Contract to Kill (3 page)

“I’ve got him.”

A second shot boomed, this time from behind their position. Near the tip of the protrusion, a single Taliban tumbled down the rock face. The lifeless body slid the last ten meters and stopped.

“Good shooting, Finn. Any sign of the mortar’s spotter?”

“Negative, but that could’ve been him.”

“Double-time to a new SP and keep eyes on the rim.”

“Copy
.
”

His man who’d taken the bullet in the chest grimaced. He looked like he was about to vomit.

“Breathe, Tucker,” Mason told him. “Hang back for a spell. You’ve probably got a few cracked ribs.”

“I’m okay. I’ll be . . . right behind you.”

“Sit tight, Corporal. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mason patted his wounded man’s shoulder and resumed his ascent.

If Bravo’s sniper had neutralized the Taliban’s spotter, the mortar attack might be over. Hit-and-run was a common tactic, but Mason wanted to find more than footprints up there.

He looked across the canyon and didn’t like the way Alpha and Charlie were no longer synchronized. He ordered Charlie to slow down so Alpha could make a parallel ascent. He wanted his two squads to arrive at either side of the V-shaped protrusion simultaneously.

The mortars fell silent again. Had the Taliban spotted his men? Mason diverted his squad to the south so they could take advantage of the ravine for additional cover.

Thirty meters from the rim, all hell broke loose.

Half a dozen Taliban appeared at the top and opened fire; the white twinkling of their AKs stood out against the deepening twilight like a fireworks display.

Mason and his men leapt into the deepest part of the ravine and slid down its rocky bank. Each man protected his face as hundreds of 7.62 mm bullets thumped through like a maelstrom of exploding firecrackers. Once again, they found themselves mired in choking dust. One of Mason’s men took a round in the thigh and cursed. A dark stain began saturating the man’s pants.

“Tie that off and fall back to Tucker’s position,” Mason yelled.

Bravo and Alpha opened fire on the rim.

Bullets peppered the cliff face, creating tiny craters in the rock face.

Mason ordered Charlie squad to keep going.

The boom from Bravo’s sniper echoed through the canyon again. Another Taliban slid down the slope like a rag doll.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the AK fire stopped. Mason had seen this before. The Taliban weren’t stupid. Fearless, but definitely not stupid. They would typically open fire, relocate, then fire again.

“Sergeant Hahn, you’re with me. The rest of you stay here and cover our ascent. Conserve ammo. Don’t fire unless you have positive targets in sight.”

If the Taliban’s intent was to slow them down to allow the mortar teams time to disassemble their tubes and beat feet out of there, they were going to be sorely disappointed. Mason intended to raid their party. He estimated they could be at the rim in just under forty seconds.

More mortar-launch whomps reverberated off the canyon walls.

With no way to know where the projectiles would land, Mason ordered all his squads to take cover.

Time seemed to stretch as they waited for the high-arcing munitions to detonate.

Mason watched in horror as one of the rounds landed in the middle of Charlie squad.

Shit
. He didn’t know how bad it was, but he knew there’d be serious wounds or even fatalities. Charlie’s squad leader radioed that his unit had taken three casualties, one serious. Mason told them to stop their advance and take cover.

Where was that chopper?

“Let’s go, Chip. Balls to wind. We’re putting those assholes out of business.”

“I’m right behind you.”

More explosions rocked Charlie.

Mason now knew the launch tubes were at his two o’clock position, in roughly the place where the AK fire had come from. So far, the AK-wielding Taliban hadn’t returned, likely cautious of the sniper who’d taken down two of their comrades.

After half a dozen explosions, the mortars fell silent again.

Worried about ricochets, he told the MRAPs to cease firing at the ridge. He and Chip were twenty seconds from the top and really huffing. Mason concentrated on breathing and dug harder to get footholds.

He could no longer see Bravo or Charlie; the V-shaped protrusion blocked his line of sight. A quick radio call confirmed Charlie’s arrival to the summit was ninety seconds. Mason reminded them about the cross-fire risk.

