagers. Or at least soldiers like them. No one among the rebels seemed to care, least of all Thomas.
Sirvan placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You were a sniper?” he asked, recalling their conversation of the previous day.
The American replied with a nod.
“Then remain here and spot for Estere,” Sirvan ordered, handing him the binoculars.
“Don’t I get a weapon?” Thomas asked, a glimmer of hope appearing ever so briefly.
White teeth showed in the Kurd’s swarthy countenance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson. Hawre will remain to provide security.”
And then he was gone, moving silently through the scrub to rally his fighters and organize them for the attack.
Estere was prone in the grass, her eye already on the scope of the rifle as she aimed down the bluff into the enemy camp. Her dark hair was pulled sharply back from her face to keep it out of her eyes.
Thomas crawled to her side, adjusting the binoculars once more to his eyes. The fighter named Hawre knelt less than five feet away and behind them, an AK-47 in his hands.
The mountain had grown silent, the whisper of the wind the only sound of nature remaining. It was the calm before the storm.
It was almost as though Thomas could feel the Kurds moving into position. Though their movements were shielded from his eyes, he had been on enough ops through the years to be able to predict where they would be taking up positions.
He counted a total of forty soldiers in view below them, and there was no way to know whether that was all of them. They might even have a patrol or two out. Thomas stole a glance at the pistol on Estere’s hip, wishing it was in his hand.
There were two soldiers on guard duty by each of the transport trucks. He had just turned the binoculars carefully to examine them when a shot was fired.
It was a signal. At that instant, Thomas heard the well-nigh simultaneous
The trucks exploded a moment later, the fireball nearly blinding Thomas as the bodies of the unfortunate guards were vaporized.
The rifle beside him spat fire as Estere got off her first shot. “Target?”
“An officer,” Thomas stammered out, still trying to recover his vision. “To your right.”
“Range?” she demanded, swiveling the rifle on its bipod to acquire the new target. “I need the range.”
“Hundred and eighty meters,” replied Thomas. Rifle fire filled the air as Sirvan and Badir’s forces descended the slope, as the panicked soldiers tried to rally.
He felt the sniper rifle recoil beside him, watched the officer crumple into the dirt, a clean headshot. Soldiers were falling all around, caught in the ambush.
“Target?”
Something felt suddenly wrong, the hairs on the back of Thomas’s neck prickling even before gunfire exploded behind them.
He turned just in time to see Hawre fall, his body nearly cut in two by bullets. Thomas screamed out a warning, throwing himself toward the fallen Kurd.
Bullets fanned the air near his head as Thomas reached him, grabbing a fragmentation grenade from the dead man’s belt.
Things seemed to slow down, crystallize, as he grasped the situation. Their assailants were sweeping down from the ridge above, acting stupidly, he realized even as he pulled the pin on the grenade. They were bunched up.
He heard the crack of a pistol shot as though through a dream, saw one of the five men stagger. The frag landed among them and Thomas grabbed Hawre’s AK.
Their attackers dove for the ground, seeking whatever cover they could find against the grenade. One man tried to run. The blast caught him square in the middle of the back and he collapsed, screaming pitifully.
Thomas aimed the barrel of the AK up the ridge, seeking out their hiding places. Movement came from a thicket and he squeezed the trigger gently, a burst of fire ripping out from the rifle’s barrel.
The movement stopped.
His eyes scanned the landscape carefully, looking for further threats. Three bodies were in sight. Another perhaps lay dead in the scrub.
That left one. Thomas hit the magazine release and checked on his ammunition supply. Seven rounds remaining. It would have to be enough.
He looked over and saw Estere laying there prone on the hill, a Tokarev pistol clutched in both hands, her eyes focused intently up the slope.
Then he saw it, a betraying movement out of the corner of his eye. A hand reaching for a discarded Kalishnikov about ten meters to his right.
Thomas held his breath, shifting the AK carefully to his shoulder. The man had learned caution, and was crawling forward on his belly, Thomas judged, unable to see anything but the hand.
Time itself seemed to slow down as the man shifted forward. He had almost reached his rifle when he put his head up to look.
Thomas squeezed the trigger twice, sending two 7.62mm bullets crashing through the man’s brain.
Target down. He felt the tension drain from his body and realized suddenly that the palms of his hands were slick with sweat. He didn’t remember being that nervous in years.
Silence. It hit him suddenly, that all the firing, even from below in the camp, had ceased. Estere rose and walked over to where one of the Iranian soldiers lay moaning, his legs nearly torn off by the grenade blast.
She aimed the Tokarev down and pulled the trigger once. The moaning stopped suddenly.
“Estere!” Thomas turned to see Sirvan appear from below, at the head of his fighters, his clothing stained with blood. He swept his sister into his arms, embracing her fiercely.
For a long moment, Thomas stood there, awkwardly, his hands still gripping the nearly-empty AK. Then Sirvan glanced at him over his sister’s shoulder and mouthed a single word.
A light rain was falling as Director Lay’s car wound its way through the network of checkpoints stretching into the bowels of the parking garage. It was shaping up to be an ugly day, not to mention the weather.
The sight of Ron Carter standing next to his parking space did little to lighten his mood. “What’s going wrong now, Ron?” Director Lay snapped, exiting the limousine as his bodyguard opened the door for him.
“I’ve got something you need to see, sir.”
“Don’t you always?” Lay asked, regretting the sarcasm moments after it left his lips. When Carter failed to rise at the sally, the DCIA sighed. “My office or yours?”
“Yours, sir.”
Lay nodded to his bodyguard as they entered the elevator. “Take us up, Pete.”
Not another word was spoken between the two men until the door of Lay’s office closed behind them. “Coffee?” Lay offered.
“No thanks, boss. Any more caffeine in my system and something’s bound to go haywire.”
“Late night?”
