Honor Reclaimed (HORNET #2)

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

Seth left Jean-Luc and backtracked down the mountain a quarter of a mile before finally stepping onto the road just out of sight of the front gate. He walked with cool purpose toward the compound, keeping his pace fast but not panicked. His muscles ached with the effort not to fidget. Appearing nervous would be a dead giveaway to anyone watching his approach.

As it turned out, nobody was standing watch, all of them too busy with their meal or whatever was happening in the main building. At least he didn’t have to worry about a trigger-happy guard ending him before he got inside. The gate was even cracked open about a foot.

Well, hell. Maybe the team could have raided the place without sustaining any casualties. These guys obviously weren’t all that concerned with security.

Surprisingly, Seth’s heart didn’t beat out of his chest as he strode across the open courtyard a mere twenty feet from the dining wannabe martyrs. He was calm and focused. So focused on getting inside the main building that he nearly missed when one of the men shouted at him.

“What are you doing?”

Forcing himself to pause when all he wanted to do was run, he stared down the guy who had called out and infused his tone with impatience. “Siddiqui sent me to make sure everything is going according to schedule.”

The men didn’t seem to like that, grumbling in the same way men complained about their bosses the world over.

“Does he think we won’t follow through?” one asked. He was so young, not even old enough to have a full beard, and yet so willing to die.

“No, he knows you’ll stay true to the mission.”

“Then what did he say?” another demanded.

“He gave me a message for you,” Seth blurted, sweat dampening his shirt despite the cold night. They all stopped eating and looked interested in what he had to say.

Shit. Now what? His gut response was to try convincing them the plan had been called off, but he doubted that would work and mentally scrambled for something else. Only one other thing popped to mind: “‘And slay them wherever ye catch them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out; for tumult and oppression are worse than slaughter; but fight them not at the Sacred Mosque, unless they first fight you there; but if they fight you, slay them. Such is the reward of those who suppress faith.’”

The Quran passage elicited a round of cheers and he swallowed a surge of bile. Throwing up would not be a good plan, but those words had been beaten into him for four hundred and sixty long days and saying them now caused his stomach to threaten a revolt.

One of the men stood up. “We are honored to offer our lives if it means the end of the infidel’s oppression.”

“And Allah rewards the faithful.” His lips were numb, his tongue felt like wood. “I have last minute preparations to see to. Go. Enjoy your meal.”

Without waiting for a response, he ducked inside. As soon as he was alone, he bent at the waist, swallowing compulsively to keep from revisiting his last protein shake. His captors had used that verse and others like it to justify the things they did to him, same as the men out front now used it to justify the killing of who knows how many innocents.

After his rescue, he’d read the Quran cover to cover, and found comfort in the fact that it didn’t actually promote terrorism. Same as Christian extremists who twisted the Bible to suit their purposes, his captors had taken those passages out of context and wielded them like weapons against all non-Muslims.

Straightening, he sucked in a breath through his nose and let it out in a long exhale. He still had a job to do, a diversion to create.

He reached under his baggy tunic and found one of the grenades on his belt. He pulled the pin, turned back to the door, and revisited his football days as he threw the grenade into the middle of the wannabe martyrs’ dinner spread. He half thought he’d get some kind of perverse satisfaction from the act, but as he listened to the panicked shouts in the seconds before the grenade exploded, he picture the young one’s beardless face and wished like hell things could have been different for the kid.

Shots peppered the side of the building. And here comes the hornet swarm, right on cue.

A man with a wild black beard tumbled out of a room up ahead, weapon in hand. “What’s going on?” he shouted. “Has it started? It’s too soon!”

Seth grabbed the guy by the tunic. “We’re under attack!”

He blinked like he didn’t understand and opened his mouth, but all that came out was an umph sound as Seth jammed a knife into his heart and let him slide to the floor.

Another man stepped into the hall and this time, Seth didn’t bother playing the part of friend. He grabbed the dead guy’s AK-47 and raised the weapon. “Put the gun down, fucker! Hands in the air!”

The man swung in his direction, and their eyes locked. His finger froze on the trigger.

Something about those dead eyes, peering out over a bushy dark brown beard…

Catching himself before he slipped into the past, he tightened his finger. Bushy Beard dodged the bullet and sprinted deeper into the bowels of the building. Seth let him go and took a second to get his head back in the right space.

Fuck. That moment of hesitation could have been his last. Probably should have been his last, but for some reason, Bushy Beard hadn’t pulled the trigger either.

The door rattled at his six, and he swung around, ready to fire until he saw Marcus and Jesse. He lowered the muzzle toward the floor and held up one hand. “Friendly!”

“Dude,” Marcus said, lowering his gun. “You are fucking insane.”

“Hey, we got in, didn’t we?”

“Gabe’s spittin’ nails,” Jesse said.

“Don’t doubt it.” He turned away from them and raised his gun again to push deeper into the building. “On me. I haven’t cleared this area yet.”

“Roger that,” they said at the same time and stacked up behind him. One by one, they checked each room in the corridor. Most were empty with an occasional forgotten desk or other detritus from the building’s former life as an American outpost. Sometimes they found bedrolls or stacks of gear, but no more Taliban fighters.

The hall ended in a set of double doors and T-ed from there. They cleared the two short wings, finding nothing but a side exit hanging open, which they secured, and then they met back in the middle. Going by the words printed over the doors, the room on the other side was the former chow hall. Some fan of The Walking Dead had long ago spray painted “Don’t open. Dead inside.” on the dented metal doors.

“Wait,” Marcus said as Seth reached to try the handle. “You don’t think…?”

“Really?” Jesse smacked him on the back of the head. “You watch too much TV, pal.”

