Gallows Pole, page 26
She fell silent. “That’s better. For your information, I saved Bishop’s life. More than once. But that didn’t seem to matter to him.”
She couldn’t resist asking. “Were you doing the same things that you did in Michigan? And Baltimore? And…”
“Charleston? Yeah. I was.” He nodded. “The jihadis used to know that the Hangman was out there. They were shitting themselves with fear. And now, believe me, they’re doing it again.”
She remembered the intercepts McCutcheon had described to her. Who are the Horsemen? “You killed innocent people,” she said. “Children.”
“Nits make lice, Saxon,” he said. “Nits make lice. But Bishop felt the same way you do about killing children. Until he didn’t.” He chuckled at the look on her face as the words sank in. “You’re beginning to get it.”
***
He must have hit turbulence, Bishop thought as a chill colder than the thin air gripped him. Or an air pocket. It was the greatest vulnerability of the Gryphons; a spot of clear-air turbulence could toss the tiny gliders around like feathers in a storm. He couldn’t see, but he could imagine Lanier struggling to right his wings. Come on, come on, Bishop urged silently. Suddenly, the wing dipped and the Gryphon straightened out. Into a dive, pointed at the earth below like an arrow.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Melissa shook her head. “You’re lying. Mark Bishop wouldn’t hurt children.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “They were after an Al-Qaeda-sponsored cell that was working on blowing up the KingdomCenter. They thought they knew where the cell was meeting. But they got set up. Ambushed in a back alley in Riyadh. Four men were killed outright. Another man, Sergeant Calhoun, was taken prisoner. They took him to an old garage, hung him from the ceiling and,” his jaw tightened with anger, “worked his legs over with lengths of iron rebar. They started with the legs because the bastards were trying to make his suffering last as long as possible.” He looked at Melissa with eyes filled with simmering rage. “Those are the kind of people we were fighting against, Saxon. They broke every bone in that man’s legs. Over and over. They probably laughed while he screamed. And they’d do the same thing to you, or worse, if they took you prisoner.” She jumped as he slammed a hand against the wall. “And you have the fucking nerve to call ME a monster?” He got himself under control. “Bishop knew that there was only one person that knew where they were going. One person who could have set them up. The guy who gave them the intel was a guy named Fouad. We called him Fred. Bishop, Sims and Lanier went back to Fouad’s apartment.” He smiled coldly. “Guess old Fred wasn’t expecting anyone to come back.”
***
As Bishop watched in horror, Lanier’s Gryphon plunged straight towards the ground at high speed. Then, as the airflow over the wings resumed, the glider pulled out of the dive in a long curve that left Bishop behind and above him.
Bishop let out the breath he’d been holding. Okay, he thought. That was too close. Now focus. Focus.
It was harder than he’d imagined it would be, getting back in action again, harder to regain the complete confidence and self-assurance he’d once counted on as much as he’d counted on his weapons. Everything had changed after Riyadh. He looked into the darkness and it all came back to him, as if he was seeing it on a movie screen inside his head.
The line of people kneeling, faces to the wall, lined up in order, youngest to oldest. Just like Heineman, a voice had whispered in his head. Just like the Hangman. He pushed the thought away as he put the gun to the back of the neck of the man whose false information had sent his men to their deaths.
“Where is he, Fred?” he whispered. “Where would they take a prisoner?”
Fouad was rocking back and forth, his eyes closed, mumbling something too low to hear. He was praying, Bishop realized. He leaned forward and whispered in the man’s ear.
“You think you’re going to be a martyr? That won’t happen. Not today. But maybe someone else will.” He straightened up and looked down the line. They were all weeping: the wife, the teenaged boy, the little girl. He could hear the baby wailing in the next room. He walked down the line, brushing the gun barrel against the back of each neck. He felt a sickening thrill, the dark euphoria a man feels when he’s crossed over into the black. But that’s what he needed to do if he had any chance of saving Calhoun. He stopped behind the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. The boy shuddered with fear. Bishop almost lost his nerve then. He thought of what was probably happening to Calhoun at that moment, and he willed his heart to turn to stone.
“Get up, kid,” he said. The mother and sister began to wail.
