Angels of Wrath

thousand or so rounds of ammunition scattered in the back like firecrackers.

When Thera reached the end of the block, she unfolded the stock on the AK-47 she’d been carrying and aimed it at the power transformer on the nearby pole. It took her three shots to find exactly the right spot on the device to make it arc and explode. The night flared white, and then the entire block and mosque went dark.

* * *

They’ve called over to the Syrian police, trying to figure out what’s going on,” the controller on the EC-130E told Ferguson. “They think it’s a robbery.”

“It is,” Ferguson said. “Make the call to the army Tell them that radicals have attacked the president’s hotel. Give them the castle location.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ferguson and Guns had ridden their bikes back up the hill, where they could see the men in the castle regrouping. He picked up one of the Russian radios he’d gotten from Birk and began improvising a one-sided conversation about a pickup truck approaching behind the team making the attack, addressing “Commander Suhab” and asking for directions on what to do next. He pressed down the talk button and fired his AK-47 right next to it, then threw the radio down.

“Jam all their communications,” Ferg told the controller in the EC-130E. “Jam everything within fifty miles. Rankin, you out of there?”

“We’re clear.”

“Get to that turnoff and wait.”

“You think I forgot what I was supposed to do?”

“You never know, Skippy. This stuff is so much fun even I forget what I’m doing sometimes.”

* * *

Van Buren had split the assault group into three elements, each named after their primary task. “Field,” composed entirely of Rangers, had been charged with securing the area near their target plane and then preventing an escape by the subject in the second phase of the operation. “Plane,” a team of Delta troopers drilled in taking over aircraft, had been assigned to secure the aircraft itself. They would also take Khazaal after he arrived. “Support” would cover contingencies as well as provide scouting and security around the planes during the operation.

The men fanned out across the airfield. Van Buren and a communications sergeant stayed with Support, moving into position about twenty yards from the tarmac where the target aircraft, a Rockwell Commander, was being fueled. The flight crew had not taken the precaution of posting guards, and the only complication was the tanker truck, which had just arrived to deliver fuel. But even this worked to the assault team’s favor; the truck and its driver occupied the pilot and copilot as the attack team shifted forward.

Captain Melfi snuck around the driver’s side of the fuel truck with three of his troopers. As the man who had come to fuel the plane spoke to the pilot, Melfi and the others sprang out, shotguns point-blank at the men. The guns were loaded with nonlethal rubber shot. As the pilot started to turn to the aircraft, Melfi and one of his men fired, sending the man in a lump to the ground. The copilot and fueler surrendered without a struggle.

“Plane is secure,” Melfi told Van Buren.

“Roger that,” said the colonel. It had gone even easier than he had hoped. “Now all we have to do is hope the rooster comes back to the hen house.”

* * *

Guns and Ferguson had cycled about five miles south when the controller in the EC-130 warned that two police vehicles were heading their way. The Americans pulled off the road, hiding in the brush until the vehicles had passed. Then Ferguson pulled out the laptop and got the feed from the Global Hawk, taking stock of the situation.

Realizing they were no longer under fire, the men in the castle had swarmed over the burned-out SUV; several cars and trucks, including Khazaal’s, were parked near it on the road. One well placed bomb there, Ferguson thought to himself, and a dozen of the world’s worst scumbags would be sent to their final reward.

Unfortunately, another dozen would eagerly take their place.

Meles’s Mercedes and several other vehicles were still inside the compound.

“What do we do if they stay there?” Guns asked.

“Eventually they have to leave,” said Ferguson.

“You think he’ll go without his jewels?”

“If he thinks Suhab Majadin has them, he may, because he’ll figure he knows where to find them,” said Ferguson. “But we’ll have to see.”

“Hey, look at this,” said the controller.

Ferguson and Guns hunched over the screen. The Syrian police vehicles that had passed him had driven right up to the burned-out SUV and were now enveloped in tracers. There was a flash: one of the visitors had used an RPG on the police car.

“The odds on his bugging out just improved considerably,” Ferguson told Guns. “Let’s get into position for phase two.”

* * *

Thera threw her gray jilbab over her shirt and pants, and donned a two-piece scarf. Then she and Monsoon headed toward the Riviera, intending to see how the rest of Meles’s contingent had handled the situation. But they found the streets near the hotel filling up with police and Syrian soldiers. They drove around the area, made a report, then went over to the hotel where the Russian weapons expert had been staying. He didn’t appear to be in his room. Thera decided a little reconnaissance was in order. She left Monsoon on the street and went inside, walking through the lobby briskly as if she were a guest. She got off the elevator on the first floor and took the stairs to the third. By the time she reached the Russian’s room she had slipped a set of lock picks from her pocket.

A hard rap failed to get an answer. Thera rapped again, saying she was from housekeeping and had been sent up with an extra pillow. When she didn’t get an answer, she slid a pick into the lock, nudging upward with a flair of body English. The lock gave way but the door didn’t; she took a wedge-shaped pick and opened the fifty- year-old dead bolt above it. Picks back in her pocket, Thera pushed the door open and stepped in, scooting it closed behind her and locking the door.

As she turned around, the light went on, and she found herself staring at the curved barrel of a Czech-made CZ52. Though a reasonably large pistol, it looked rather small in the big, beefy hand of the Russian weapons expert Jurg Vassenka.

* * *

Rankin and Grumpy rode their bikes to a strip of storefronts three miles north of the castle area. Two of the three stores here were empty, but the third housed a Syrian convenience store where customers could buy a variety of fast foods, groceries, and even clothing and hardware items. Unlike in America, the store’s hours were highly irregular, and the owners who manned it had gone home long ago. This was fine with the Americans, who took their bikes around the back and caught their breath.

“They’re mounting up,” the controller in the aircraft said a few minutes later. “Looks like they’re going south in one big convoy: Khazaal’s truck, Meles, the whole lot of them.”

“You got that, Rankin?” asked Ferguson.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Hang loose until they clear past the police. If you can get into the castle to take a look around without too much trouble, do it. Otherwise, bag it and meet us back at the airport. Don’t cut it too close.”

“Not like you, huh?”

“Not like me.”

* * *

The Russian held the gun in both hands as he approached Thera. There was no question of reaching for one of her weapons under the long Arab dress; at this range, the 7.62mm rounds in his gun would make her look like Swiss cheese long before she could return fire.

The Russian said something to her; she replied in Arabic that there must be some sort of mistake. The Russian yelled at her, and after pulling the chain across the door, slapped her across the face with the pistol. The blow sent her to the floor. While Thera could have done without the pain, she was able to slide her hand to her