Blaze of Glory (39 page)

The passenger van collided with a short stone wall. Men poured from the back. Zinsser counted seven—he must have killed one or two when he fired through the windshield. He looked at Rich then back at the approaching men.

The two fired as they dashed for cover.

“Shaq, I got me an idea.”

“I hope it’s a good one.”

Zinsser triggered his mike. “Boss, Data. I’ve been thinking . . .” He gave the high points of his scheme in twenty seconds.

Over his earpiece he heard Moyer address Rich with a single but loaded word: “Shaq?”

Zinsser didn’t need an explanation. Moyer wanted to know if Rich thought he was in his right mind. Rich eyed him. “Yeah, but I want to go with him.”

“Better if I go alone. Shaq can provide cover from up here—and I’m going to need serious cover. Recommend sending Colt up.”

The radio link stayed quiet. Zinsser could almost feel Moyer thinking. Then came the word. “Shaq, Colt will be at the window in sixty. Get him to the roof. Data . . .” The pause seemed to last a year. “Data, you’re cleared to go.”

Rich clamped a crushing hand on Zinsser’s arm. “So help me, Data . . . so help me, if this is a suicide run because you don’t have the guts to face your problems, I will . . . I’ll . . .”

“Relax big guy, it’s just war.” Zinsser smiled, then looked in Rich’s eyes. “This isn’t about me, man; it’s about you and the others. I’m for real.”

Rich let go. “You had better be.” He rose to a hunkered position and moved to the edge of the roof where he and Zinsser had climbed out the window. Zinsser swept the battle area to provide cover, then sprinted to the same spot.

J. J. came flying over the parapet, pulled by the adrenaline-strengthened arm of Shaq.

“Nice digs,” J. J. said.

“Ya think?” Shaq turned to Zinsser. “I’ll help you over—”

“No need.” Zinsser stepped over the edge.

THE MAN SHIFTED HIS backpack, pushed the partially closed door open, and took several silent steps into the room. Hernando and Michael were listening to radio reports from their men.

Michael paced. “I should be down there.”

“I can stand to lose many things, Michael, but not my only brother.”

A perfect opening. He stepped forward. “There’s nothing like family.”

Michael and Hernando turned from the radio.

Michael’s eyes widened. “You!”

“You remember me? Of course, it’s only been a few days since we last spoke.”

“What are you doing here?”

The man raised his gun. “Business.”

“Who is this?” Hernando asked.

“His name is Abasi. He was one of El-Sayyed’s dogs. He seems to be off his leash.”

“What kind of business?” Hernando stepped away from Michael. Abasi smiled, lifted his gun, and shot Michael in the knee and Hernando in the hip. The men screamed in pain.

Casually Abasi pulled a chair to the center of the room and sat, setting the backpack between his feet. “My business is revenge. El-Sayyed sent me.”

Michael spoke through clenched teeth. “El-Sayyed is dead.”

“Dead or alive, he is my leader. I know what he would want me to do, so I plan to do it.”

“I’m bleeding,” Hernando said. “I’m going to bleed to death.”

Abasi smiled. “I can assure you that you won’t.” He removed a bomb made of plastic explosives from the backpack and set it two feet in front of him.

Michael turned defiant. “Do it. If you want to blow us up, then do it. Stop playing games.”

Abasi wagged a finger. “I’m sorry, but you haven’t suffered enough. You haven’t experienced enough pain—the same pain.”

“El-Sayyed felt no pain.”

“I did. I do. I will avenge his death and ease my grief by making you suffer for as long as possible.” He rose from the chair, stepped to Michael, and shot him in the right hip. Michael bellowed. Abasi moved to Hernando and shot him in the knee. More wailing. Again, Abasi smiled. “Look, matching wounds. I love symmetry, don’t you?”

“You’re crazy!” Michael ground the words out.

“Yes. I do believe you are right.” Abasi shrugged. “Somehow that doesn’t seem to matter right now.”

Abasi watched as blood began to pool beneath the men and thought it a lovely sight.

TESS RAND WOKE EARLY. Dawn was just scratching at the night sky. Something else scratched at her insides—something she couldn’t identify. Her night had been filled with nightmares she could no longer remember, but although the images were gone, the terror remained. For an hour she fought a losing battle with the bed, then gave up. She moved into the kitchen of her apartment and started a pot of coffee, paced the floor, then decided to shower.

The hot water ran over her head, slipped over her shoulders, and ran down her body. In every other area of her life she conserved water, but not showers. The shower was her idea chamber, her retreat, her cocoon . . .

But this morning the cocoon was fractured. Five minutes later she began to weep.

