Extensis Vitae (3 page)

“Well, I’m gonna go buy myself one of those new SS Camaros. Man, those things are money!” Combs said. “Then we can go pick up some bitches together!” The others hollered their agreement.

“What about you, Reznik?” Nash asked.

Reznik heard himself say, “I’m think I’m going to catch the first flight to Denver and show up at my girl Amanda’s doorstep, and then…” He paused for dramatic effect. “…I’m gonna pop the question!”

The others whistled and hooted. “Damn, you getting hitched, son? Look at you, all ready to settle down and shit!” Combs said.

Nash punched him in the shoulder. “Well, brother, I hope she’s the right woman for you. She seems like a good one, for sure.” Reznik nodded.

“Well, since no one bothered to ask,” Jefferson interjected after a pause, “I’m gonna get drunk off my ass and have an Xbox marathon with my homies.”

“Aw, that shit’s weak! You need to go out and get your ass laid,” Nash scoffed and spit some dip into his spit bottle.

“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem, since I hear your mama’s available,” Jefferson shot back.

“Go fuck yourself,” Nash said with a grin. They all bellowed in laughter.

***

Reznik snapped out of his reverie and realized he had no idea how much time had passed. The water had grown lukewarm.

I have a fiancée back home!
He was shocked.
Amanda. How the hell could I have forgotten about her?
Try as he might, he couldn’t picture her face.
This is jacked up…I need to get my life back. But first, I need to get the hell out of here—wherever ‘here’ is.

Reznik got out of the shower and toweled himself off. He stopped cold as he got his second big shock. Leaning closer, he examined the reflection staring back at him in the mirror. He had close-cropped dark hair, flint gray eyes, and a five o’clock shadow covering his face. His body was lean and muscular, with powerful arms, chest, and shoulders. His sharply chiseled abdominal muscles formed a well-defined six-pack. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his frame; he was definitely much more ripped than he remembered ever being before. His face was smooth and youthful, the lines of age wiped away. The problem was that the person reflected in the mirror wasn’t him.

Chapter 2

T
he farmhouse looked innocent enough, but clearly there was more to it than met the eye. At least three guards were visible patrolling the perimeter, AK-47s slung across their shoulders. The cherry of a lit cigarette was a hot white point amidst a field of varying shades of green through Reznik’s night vision goggles. The guard with the cigarette inhaled, and the bright point burned like a miniature sun.

“Hold your positions,” the voice in Reznik’s earpiece barked. “Potential High Value Target should be with the approaching vehicles. Eye in the sky shows them five clicks away. One jeep and a troop carrier truck. Infrared shows eight or nine hostiles in the vehicles. Remember, no air support due to presence of hostages. Secure the hostages, capture the HVT if possible, and eliminate the rest of the hostiles. You should have time to scrub the premises for intel as it doesn’t appear that there are any additional hostiles in the AO.”

This time, Reznik took the opportunity to slip back into the bushes and take a piss before the shit hit the fan.

“Oh yeah—one other thing, men,” another voice broke in. “There’s very high visibility on this mission, so don’t fuck it up!” This voice belonged to Major Weiss, their ops officer.

Nash scoffed quietly. “Fuckin’ Weiss. I’d like to see him come out here and get his ass shot off by these
hajis
.”

Reznik grinned as he rejoined his buddy at their position. “Then the mission WOULD get fucked up, for sure.” They both chuckled at that. “Who are these hostages, again? A SIGINT team that rolled into the wrong neighborhood while testing some new high-tech intercept gear, wasn’t it?”

Nash nodded. “What a bunch of dumb shits—get lost way out here in Anbar Province where the QRF can’t get to them.”

Reznik knew it was probably a good thing that the Quick Reaction Force wouldn’t be able to get to them in time. The survival chances of the hostages would plummet if those idiots from the 82
^nd
Airborne came charging in. Plus, these types of situations are what the 1
^st
Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly known as Delta Force—had been created for.

“Look sharp men. ETA in approximately five mikes,” came the platoon sergeant’s voice over the radio.

As if to confirm the approach of the vehicles, one of the jihadist guards jumped as his walkie-talkie blared to life. He grunted a reply into the walkie-talkie and shouted to the other guards. Two more men came out of the farmhouse and joined them in a hurried conversation.

“Ready?” Reznik asked Nash.

“You know me—I was born ready, hoss. Let’s do this.”

The two of them eased out of the brush and crept down to the valley floor. They didn’t have to be too concerned with being seen since it was a moonless night. The main concern was making any sound. US Special Forces owned the night, as the slogan said. The possibility of booby traps was high; however, their previous recon had detected no sign of any. Although, inside the farmhouse could be a different story.

Nash murmured into the mic and then gestured Reznik forward. They were reassured knowing that snipers were up in the wood line watching their backs as they darted across the dirt road and open ground surrounding the farmhouse.

“Heads up—hostiles just finished their convo,” a spotter at the sniper position on the ridgeline relayed quietly.

Reznik and Nash dropped into prone position and waited. Reznik knew that another squad would be taking up position farther down the road to try to secure the HVT. They just had another 20 yards to cover to get to the rear of the farmhouse. Combs and Jefferson would be going in the front door while they breached the back.