Bishop shook his head to clear it. No, he told himself. That isn’t going to happen again. Not here. Put it out of your mind. He flew on, the roar of the wind filling his ears, staring into the black.
***
Heineman leaned over Melissa and put his face inches from hers. His voice dropped to a savage whisper. “Colonel Mark Bishop,” he said, “Your hero, your knight in shining armor, took Fouad’s fifteen-year-old son and put a gun to his head. He said he’d kill the boy if Fouad didn’t give up where they’d taken Calhoun. And if that didn’t work, he’d go into the other room where the man’s baby daughter was sleeping and slit her throat.”
The question stuck in her throat, so that she almost had to force it out. She was terrified of the answer. “Did…did he…”
“Why don’t you ask him,” Heineman said, “when he gets here?” He stood up and went to the door. “Shouldn’t be much longer. And when he gets here, we’ll all have a long conversation about who’s a monster, and who isn’t.” He left. She heard the padlock click shut outside of the stall.
***
A mile away from the farm on a deserted side road, Armando Felix sat in front of the wall of screens in the rear of the B.O.T. He had his hand wrapped around a joystick that looked like it belonged in a video game. His brow was furrowed with concentration as he steered the MAV through the quiet night. He was scoping out the LZ, checking it one last time before the arrival of the first team. The MAV was configurable with a variety of payloads, and he had equipped it tonight with an infrared sensor package. As he made a pass above the trees, he spotted blotches of light, heat sources, moving in the darkness below. He frowned and worked the zoom on the IR camera.
“Shit,” he said.
“What’s up?” Calhoun looked up from the device he was working on.
“We got movement in the trees.”
“Hostiles?”
“Looks like it,” he moved the joystick to bring the MAV in lower.
”Looks like a reinforced squad,” Calhoun said. “At least.” He snatched up a headset from the counter. “One,” he said. “One, come in. Abort. I say again, abort. The LZ is compromised. Do you read?” He shook his head in frustration. “I can’t get ‘em.”
“Probably won’t,” Felix said grimly. “Until they’re on the ground.”
“They’re going into a hot LZ,” Calhoun said. “And they don’t know it.”
“ETA two minutes,” Lanier said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The GPS showed they were getting close to the point where they would need to deploy their parachutes. As they crossed over the main road near the farm, they would pull the ripcords. As the chutes deployed, the wings of the Gryphons would break free and drop beneath them. dangling from long lanyards to land first with the equipment secured inside their compartments. They’d planned to land nearly in unison, but Lanier’s tumble had spread them out. The farm was coming in sight, the huge mansion house brightly lit, as if for a party.
Guess they’re not expecting us, Bishop thought. He put a hand on the ripcord.
***
“Damn it,” Calhoun said. “They’re sitting ducks.” He spoke urgently into the headset. “One. One. Goddammit, Colonel, answer me.” He looked at Felix. “Do somethin‘, man!”
“I am,” Felix muttered. He steered the MAV lower.
***
Woodward, crouched in the darkness among the trees, heard the buzz of the tiny drone before he saw it. Then it flickered by in the darkness like an oversized bat.
“What the hell was that thing?” someone said through his headset.
“Some kind of small UAV,” Woodward said. “Hold your positions.”
“They’ll know we’re here,” someone else said.
“Don’t worry,” Woodward insisted. “They won’t be able to…”
“It’s coming back,” a third voice said.
“It’s headed straight at us!” the first voice shouted.
Woodward looked up. He could hear it, but still couldn’t see it. But the sound was undeniably coming closer. The voices on the comm circuit were becoming a confused babble.
“Get it!”
“It’s a bomb!”
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Woodward bellowed.
They ignored him. The night lit up as the men waiting in the trees opened fire on the approaching threat.
***
Bishop could see Lanier’s chute begin streaming behind him, preparatory to opening. He was reaching for his own ripcord when he saw the sudden bursts of gunfire from the trees surrounding the field.
