HardWind (21 page)

proficiency he needed. His next target was almost one thousand yards away—the

maximum range at which the weapon could be effective—but there was no doubt in his

mind he could hit his mark and move on to the third objective who stood between him

and Jackson.

Lying on his belly, tracking the movement of his second target through the scope,

Dáire tried to ignore the pain that seemed to want to persist in his hip. The site from

which the bone marrow had been taken continued to plague him from time to time.

Stretched out as he was, the pain was more noticeable. It didn’t help that the black

epoxy-powder-coated blade strapped in a glass-filled nylon sheath to his thigh was

pressing on a nerve, aggravating the situation. The knife was seven inches of high

carbon steel with a hand-honed, razor-sharp, triple-peaked, serrated edge fitted into a

slip-resistant thermoplastic elastomer handle. Dáire had long ago nicknamed the

weapon the SinTaker and he took it on every mission he undertook. He knew before the

night was over, he’d give the SinTaker a taste of enemy blood.

It took about four pounds of pressure to gently squeeze the rifle’s trigger. With his

target in the crosshairs, Dáire exerted that pressure and an ugly, greasy, pock-marked

face dropped out of sight without a sound. Quickly, swinging the scope to the third

mark, he could see fear crowding the sweaty features of the target. The man’s mouth

was opening and closing as he apparently called out to his comrades—unable to get a

response. Just as he fumbled for his radio, the sniper rifle spat once more and the enemy

went down.

Laying aside the rifle, Dáire took up his night-vision monocular and did another

scan of the area surrounding the bombed-out building where intel said Jackson was

being held. He knew from his hour-long session of watching that there were two men

inside the building, both armed but as yet unaware their fellow soldiers had been

dispatched.

Easing up from the ground, Dáire stuffed the monocular into a pocket of his

heavyweight black field pants and ran crouched low and soundlessly in a zigzag

pattern across the sand. The rifle was in his right hand, the SinTaker in his left.

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The exterior walls of the building where Jackson was being held were riddled with

bullet holes. Part of the building was merely a hull with crumbling blocks and shattered

wooden framework that had once been doors and windows. A well sat off to one side

alongside a rusted-out hulk of a car.

Moving silently, Dáire reached the side of the building and pressed close to the side

wall at the corner, he craned his head around the corner, took a quick look at the closed

door leading into the building then eased the rifle to the ground. He could hear voices

inside, laughter, someone moaning and a muscle ticked in his tight jaw. Gathering a

handful of mortar scattered about the ground, he lobbed one good-sized hunk at the

dilapidated, bombed-out car.

The voices inside the building ceased.

Dáire moved farther back along the wall to the far corner and slipped around it just

as the door to the building opened. A spate of irritated Farsi broke the stillness of the

night. Dáire translated the words easily.

“What is it? What’s out there?”

“There is nothing here.”

“Check the perimeter.”

“There is nothing here.”

“Do as I order!”

Footsteps crunched near the car—accompanied by a low curse on the mother of the

man inside the building—then the footsteps started toward Dáire.

The man whose throat Dáire cut never even saw his executioner. All he heard were

the soft words the man who took his life whispered in his ear, “
Bærat doa mikonæm
.” I

will pray for you.

Lowering the dead man to the ground, Daire unsnapped his sidearm and edged

back around the side of the building.

“Arsalan?” the man in the building called out. “Arsalan!”

When there was no answer, the remaining man did the stupidest thing he’d ever

done in his life and it would cost him dearly. He stormed out of the building without a

weapon and walked right into a hollow-point .300-grain jacketed bullet that took the

top of his head off. With eyes wide in disbelief, he crumpled to the ground without a

sound like a deflated blow-up doll, the sound of his bowels emptying adding to the

illusion.

