casualties. Then Leopole was back in his ears. “Red Team, ready, ready, ready. Go!”
At the rear, Red Team met less resistance. Only two of Ali’s men were stationed there, hosing long, optimistic bursts at the shadowy figures in the barnyard. Jeff Malten noticed that they were disciplined, however, alternating their shooting so that only one had to reload at a time.
Malten tossed a smoke grenade and prepared to lead his team to the rear door. He stood up to go, looked back — and saw Olsen take a hit and go down. Malten was momentarily stunned.
Pace low-crawled to Olsen and checked him. A.303 round had struck the ballistic chest plate near the bottom. Three inches lower and it would have hit flesh. Olsen was breathing hard, bruised but otherwise unhurt.
Malten made a snap decision. He motioned part of his team to deal with the unexpected threat from the barn. He watched as Ashcroft, Green, and Jacobs threw more smoke grenades and scrambled wide to the left. Henderson and Pace swapped gunfire with the shooters in the barn while Malten turned his attention back to the rear of the house.
The occupants of the barn expected a flanking movement and deployed to meet it. They nearly hit Jacobs but he had been a track man in school and sprinted across the open space left by the smoke. When the three reached the rear of the barn, they quickly scouted the layout: there was no rear access. Ashcroft reloaded his G3 rifle and prepared to assault around the corner when Green grabbed him. “Never fight anybody when you can execute ‘em.”
“What?”
Green held up an M34 grenade, light green with a yellow band. He had been hoarding two of them since leaving Arlington. “Cover me.”
With his friends watching left and right, Green dashed ten strides along the wooden wall and threw the white phosphorous grenade inside. Rather than dash back, he withdrew several steps, holding his rifle at shoulder height. Seconds later a garish white flash erupted inside, setting a smoky blaze that burned at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. It spewed particles on the walls and roof, and in barely a minute half of the barn’s dried wood was burning.
Green heard Ashcroft’s HK around the corner. Three, four, five rounds. Jacobs swung that way to lend a hand, but it was unnecessary. Ashcroft held up his left hand, two fingers extended. “They ran out on this side. One of ‘em was on fire.”
Jacobs asked, “Where’d they go?”
Ashcroft pointed in reply. Twenty to thirty meters away lay two bodies, one smoldering.
Green reappeared, hefting his second grenade. “Damn!” Jacobs exclaimed. “I gotta get me some of them.”
Between the barn and the house, Malten threw his last smoke, waited for the cloud to expand, and watched the suppressing fire drive the shooters from the windows. Then he led his half team to the rear of the house. Henderson placed a breaching charge on the door, twisted the dial for a quick fuse, and turned away. The small charge exploded with a loud, hollow noise, and the door swung on its hinges.
Pace tossed a flash-bang. So did Henderson. Malten was instantly inside, the others two steps behind. One of the shooters lay on the floor, rolling in pain from the horrific noise of the stun grenades. Malten kicked the man’s AK away and watched the entrance to the next room. Henderson dragged the casualty outside where Pace secured him by the simple expedient of sitting on him.
The second shooter was deafened by the grenades, but retained most of his vision. Kneeling behind the doorsill, he extended his AK sideways and triggered a long, unaimed burst that went high and wide. Malten raised his fourteen-inch Benelli and fired two slugs from fifteen feet. The first one-and-a-quarter-ounce projectile splintered the doorsill, sending wood pieces into the shooter’s face. Reflexively, he turned to avoid the shotgun blast, exposing his torso in the process.
The second slug took him in the notch of the sternum. He went down hard. Malten covered him, reckoned he was dead, and by feel thumbed another slug into the five-round tube.
“Clear!”
Two more of the rear entry team joined Malten while the rest guarded the rear approaches.
At that point they heard gunfire from the front of the house.
After White Team’s flash-bangs detonated, Breezy and Delmore led their sections through the door. Breezy went left, Delmore went right. Two al Qaeda men rolled in agony on the floor, deaf and blinded by the stun grenades. The rear man in each section immediately secured them.
Three other Muslims chose to fight.
One popped up behind a wicker chair fifteen feet from the door. Breezy’s front sight settled on the man’s torso and the operator pressed the trigger. Six rounds impacted the target.
The AK shooter slid down the back of the chair; Breezy’s muzzle followed him, as per doctrine.
Across the room, another jihadist was already shooting. His suppressed Uzi clattered a long burst at Delmore. Two 9mm rounds clipped the big man, but were stopped by his Kevlar vest. He returned fire, advancing in a combat crouch: two bursts. One to the chest, one to the head. The target collapsed and sprawled in a spreading pool of blood.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
The entry team followed its well-rehearsed minuet, two pair “running the walls” while the third duo secured the first room. Breezy and his partner held the survivors at gunpoint, ensuring that the men on the floor made no furtive movements.
With weapons raised, the operators spread out, searching behind furniture and opening doors.
A thin, bearded man emerged from the middle room. He raised a revolver toward Breezy, who saw him one second too late. Breezy’s adrenaline spiked as he realized he could not beat the drop. He did the only thing he could: he fell to the floor and rolled for cover.
Bosco saw the threat at the same time, but distance lent options. He shouted
The target ignored the stop command.
Bosco got a flash sight picture and held the trigger down. It was a quick and dirty burst, and he knew that it went high. But two rounds connected as the man was turning to the greater menace. Gouts of blood erupted from the Pakistani’s left arm and shoulder and he stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling on his back. The Webley clattered to the floorboards.
“Clear!”
“Holy shit!” It was Breezy’s tail man, checking the first shooter near the door. “Six torso hits and this dude is still breathing.”
“Cuff him!” Breezy was on his knees, fighting his way back to standing. He did not realize it yet, but he had not breathed in fifteen seconds. He forced himself to inhale, bringing fresh oxygen to his bloodstream.
More “clear” calls came from the back of the building. The second team emerged, slung weapons, and began cuffing the prisoners.
Breezy bent over the bearded man with the shoulder wounds. Looking at Bosco, the ex-paratrooper murmured, “Thanks, man.”
The victim lay on his back and raised a bloody hand. “Friend,” he rasped. “I am a friend.”
Breezy was taken aback. He did not expect anyone to speak fluent English. Then he recovered. “Yeah, everybody’s my friend when they been shot.” Breezy whipped out a tie wrap from his belt.
The man raised himself on an elbow. “Dr. Padgett-Smith. I must talk to her.”
Sharif saw that the English woman’s name registered with the American.
Breezy stood up, still holding the tie wrap. Obviously the man at his feet had valuable information. The