Hot LZ. Even as the thought flashed through his mind, he was pulling the Gryphon up, flattening his trajectory, scanning frantically for another landing site. He saw Lanier’s chute open, the winged shell of the Gryphon falling away like the shed carapace of an insect. He had undoubtedly seen the shooting as well, but he was too low to change his flight path. Bishop flashed overhead as Lanier began his short descent into the LZ. He was losing airspeed quickly as he flew past the field, past the fence and dirt road that bordered the back of the property. There was nothing below him but trees. Cursing, he pulled the Gryphon up into a steep climb, trying for as much altitude as he could get. As he felt it begin to stall, he yanked the handle.
***
“CEASE FIRE!” Woodward shouted. “CEASE FIRE, GODDAMN IT!”
The firing stopped as quickly as it began. The sound of the drone faded mockingly away into the sudden silence of the night. Woodward swore under his breath. Fucking mercs, he thought. It was always a problem with those guys. It was like they were in love with the sound of their own weapons. He sighed. Problem was, he was one of “those guys” now.
He’d been a good soldier once. In his own mind, he thought he still was. Until one time—one damn time—he’d lost his head. Now look where it had gotten him.
He shook it off. He had a mission to perform.
He looked up. One chute was coming down. There was some sort of object hanging on a long strap beneath it, probably an equipment bag. It was a funny shape, though. He strained his eyes for the other chute. Nothing.
“Well, that was a complete clusterfuck,” he snarled into the mic. “You warned one of them off. Now we have to go look for him, after we take this guy into custody. Remember, idiots, Campbell wants him alive.”
The only response was a chorus of sheepish “roger thats.”
Woodward saw the dangling object hit the ground first, then the man in the chute. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.
“HANDS IN THE AIR! NOW!” He keyed his mic and spoke into it. “Spotlights.”
Two men on either end of the line switched on powerful hand-held spotlights. The brilliant beams lanced out into the inky blackness, wavered uncertainly, then pinned their target.
The chute was still billowing around the figure wearing the black jumpsuit, but he was crouched over the dark object on the ground, pulling frantically at something.
“SURRENDER NOW!” Woodward yelled. “YOU HAVE NO CHANCE! YOU WON’T BE HARMED IF YOU…”
The man ignored him. He dropped to earth. A sudden burst of gunfire came from where he’d taken scant cover behind the dark lump on the ground. He heard a curse off to his right and one of the spotlights went out. This time, for once, the mercenaries maintained discipline and didn’t fire.
“Blevins, Harkness,” he whispered to two men on the far left. “Go down the fence line and flank that son of a bitch.” He called out again. “COME ON, MAN,” he shouted. “GET REAL. YOU’RE NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS.” The man in the field didn’t answer. Woodward glanced to the left and saw the dark shapes of the two men he’d detailed as flankers moving down the fence. He watched and waited. There was no response.
***
Bishop hung in his harness, his parachute tangled and rent by the branches of the tall pine tree he’d landed in. He was scratched and bruised, but nothing seemed to be broken. The Gryphon dangled on its long strap beneath him. He drew his knife and cut the strap, and the heavy black wing fell with a thump to the forest floor beneath. A few more strokes of the knife cleared away the lines tangled around him, and in a moments, he was on the ground, pulling his gear out of the compartments in the back of the Gryphon. He stuck the tiny communicator in one ear.
“Two,” he hailed Lanier. “What’s your position?”
Lanier’s voice was strained. “Not great, sir. You might have noticed, they were waiting for us.”
“I noticed,” Bishop said. “How many hostiles?”
“Can’t tell. Nine, ten, maybe. I got two moving to flank me. But I think they want us alive, sir.”
“Then surrender,” Bishop said immediately. “Now. Don’t get yourself killed. I’ll come get you.”
There was a brief pause. Then, “Yes sir.”
“Hang in there, Rod,” Bishop said. “I’ll get you out of there. Three, do you copy?”
“Got you loud and clear, One,” Calhoun answered. “Felix has eyes on the LZ. Looks like they got him pretty well sewed up.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Roger that, sir. Lanier’s gettin‘ up. ”
***
Woodward nodded with satisfaction as the man in the field stood up.
“HANDS ON YOUR HEAD,” he called out. “YOU KNOW THE DRILL.” The man complied. “WALK SLOWLY IN THE DIRECTION OF MY VOICE.” The man began a slow, shuffling walk towards the trees.