Rushing into the building over the fallen man, Dáire came in with his black oxide

.50AE Desert Eagle in a two-handed grip, a live round ratcheted into the chamber, full

magazine engaged. He came up short when he saw Jackson spread-eagled to a bare

mattress box spring. Naked, grinning as though he were having the time of his life,

Jackson was covered in dark bruises, burns and cuts, but he was the prettiest sight

Dáire had seen in several weeks.

“How’s it hanging, my man?” Jackson asked in a conversational tone.

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Letting his gaze shift away from the heavy-duty battery charger in the corner of the

room, Dáire didn’t holster his weapon. He asked Jackson if there were any more of the

enemy.

“Don’t think so. Those guys were more than enough, thank you for asking,”

Jackson replied. He pulled on the handcuffs binding him to the springs. “Get me out of

these.”

“Hey, you’re not the boss of me,” Dáire complained with a grin. “You ask nicely.

You don’t demand, Jack Off.”

Jackson’s eyes promised retaliation.

“Keys?” Dáire asked.

“Who the fuck knows, Dairy Crow?” Jackson asked. “How’s ’bout just blowing the

motherfuckers off me?”

“And risk blowing your hands off?” Dáire countered. “How’d you pull your pud

then?”

Jackson sighed. “Shit. Well, check the fat guy’s trousers. He might have a key.”

The fat guy was the one lying across the doorway. Dáire holstered his gun, bent

over the dead man and found nothing in his pockets. “What about the other guy?”

“Just blow the things off,” Jackson said. “I’d kinda like to get out of this rat hole

before the next batch of turban heads gets here.”

“Why don’t I just pick the fucking locks then?” Dáire inquired.

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Nobody likes a smart ass,” he said with a sniff.

Trying not to look at the mass of wounds over his friend’s nude body, Dáire made

quick work of the handcuffs. “Who’s your daddy?” he quipped then held out a hand to

Jackson.

Jackson shook his head. “I can’t walk, Dairy Crow. They worked me over pretty

damn good. The bottoms of my feet are burned.”

Fury lashed through Dáire. “Wait right there then,” he said as he ran out of the

building to retrieve his sniper rifle.

“Like I got a choice?” Jackson grumbled as he rubbed the abrasions around his

wrists. He was struggling to sit up when Dáire came back. “You motherfucking

shithead. What took you so long? Did you stop to whack off before you came back?”

“You’re closer to the truth than you know for a change,” Dáire said with a smirk.

He held his hand out to Jackson. “Come on and get your lazy ass up, you slacker.”

Jackson slapped his hand in Dáire’s and the younger man pulled his partner up to a

sitting position as gently as he could then slung him carefully over his back.

“What, that you’re a motherfucking shithead or that you stopped to jack off?”

Jackson asked, grabbing Dáire’s belt to steady himself.

“Remind me to introduce you to my daughter when we get home,” Dáire said.

“What?” Jackson asked, his eyes wide. “How long have I been gone?”

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Without another word, Dáire was out of the building and running for the drop zone

as fast as the extra weight would allow. He could hear Jackson’s grunts of pain but

there was no help for it. He could only pray he wasn’t doing more damage to his

friend’s back.

The desert air was cool and the night dark as he squatted down at the point where

he’d been left a few hours earlier. His body felt as though it had been stuffed into a

meat grinder but he managed to get Jackson to the ground without jarring him too

much. He fished in the pocket of his field jacket and pressed a button on a signaling

device, letting the chopper know he had his target. They didn’t have long to wait before

the whomp, whomp, whomp of helicopter blades bit the air and a chopper dropped out

of the sky almost at their feet.

“You limo awaits, milord,” Dáire said, scooping Jackson up in his arms and racing

to the Sikorsky H-92 Superhawk.

“I hope you have bubbly onboard,” Jackson said as he was handed into the care of

the man waiting at the chopper’s doorway. “And caviar on crisp toast points, Dairy

Crow!”

“Only the best Beluga for you,” Dáire said as he climbed aboard. He made eye

contact with the man who now held Jackson. “He can’t walk.”