She had no belief in psychic phenomenon and couldn’t explain why she felt such dread. Her search for answers came up empty. Tess lowered herself to the floor of the shower and let the water pound her body. Waves of grief erupted from her.

In the shower, under the constant flow of hot water, in the darkness of fear and dread, Tess began to pray for J. J.

MOYER HAD TAKEN AN ammo survey of his men and didn’t like the answers he received. If they weren’t careful, they’d be down to one bullet per bad guy. The Willie Petes J. J. had thrown had killed or wounded many of the remaining first wave. The others retreated, but Moyer knew they wouldn’t be gone for long, not with a large number of reinforcements arriving. They could wait them out, wait for daylight. What bothered Moyer most was their ability to completely surround the church.

Time was the problem. It was possible the inbound help might arrive too late.

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice—a voice full of tears.

Moyer turned and saw the woman from the basement. Her dirty face was marred by streaks of tears. “Get down!”

“I think he’s dead. I think my husband is dead.”

Moyer started to rise, but Jose was faster. He sprang to his feet, grabbed her, and pushed her to the floor.

She began to weep in earnest. “He’s dead. I know he’s dead.”

“Doc.”

“I’m on it, Boss.” Jose grabbed her arm, helped her to her feet, and pushed her toward the stairs that led to the basement, keeping his body between her and the bullet-riddled wall. Moyer and Pete fired into the darkness just to keep enemy heads down while Jose and the woman moved across the floor.

Five minutes later Jose appeared. “She’s right, Boss. Her husband is dead. Nothing I can do for him.”

Moyer closed his eyes and sighed. No one would be bragging about this mission.

DUTY AND HONOR HAD been powerful words in Zinsser’s life. Now they were annoyances. All he had longed for was death and the courage to do himself in. The courage never came, and he was still alive. He had the perfect opportunity when he helped disarm the bomb on Delaram and another opportunity during the HAHO jump. Each time he chickened out. Even a few minutes ago he could have simply stood up and taken bullets provided by the bad guys. That would have done the job. But no, he spent time doing to others what he hoped they’d do to him.

Now as he worked his way over the church’s side yard wall, he was in the perfect position to put an end to his miserable life, to the haunting visions and the never-ceasing voices. All he had to do was let the enemy see him. That was it. Just step out, say hello, and take a dozen rounds in the head and body—the last member of his previous team to die.

That, however, would leave his current team down one member, one weapon. They already faced impossible odds, and his absence would make things worse. He cursed honor and duty.

He moved from the wall to a drainage ditch that ran alongside the road. Moving quickly he silently slipped into the ditch. It reeked with a familiar and unpleasant odor. He was trekking through a sewage ditch.

He had to move more slowly than he’d like to prevent splashing water and alerting others to his presence.

He heard voices and dropped to the side of the ditch. Several men jogged past, no doubt looking for a way to approach the church without getting cut down in the process. Zinsser’s first temptation was to drop the men as they jogged by, but that would alert their partners and put an end to his plan.

“Data, Boss. Report.”

The last thing Zinsser could do was speak. He keyed his mike twice but said nothing, knowing Moyer would hear two clicks on his side. Nothing further came over the radio.

The men moved on, and Zinsser resumed along the ditch, thankful the human sense that tired easiest was the sense of smell. By his estimation, he had traveled eighty or ninety meters, putting him just past the last vehicle in the recently arrived caravan.

Slowly he crawled from the ditch and surveilled the area. From his vantage point he could see men moving along the courtyard wall. Others were slowly circling around the church. They had left the vans unattended.

Zinsser eased his way to the van at the front, the one with the windshield he had shattered. With his 9mm in his hand, Zinsser approached the driver’s side of the vehicle. The driver leaned against the door, bleeding from his throat and head. The front seat passenger was crumpled in the seat. The van’s airbags had deployed when it hit the low wall that paralleled the ditch.

The engine of the van continued to run, something Zinsser considered an advantage. Starting an engine would draw unwanted attention. He opened the driver’s door, seized the dead man’s bloody shirt and pulled him to the ground, then took his place. Pulling his bloody knife from its holder, Zinsser cut away the expended airbag and tossed it behind him. The wide side door was locked open.
Perfect.

He whispered into his mike. “Boss, your limo awaits.”

“Understood, Data, be advised: friendlies overhead in two minutes.”

“They know not to shoot this van?”

“Maybe I should have mentioned that.”

Cute.
“Ready to rock on your command.”

“Wait sixty then go.”

“Roger. Wait sixty.”

Zinsser squeezed the steering wheel and waited.

It was the longest minute of his life.