***
Bishop’s thoughts raced furiously as he took his M4 carbine out of the Gryphon’s storage compartment. This plan had gone to shit in a hurry. Just like Riyadh, a voice in his head whispered. He stifled it. This was nothing like Riyadh. He took out the night-vision sight and fitted it onto the top rail of the stubby assault rifle as he focused on the new situation. They’d clearly never had the element of surprise they’d expected. He screwed the noise suppressor on the end of the barrel. In an ordinary mission, this would be the time to abort, to pull everyone out and fight another day. But they had Melissa and her partner, and they had Sims. There was no going back. There wasn’t going to be another day.
His weapon fully assembled, he lifted a bag out of the storage compartment. It was full with a mix of flashbangs and frag grenades. He was stuffing the pockets of his combat harness with grenades when he heard the rattle of gunfire.
***
Woodward couldn’t tell if the man was actually going for a weapon, or if he’d stepped in a hole, or exactly why he suddenly lurched forwards. But his hands came off his head, and to the keyed-up mercenaries, that was all they needed. “GUN!” someone yelled, and they all opened fire at once.
The man in the field was caught in the fire between the main line and the flankers, at least a dozen rounds striking him at once. He almost seemed to dance for a moment, held upright by the impacts. Then he toppled over.
***
Felix’s voice through the earpiece was stunned. “They shot him.”
“Say again?” Bishop whispered frantically.
“They fucking killed him,” Felix said. “They killed Lanier. While he was surrendering.”
“Those sons of bitches,” Calhoun snarled.
Bishop stopped dead in his tracks for a moment. He felt the shock of Lanier’s death like a physical blow. It was all he could do not to crumple to the ground in anguish. Then he felt the heat flowing through him, the feeling of shock turning to anger, then fury. He felt his lips curling back in an involuntary snarl. Losing a man in battle was one thing, and it was a hard enough burden to bear. But to have one murdered in cold blood while surrendering (on your orders, the voice in his head whispered)…that could not be borne. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He shouldered the weapon and began moving through the trees. All thought of planning and tactics had fled his consciousness. All of his rage was focused on one thing.
The people who did this were going to die.
***
“God DAMN it!” Woodward shouted.
They were gathered around the limp body on the ground. At least two of the shots had hit him in the head, and his skull was a bloody mess.
“He was going for a weapon,” Harkness muttered.
“No,” Woodward said wearily, “he wasn’t. He was surrendering, you fucking morons.”
“Hey, listen…” one of the other men protested.
Woodward had had enough. He reached out and grabbed the man by the throat with one huge hand.
“No, you listen, Logan,” he growled. “You people screwed the pooch on this one. Big time. If that’s Bishop lying there, you just blew the point of this entire mission, And if you’ve done that, I swear by sweet Jesus, I will not only see you don’t get paid, I will personally kick all of your asses. I will fuck you up so bad your mamas won’t kiss you. You read me, motherfucker?” He shook the man violently. “I said, YOU READ ME?”
Logan didn’t answer. Woodward released him and stepped back. The man crumpled to the ground. His back was covered in blood.
“Holy shit,” Blevins said. “I think you…” the words were cut off as a small neat hole appeared in the center of his forehead. The back of his head exploded in a shower of blood and bone. He fell like a poleaxed steer.
“We’re under…” someone shouted, then the words became a wet, agonized gurgle as a bullet took him in the throat. Woodward turned, his machine gun at the ready. He could make out a dim figure, down by the treeline. As he watched, the figure advanced. He was holding an M4 to his shoulder. There was no flash or sound, but as he raised his weapon, Woodward felt a heavy blow strike the front of his body armor. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and he went down, the H & K machine gun flying from his hands. As one of his men turned and tried to run, a fountain of blood sprayed from the front of his skull and he fell to the ground, twitching. Woodward turned his head, groping for his weapon, trying to suck breath back into his lungs. He heard a shot come from the treeline, where at least one of his men had decided to try and fight back. The advancing figure was at the fence. He turned quickly, and an agonized scream from the trees showed where the shot had struck home.