“Okay, the two tangos are back in the house. The three outside are going back to their positions. Bravo team, you should be clear.”

Their eyes met and they both nodded. As one, they sprang to their feet and sprinted the last 20 yards to the back of the building. Reznik flicked the safety off his silenced MP-5 as Nash did the same. An infrared scan from the UAV overhead had shown the location of the hostages to be in the rear room of the house.

They ducked down as one of the guards walked past their position and went down the road a short distance. The cigarette burned white-hot as the guard took one last puff and flicked the butt onto the ground.

“I’ve got visual on the vehicles,” the spotter said. “Around the bend, about half a click.”

“Wait till the tangos dismount from the vehicles and fire at will,” the platoon sergeant ordered.

“Bravo in position,” Nash hissed into the mic. The other teams also acknowledged.

The next minute felt like an eternity. Finally the radio crackled quietly again. “Vehicles pulling up now.”

“Hold…hold…okay, now! Open fire!” barked the platoon sergeant. Reznik saw the nearby guard’s head explode from a .50 caliber round, courtesy of one of the snipers.

“Alpha moving,” came Combs voice through the earpiece.

“Bravo moving,” Nash replied. Reznik took a step forward and delivered a powerful kick to the door. Nash was through the opening before the door even slammed into the wall. He squeezed off a silenced burst from his MP-5 and dropped a surprised guard before the jihadist could even reach for a weapon.

Reznik was right behind Nash, his weapon’s barrel sweeping the room to the left. He noted the six hostages along the wall, trussed and blindfolded. The image from his night vision goggles washed out from the lamp light for a split-second before the light suppressor circuit kicked in. He could hear the suppressed popping sound from another silenced MP-5 from elsewhere in the farmhouse.

A sudden movement off to the left drew his attention. A jihadist had been bent over one of the hostages. He rose and aimed a pistol at Reznik, a snarl on his bearded face. Just as quickly, he went back down again as gouts of blood bloomed from his chest and forehead from Reznik’s double tap.

The sound of gunfire rang out from somewhere outside the farmhouse. Shouts and curses tore through the quiet of the night, and then an explosion nearby.

“Clear,” Combs said over the radio.

Reznik surveyed the hostages briefly. They were dirty and looked like they had been beaten, but were now alert after the sudden commotion. He heard a grunt and a crash behind him.

“Nash?” Reznik asked. Spinning around, he barely held his fire as he saw Nash wrestling with a jihadist up against the wall.

The attacker had a large hunting knife almost at Nash’s throat and clearly had him off-balance. Reznik had started toward them when they staggered sideways onto a flimsy table, which collapsed beneath their weight. The jihadist’s knife came up and Reznik saw the blood on the blade.

“No!” he shouted as he leaped toward them. Before the jihadist could stab again, Reznik caught his wrist in an iron grip. He let the MP-5 drop on its sling as his other hand pulled out his KA-BAR. He drove the wickedly sharp blade into the base of the man’s skull and up into the brain stem. The life instantly left the attacker, and he dropped like a rag doll.

“Everyone okay?” Combs and Jefferson came through the doorway from the front room.

Reznik leaned over to check on Nash. He could see pain on his friend’s face, but his mouth was a hard line of determination.

“It’s nothing. Fucker got me in the shoulder. Son of a bitch! I’ll be laid up for a month from this shit!” Reznik offered Nash a hand and pulled him to his feet. Nash kicked his dead attacker in anger and muttered some more curses. “Thanks, buddy,” he said to Reznik.

“No problem. Although it looks like you’ll be buying the first round this time!” Reznik slapped him on the back, making Nash wince. “How many did you two get?” he asked Combs.

“Just the one in the front room. Looks like there’s some intel for DOCEX to pick up. Laptop and a couple cell phones. Bunch of papers, too.”

“Nice.” Reznik looked around. “Awfully quiet outside. Guess the show must be over, huh?”

“All clear in here,” Nash called into the mic. “What’s your status, Sarge?”

“All clear. HVT secured and tangos down. What’s the status on the hostages?”

“They have a little wear and tear, but all six should be good to go.”

“Roger that. Everyone fall in on the farmhouse except over-watch.”

After that, it was just clean up. The hostages were untied and tended to, the house was cleared of any possible intel, and the Black Hawk was called in for extraction.

As they were waiting for the chopper, the squad sat on the porch of the farmhouse. Nash took a big pinch of dip and stuffed it in his lip. The medic had bandaged his shoulder despite his complaints.

The captive High Value Target sat against the wall nearby, his wrists zip-tied behind his back and a black hood over his head. An operator stood facing him in case he tried anything. As soon as they made it back to base, the CIA would probably whisk him away and make him disappear into their black prison system.
Either that, or the bastard would be stacked naked in a terrorist pyramid by some corn-fed reservists out of West Virginia,
Reznik thought. Either way, he wouldn’t feel badly about it.

“Went pretty smoothly, I’d say,” Combs said.

“Yeah, except for dipshit here getting his ass jumped by that raghead in there,” Jefferson taunted.