For the last ten meters, he and Chip would be dangerously exposed. The shallow ravine they followed got gradually shallower until it flattened out with the rest of the slope. If any Taliban appeared directly above them, they’d have little chance of surviving.

Another solo report echoed down the canyon.

Not knowing its source, they dived for the deck.

Like something out of a western movie, a Taliban soldier tumbled down the rock-strewn slope right in front of them.

Bravo’s sniper
. He’d been covering their ascent.

Half a second later their world turned into dust, shattered rock, and zinging bullets. They lay flat and hoped a lucky shot wouldn’t find them. Mason felt a hornet-like sting on his calf and knew he’d just taken a bullet fragment, likely a tiny piece of deformed copper. He stole a look at the rim and saw the muzzle flashes. Fortunately, they were at the tip of the protrusion and too far away to be accurate. Most of the bullet impacts were separated by several meters.

Mason keyed his radio. “Bravo. Hold position. Suppression fire only, short bursts, conserve ammo.”

Below and to their right, his second squad peppered the rim at the source of the twinkling AK fire. Over the crackling M4s, Mason heard the low woofs of Bravo’s grenade launchers. A fiery blast near the tip of the protrusion collapsed the rim, and two Taliban found themselves without any ground under their feet. They cartwheeled down the slope like spastic gymnasts.

Multiple M4 bursts nailed the tumbling men.

The Taliban rifles fell silent again.

Shaking their heads to dislodge the worst of the dirt, Mason and Hahn used the break to advance the remaining distance. If they were going to get shot, it might as well happen while attacking. The distant rumble of M4 fire continued to crackle through the canyon. He ordered another battlefield cease-fire, but excluded his sniper from the order.

The terrain was so steep near the top of the ravine, they had to sling their rifles and use both hands to steady themselves. For the last three meters, they couldn’t use their weapons. Just below the rim, Mason stopped and pulled a grenade. Chip did the same. They nodded and tossed the frags over the top. The air seemed to shimmer as the concussive blasts shook the entire area.

Agonizing screams followed, then went silent.

With Chip following, Mason clawed his way up the last of the slope and lay flat. Dust and smoke hung everywhere. He could scarcely see his hand in front of his face.

Being blind created the worst kind of stress. He didn’t want to fire into the dust because there was no way to know what was right in front of them. They might fire into a boulder and take themselves out with ricochets.

Patience
, he told himself. Sometimes no action was the best action.

Slowly, the dust from the grenade detonations cleared enough to see five meters.

Then ten.

He told Hahn to be ready; both had their M4s shouldered.

What materialized looked like an ant farm.

No more than a tennis court away, several dozen Taliban were scrambling to take down their mortar tubes and pack the remaining ammo.

“I’ll take left to center,” Mason said. “You take the right.”

With surgical precision, they walked the bursts from either end of the scrambling men into the middle.

The result was devastating.

Six men went down, with four others clutching their stomachs and chests.

Their M4s empty, Mason yelled, “Grenades.”

They rolled onto their sides and hurled the frags. Some of the Taliban recognized the gesture and dropped, but others weren’t so fast.

“Eyes,” Mason said, reminding Hahn to avoid being flash blinded.

Two more blasts slammed the desert. Mason felt something thump off his helmet.

They used the newly produced chaos to reload their carbines.

“Charlie, you’re clear. Advance! Advance! Alpha, follow our route. Advance!”

Both squads copied his orders.

He was about to send another M4 salvo when a chain of eruptions headed straight toward them. One of the Taliban had taken a knee and lined up on them.

And Hahn was on the business end of the chain.

Without thinking, Mason shoved Hahn out of the way.

Mason felt his arm tear open as if struck by an invisible hatchet. His brain told him to curl up and wait for the volley to stop, but adrenaline ruled the moment. He rolled back to his right and discovered his left sleeve was shredded from elbow to wrist.

Oh man
, he thought.
That looks bad.

The next thing his mind registered was blood.

Lots of it.