“Just sayin’.” He made the sign of the cross over his chest and took a large step backward.

“Didn’t know you were a religious man, Marcus.” Seth tried the door. It was jammed. He shouldered his rifle and threw his weight against it.

“I’m not,” Marcus said. “I’m Italian. And if zombies come pouring outta there, you two are on your own. I draw the line at zombies.”

The door gave a few inches, and Seth found his flashlight and shined it through the crack. There were dead inside—just not the walking kind. At least ten bodies that he could see littered the floor. One of the men had lived long enough to crawl to the door but had succumbed to his injuries inches from freedom, and his body now blocked it from opening.

“Guys, I think we found the missing villagers. Help me push this open.”

Marcus and Jesse added their weight and together, they managed to move the body enough to slip inside.

Jesse checked the man’s pulse before shaking his head and stepping over the corpse. “Check for survivors.”

“Nada,” Marcus said a moment later.

“None yet.” Seth straightened away from the body of an old man, spotted another body chained to an upturned chair a few feet away, and started toward it. Surprise coursed through him when a small head peeked over the man’s shoulder. “Wait, got movement over here. Fuck, it’s a kid. A toddler. And a woman. I got two survivors.”

Sobbing, the boy held out his arms. Seth scooped him up and passed him to Jesse, who handled the child as only an experienced father could, murmuring soft words of comfort as he checked for injuries.

“He’s unharmed,” Jesse said. “The mother?”

Seth squatted down in front of her and spoke softly in Pasto. She stared past his shoulder, uncomprehending. “Alive, conscious, but in a severe state of shock.”

Jesse nodded and knelt to tend to her. “Marcus, get the kid out of here, then come back for the woman.”

Marcus handled the boy with a lot less confidence but was careful to keep his face turned away from the carnage as he crossed the room.

“Has to be more villagers somewhere,” Seth said after the boy was out of earshot. “Maybe even survivors. We have to keep?—”

The man tied to the chair at his feet groaned.

Seth spun and used his foot to push the chair up on its side. Even despite the man’s battered face, he recognized him instantly. “It’s Hendricks. Jesse! Got Sergeant Hendricks here.” He knelt and started working at the ropes securing Zak to the chair. The guy had taken a beating, and one of his legs was a bloody, pulpy mess at the knee.

Jesse took one look at him and swore. “I need my bag. Keep him stable and talking.” Then he scooped up the woman and was gone, leaving them alone amid the carnage.

“Hey there, Zak. My name’s Seth. We’re here to get you home, okay?”

One dark, bloodshot eye fluttered open. A piece of tape stuck to his lashes, and Seth carefully pulled it off.

“What branch are you?” Zak whispered.

“Marines,” Seth answered automatically, then winced and added, “Well, used to be.”

“They told me… fully deniable op. Thought… nobody… was… coming.”

“Nobody official was, but we’re not working for the government. Greer Wilde sent us.”

A ghost of a smile showed on Zak’s swollen and cracked lips. “Shoulda known he wouldn’t leave me behind. Those Wildes are good guys. The whole lot of ‘em.” He winced as his bonds came loose, and his hands dropped like stones to the floor. “Tell Greer I didn’t give Siddiqui a fucking thing. No matter what his men did… I didn’t talk. I didn’t talk.”

“I believe you.” One look at the room and Zak’s condition spoke volumes for his loyalty. Nobody who saw him now would doubt him, and Seth’s respect for him shot through the roof. It wasn’t easy to hold up under torture. Seth sure as fuck hadn’t.

“Hey.” He caught Zak’s face in his dirty hands as the soldier’s head lolled. “Hey, man, you’ll tell Greer that yourself. All right? I know how easy it would be to give up right now. I know . I’ve been where you are. You feel safe, and you think, ‘It’s in someone else’s hands now.’ But you stop fighting now, and you’re never going to see American soil again.”

His lid peeled open, but he wasn’t seeing Seth. He stared at a point on the ceiling and for a horrifying minute, he went so still Seth thought they’d lost him.

Then he blinked and sucked in a breath. “Safe?”

Oh, shit. Seth swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah, man. You’re safe.”

“No!” He surged into a sitting position, his fingers digging into Seth’s biceps. “Not safe. Not safe at all. We need to leave. Get the villagers and the boy and get out. Siddiqui is bombing this compound and the village.”

Every cell in Seth’s being flash-froze. “What do you mean he’s bombing the village?”

“He wants it to look like an American attack.”

“On the village down the mountain, where all these people came from?”

Zak looked at the bodies like he was seeing them for the first time, and tears leaked from his good eye. “He’s punishing them for hiding Tehani.”

“When?”

Zak looked toward’s gaze lifted to the narrow slits that served at windows. The sky outside had gone a pale blue-gray, and he winced. “Dawn.”

Askar plastered himself against a tree as the entire mountain shook under his feet. The air strike, happening right on time. He stole a glance upward, saw the compound take two more bombs, and wondered if the Americans were still inside—especially the one he hadn’t been able to shoot. Everything in him had revolted at the idea of killing the man and he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe because the face he’d seen on the soldier had belonged to a dead man?

With shaking hands, he lifted the edge of his tunic and swept away the sweat beading on his forehead, then stared up at the compound again.

A ghost.

He’d just come face-to-face with a ghost from… where? His past? But he didn’t have a past. His mind raced, struggled to put together jagged pieces of memory that somehow felt both real and imagined.

A ghost.

A…friend?

No. No, that wasn’t right. His friends were all dead, killed by the Americans. He shook his head and staggered away from the tree.

He had to report the attack to Siddiqui. And hope like hell he wasn’t lashed for the breach in security.