Contract to Kill (2 page)

“What?” Mason asked.

“Greenbacks,” Hutch said.

From the hole, Hahn issued a low whistle.

“I’m coming down.”

Mason told the rest of his squad to stay alert and then descended the ladder. Hahn pointed his flashlight into the box, and Mason stared in stunned disbelief. He’d heard of this, but he’d never seen it. After all the violence he’d seen in Afghanistan, he thought it strange that a box of cash would affect him so strongly. He felt its undeniable attraction even as he despised the ugliness it represented. Temptation came in many forms, but this had to be one of its most powerful lures. A childhood memory surfaced of finding a twenty-dollar bill on the street outside a video arcade. Mason had been exhilarated. It was like discovering a pirate’s treasure. He’d known about money—the tooth fairy had left him a few quarters—but he’d never held a twenty-dollar bill before. Later that night, he’d studied it with a magnifying glass, every little detail. Someday, he’d vowed, he’d have lots of bills like that.

He sensed Hahn’s stare and averted his eyes from the money. As inviting as it might be to pocket several bundles, Mason resisted the urge.
Blood money
, he thought.
This stuff paid for dead soldiers.

“How much is it?” Hahn asked.

Mason picked up a bundle of twenties and thumbed it. “Each wad is probably two grand. Some of them are fifties and hundreds. I’d say we’re looking at a minimum of two hundred grand.”

“What’s this guy doing with so much cash?”

“We’ll let command figure that out. After Hutch checks the box, we’ll take it with us. You’re on the money, Sergeant. None of it disappears on the way to HQ.”

“No sir, it won’t.”

Mason climbed out of the hole and told his interpreter to make a video recording of the entire compound to document the kills, the secret bomb-making stash, and all its contents. Maybe the CIA had a way to trace the cash. For all Mason knew, the money might be marked. Again, not his concern.

Once the video was complete, he had his men move the dead Taliban over to the compound’s door. He saw no reason to deny his enemy proper burials. Mason then ordered photos taken of all the KIAs for the CIA’s facial-recognition software. He sent Hahn into the hole to collect the cash and bomb-making materials, but told him to leave the AK ammo, RPGs, and mortar rounds there.

Next, Mason’s engineer put several C4 blocks in the spider hole with the remaining ordnance. Everyone hustled back to the MRAPs and crouched on their far sides.

After his squad leaders confirmed a head count, Mason nodded to his engineer, who detonated the charges.

Like the beginning of an earthquake, the ground shuddered.

Half a second later, a yellow-white fireball shot skyward, followed by a towering mushroom cloud. Secondary explosions rocked the compound as ordnance cooked off. Baseball-sized chunks of mud brick and splintered timbers bombarded the entire area, pinging off the MRAPs and surrounding buildings.

Chip stood and yelled, “Get some!”

Mason smiled and waved him back down.

He ordered his radio operator to relay the news: six Taliban dead, including Mullah Sanjari; a weapons cache and bomb-making center destroyed; and a large amount of US cash recovered. But most importantly, no friendly casualties had been taken. The raid on Mullah Sanjari’s compound was another gold star on BSI’s record.

A little over six minutes after arriving, the vehicles sped away.

Two clicks from the village, the terrain got steeper and more rugged. Before NATO’s ISAF troops arrived, the only access in and out of the village had been a footpath. Several years ago, bulldozers had carved it into a one-lane track. Although wider, it remained the village’s only access. For a click or so, the road weaved its way through a series of small canyons and seasonal creeks. The terrain sloped steeply away on one side and climbed sharply on the other. Coalition engineers had this road targeted for additional realignment, but it didn’t rank high on the priority list of projects. Mason had argued otherwise but to no avail.

A sudden radio call broke Mason’s thoughts.

Now what?

The lead MRAP had eyes on a motorcyclist on the far side of the arroyos.

“Is he turning around?”

“Negative, sir
.
”

Solo motorcycles and scooters weren’t an uncommon sight, but all Afghans knew to avoid close contact with coalition convoys.

“Bravo, increase speed and intercept.” He slowed the remaining MRAPs to a crawl and increased their separation. “Fire a warning burst.”