He ignored the overwhelming desire to cover the wound and yelled for Hahn to return fire.

Hahn’s M4 answered the call.

The desert fighter shuddered as bullets tore through his body. Remarkably, the man tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t work. Hahn finished him with a second burst.

The rest of the Taliban abandoned their tasks and took off in a dead run, their loose clothing flowing in the wind. It was clear they didn’t know how many men they faced.

With one hand, Mason shouldered his weapon and emptied the magazine. Two more Taliban went down.

“Alpha, ETA?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Hold your fire until you reach the rim. I’m hit. Hahn’s returning fire. Charlie will be at your three o’clock across the plateau. You copy that?”

“Affirm, Charlie at our three. Hang on, sir, we’re on our way!”

“Charlie, Alpha will be at your nine.”

“Copy, Alpha at our nine.”

Damn
. His arm felt like a swarm of hornets had attacked. From the look of the fabric, the bullet was probably tumbling when it cut into his flesh. The wound needed a pressure bandage, but until the rest of Alpha arrived, he’d have to let it hemorrhage.

Instinctively, Mason tried to reload his weapon, but couldn’t get the necessary leverage.

At that moment, Alpha scrambled over the summit to their left.

“I’ve got you,” Hutch said. “Lemme see that arm.”

The retreating Taliban were several hundred meters distant when everyone heard the sound. The distinctive, low whooping of a main rotor.

“Sergeant Hahn, press my transmit button.”

“You got it, LT.”

“All units freeze positions and pop smoke.” He radioed to air support that none of his forces stood above the rim of the canyon. Everything else was fair game.

The Apache roared over their heads and executed a steep 360-degree turn, the pilot identifying the locations of all friendlies before beginning his strafing run.

As grisly as he knew it would be, Mason had to watch.

Across the plateau, the Taliban were retreating as quickly as they could. Some of them fired at the chopper in desperation. Mason could only imagine the fear they felt. Being defenseless against a gunship had to be terrifying. They were completely caught in the open with no place to hide.

He didn’t disrespect the Taliban—quite the contrary. They were tough as nails and formidable enemies. They believed they were defending their homeland from foreign invaders, fighting for their freedom.

But this was war, and Mason believed in his own cause.

Growling like a leopard, the aircraft let loose with its 30 mm chain gun. The large-caliber slugs quite literally dismembered the Taliban soldiers. Cartwheeling limbs and strips of flesh flew in every direction. Mason didn’t understand the hydrodynamic forces at work, but the outcome was absolute.

Wholesale slaughter.

Like a cattle brand, the visual image indelibly seared his mind.

He tore his gaze away and glanced at Hahn, whose expression matched his own. Mason wanted to feel bad but couldn’t. All he had to do was conjure up an image of being captured, tied to a post, and slowly flogged to death. Yes, seeing butchery like this was terrible . . .

But it was justice.

CHAPTER 1

Russell Senate Office Building—three years later

Re: The November Directive

December 14, 2012

Dear Stone:

I’m deeply outraged at the escalating violence in California and Arizona along our Mexican border. As you well know, November’s death toll stands at 119:

6 US federal agents

12 Mexican law enforcement officers

14 US citizens

87 Mexican citizens

I won’t stand idly by while criminal gangs and organized cartels terrorize and murder America’s sons and daughters. Such heinous and depraved criminal behavior cannot stand.

I’m tasking both you and your Committee on Domestic Terrorism to come up with a two-phased plan to counter this growing threat to both American and Mexican citizens at home and abroad. I’m calling this operation the November Directive, honoring those who’ve paid the ultimate price this month.

The purpose of phase one will be, simply put, to stop the bleeding. Short of declaring martial law along the border regions of San Diego, Tecate, Calexico, Yuma, Naco, and Douglas, the violence must end. DNI Benson has been briefed, and he’s firmly aboard, so you’ll have every available asset at your disposal for planning purposes.

The second phase will address prevention. I want you to create and implement a long-term campaign to interdict the flow of weapons being smuggled across our border into Mexico.