“We’ve got a medic onboard, Mr. Cronin,” the man said, and carried Jackson aft.

“Please take your seat. I don’t think that group of vehicles heading toward us is all that

friendly.”

Dáire glanced around and could see headlights bouncing toward them over the

rugged terrain. He grinned then headed for the jump seats to buckle in. The last thing

he heard as the giant chopper took off were pings against the underside of the bird. He

tensed.

“We’ve got external fuel cells that are self-sealing, sir,” one of the crewmembers

sitting across from him informed Dáire. “We can take a 23mm ballistic strike and still

keep on ticking.”

The chopper banked away from the occasional ping of bullets hitting the belly just

as there was a loud explosion on the ground. From the window, Dáire saw a bright

flash of a fireball blossoming in the night.

“A few less turban heads to worry about,” Dáire heard Jackson’s slurred voice yell

out to him.

Smiling, tired, his body aching, he knew his friend and partner was in good hands.

Every inch of his muscles felt strained as he slumped in his seat. Closing his eyes, he let

his head fall back and, before the chopper had gone a mile or two, he was sound asleep.

He woke to a gentle shake by one of the crew. “How’s he doing?” he asked, rubbing

his eye with the base of his palm.

“Doc knocked him out,” the crewman reported. “He had cigarette burns all over the

soles of his feet.” His young mouth twisted. “Bastards.”

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“Dead bastards,” Dáire reported. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, feeling

his muscles protesting. “Where are we?”

“At the French camp, sir,” the crewman replied.

Dáire nodded and yawned. He desperately needed a bed and at least eight hours of

uninterrupted sleep.

Following the litter on which Jackson was sleeping peacefully, a smile on his

heavily lined, bloated face, Dáire felt the cool wash of rain coming in through the

chopper’s opened door. It was a light drizzle but it refreshed him as he walked behind

the litter and climbed into the ambulance that would take Jackson to the camp’s clinic.

“Heard it was easy pickings, Mr. Cronin,” the med tech said as the ambulance

driver slammed the door behind them.

Dáire frowned though he didn’t reply. He kept thinking about that assessment of

his assignment all the way to the clinic, and by the time he was standing at Jackson’s

bedside watching the nurses settle his partner, his frown had become a mean scowl.

It
had
been easy, Dáire thought. Entirely too easy. He had been briefed, dropped in

Iran less than a half mile from where Jackson was stashed. He’d taken out his five

targets with no resistance at all and extracted Jackson without a hitch. The chopper had

come in on cue, picked them up and they were out of there.

Going to the hospital room’s window, Dáire stood there staring out at the rain,

which was now falling in earnest, lightning flaring in the distance.

“Too goddamned easy,” he said to himself.

The mission had been something a first-year rookie could have pulled off. Anyone

could have waltzed in there and rescued Jackson. So why hadn’t someone already done

that?

“You’re thinking so hard you’re fogging up my fucking window,” Jackson

mumbled.

Dáire shoved his hands into the pockets of his black field pants and came over to

Jackson’s bed. His partner looked worse under the soft glow of the clinic’s over-the-bed

lights than he had in the hut in Iran. Deep lines Dáire couldn’t remember ever seeing

before were etched into Jackson’s face. His sad-sack gray eyes were underscored by

dark circles and his nose looked even more battered than normal.

“I can feel the gears shifting around in that pogglehead of yours,” Jackson said.

“Why you looking like somebody kicked Toto in the pine nuts?”

“Do you have any idea how long you were held?” Dáire asked.

“Seemed like a year to me but I guess maybe a week or two.”

“They did a lot of damage in a week or two, Jack Off.”

Jackson cocked a shoulder. “Could have been worse, I guess.”

“How’d you get caught?”

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Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Caught? Hell, I gave myself up,” he snapped. “Needed a

vacation, you know? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“It was too easy, Jackson,” Dáire said. He pulled a hand out of his pocket and