He couldn’t see Bravo’s MRAP, but the clatter of its .50 caliber M2 echoed across the rocky slopes like cracking thunder. Mason knew the salvo of white tracers sent an unmistakable message. If the motorcyclist kept coming, he would be fired upon.

Mason switched positions with his turret gunner to get an unobstructed look. When his vehicle cleared the next curve in the road, he brought his field glasses up. Four hundred meters distant, the motorcyclist had stopped where a dry creek crossed the road, but he wasn’t turning around.

Mason ordered a second warning burst.

More M2 fire roared from the lead MRAP, and this time Mason saw the tracers extend across the valley. They skipped off the road and raised a dust cloud. That did the trick. The man turned the motorcycle around and sped away in the opposite direction. He hadn’t gone ten meters when he lost control and went down.

Dumb shit
, Mason thought. Through the magnified image, Mason watched the guy right the bike and repeatedly stomp on the starter pedal.

“Bravo, one more burst. Make it close.”

White tracers reached across the valley again. The motorcyclist ducked and covered his head. When the salvo ended, the man threw his arms up and kicked dirt toward the convoy. He was clearly frustrated at being forced to leave his ride behind.
Well, too fucking bad
. The idiot had picked a bad time to use this road—paid for with US taxpayer money
and
BSI’s blood.

The man began walking along the side of the road, constantly looking over his shoulder.

That’s right.
Just give me an excuse
.

Mason ordered the convoy to stop well short of the sidelined motorcycle. In an act of pure defiance, the man stopped walking and turned toward the convoy. He didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated by the firepower facing him. Studying the guy more closely, Mason saw it was a younger man, but he had a hard look. Desert-schooled for sure. Mason grabbed the bullhorn’s mic with the intent of ordering the kid to keep going or die.

Without warning, the canyon’s wall erupted in three fierce blasts.

Chunks of rock plinked off the turret’s faceted surface, forcing Mason to duck. The concussive explosions rocked his MRAP and choked the entire area with dust and smoke.

“Did anyone see RPG trails?” Mason called to his squads.

None had.

Mortars
.

“All units, reverse course! Reverse, reverse! Launch smoke!”

He had to get his vehicles moving before the Taliban adjusted their aim for a second salvo. Mason believed the next round of mortars would be targeted farther along the road, not behind.

He guessed right.

More explosions cratered the road where they would’ve been had they continued forward. After his radio operator reported the attack to command and relayed their GPS position, Mason was told air support was being dispatched from Shindand Air Base.

Believing the Taliban had a spotter somewhere on high ground, Mason opened up with the M2 and walked his tracers along the rim of the canyon. Chunks of pulverized rock blasted free from the cliff’s face. He saw no dust cloud from the launch of the mortars, which probably meant they lay beyond the canyon’s rim, well out of his line of sight.

He told the other turret gunners to open fire on the rim.

Radio chatter from the lead vehicle informed him the downed biker had jumped into the dry creek and ducked out of sight. Mason swung his turret in that direction as his driver continued to back up. More chatter came through his headset.

The motorcyclist was back up—shouldering an RPG!

Mason lined up on the kid and thumbed the trigger.

The Browning answered the call.

Clenching his teeth, Mason walked a burst of tracers onto the human form. The kid’s body shuddered as though being pulled in every direction at once.

He pivoted his turret back to the north, where hundreds of slugs peppered the canyon’s rim. Mason added his fire to the barrage. The air shimmered in ghostlike pulses as the supersonic bullets tore through the atmosphere. Expended brass and links began piling up next to his weapon. Mason reached down and tossed some of it over the turret’s armor.

“Ammo!”

One of his men handed up another can. He fired the remaining rounds, tossed the empty can into the canyon, and replaced it. After feeding the belt into the Browning, he cranked it three times until a link came out. His M2 was good to go.

Decision time
.

Mason had no way to know if an IED had been planted up ahead or if the motorcycle was rigged to explode, but there hadn’t been any bombs along the stretch of road they’d just traversed. With no room to turn the MRAPs around, they had two choices. Go forward or go backward.

Or take the fight to the Taliban.

Mason was sick to death of this damned stretch of road. It was time to neutralize those Taliban assholes once and for all. The question was how.

Bravo’s MRAP held the platoon’s sniper. If Mason could get him deployed, he might be able to take out the Taliban’s spotter. At a minimum, his shooter could put some suppression fire on the spotter, forcing him to scramble. But even if successful, that wouldn’t end the threat.

Despite the risk, Mason decided to attack the mortar teams on foot. He ordered the German MRAP to increase its speed and continue reversing course until it cleared the arroyos. Once it reached flatter ground shy of the canyon, he ordered it to leave the road and swing around to the north, cutting off any Taliban escape in that direction.

Mason yelled into the compartment below. “Get ready. We’re deploying in thirty seconds. We’re taking out those mortar teams.” He repeated the command to the other BSI vehicles and ordered a man in each MRAP to stay behind and lay down M2 suppression fire as needed.

Chip volunteered to lead Alpha’s ascent up the canyon—a gutsy offer. Without knowing the number of combatants they faced out there, it could be a suicide mission. If a platoon-sized force of Taliban lurked on the high ground, his men could be pinned down and made vulnerable to another mortar attack.

Three more explosions thumped the rocky slope. Once again, pulverized stone and shrapnel pinged off the MRAPs’ armored surfaces. One of the blasts hadn’t missed by more than a few meters. The Taliban mortar teams were now firing at will, no longer concerned about being simultaneous.

Mason believed he was facing 81 mm shells. If they were HEAT rounds, the high-explosive anti-tank projectiles would penetrate the plate steel atop their MRAPs, creating a very unhappy result. As long as he kept his MRAPs moving along the winding road, they’d be difficult targets to hit. Reversing the convoy had temporarily confused the enemy, but it wouldn’t last. Mason fully expected to see explosions any second in the direction they were traveling.

He ordered his remaining MRAPs to launch more smoke grenades and slow to a crawl. The smoke wouldn’t be super effective under the current wind conditions, but he didn’t need much of a margin to execute his plan. When the white smoke reached its peak, he gave the order to stop. Including himself, twenty-one BSI personnel jumped out the rear doors of their MRAPs. The entire off-loading took less than four seconds; he and his men hunkered on the low side of the road as the MRAPs resumed backing up.

Deafening explosions continued to erupt all around them. Geysers of dirt and rock were flung in every direction. Goggles protected their eyes, but the white smoke assaulted their lungs.

Fifteen seconds after they exited the vehicles, the engine noise from the last MRAP faded and they lost sight of it around a bend in the road.

An eerie calmness ensued as the mortars went silent and the cover smoke thinned.

Were the Taliban teams already on the move? If so, Mason had no intention of letting them escape.

Sounding like crackling thunder, short bursts of turret fire continued to echo down the canyon. Mason ordered a battlefield cease-fire. If the mortars started up again, he wanted to hear the launches.

Mason was an old southerner at heart and believed in dividing his forces to gain a tactical advantage. They’d make a three-pronged advance up the slope. Alpha squad would take the left, Bravo the center, and Charlie the right. He told Bravo’s sniper team to remain behind and find a good shooting position. At his order, all three squads sprinted across the road and began their ascent. Not only was the terrain steep, but it also made it hard to find footholds that didn’t give. If the Taliban were going to attack, now would be a good time.

Mason took a moment to call his command MRAP for a gunship update—still no ETA on the chopper.

Low, rumbling whomps resonated through the canyon. The Taliban mortar teams had resumed. Either their spotter didn’t see Mason and his men down here, or he deemed the MRAPs to be more valuable targets.

As near as he could tell, the launchers were at his two o’clock, just beyond a V-shaped protrusion of the rim. It was a tactically sound location, protected by a steep wall of rock that couldn’t be easily or quickly climbed. The best route to the rim was a snake-shaped ravine just south of the protrusion. If they could follow that up, they could get behind the Taliban mortar position.

A single rifle shot echoed down the canyon.

“Everyone get down!”

Too late.

The man behind Mason grunted as a bullet smashed into his ballistic vest.

“Sniper!” Mason yelled. “Did anyone see the flash?”

Mason’s radio crackled to life. He knew from the calm voice it was Bravo’s sniper.