Текст книги "The Forgotten"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER

78

THEY HAD TWO PISTOLS and a jammed rifle between them.

Puller led Carson to cover behind a dune. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. They looked at each other as they heard people running toward their general position.

“Tight spot,” said Carson.

Puller checked the pistols. “We’ve both been in tighter. They haven’t located us yet. It’ll take some time.”

“But they will.”

“Yes, they will.”

“Superior numbers and firepower.”

“We’re the underdogs, certainly.”

“I don’t mind that. It’ll just take a little figuring to move us to the top of the food chain.”

“I like your confidence.”

She looked at her phone. “Can’t call in the cavalry. No service.”

“I know. I already checked mine.” He hunkered down, looked around.

He said, “We need higher ground.”

“Soldiers always want higher ground.”

He looked at her, apparently sizing her up for the question he was about to ask. “You mind taking orders from an enlisted?”

She managed a smile. “Under the circumstances I think I’m going to insist that I do. I’ve sat behind a desk too long. Your combat boots are fresher than mine are.”

He rubbed a bead of sweat from his eye. “You think you can hold this position alone?”

In response she scrambled up to the top of the dune, surveyed the beach, and then rejoined him.

“If they have another RPG round to fire, no. But if it’s gun to gun, I can. For about ten minutes if I manage my ammo properly.”

“I won’t need that long. And I’m leaving both pistols with you.” He handed the weapons to her.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Get to higher ground.”

“As a sniper? But the rifle jammed on me.”

Puller cleared the rifle’s breech, checked the firing mechanism, and pronounced it workable.

She said, “You think anyone heard what happened? The guns, the explosion? We’re not that far out of town.”

“We’re too far out. And the breakers make a lot of noise.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll make it, General.”

“No doubt. But then every soldier wants to believe that. Good luck.”

“It’ll be about more than luck.”

She touched him on the arm. “Counting on you to come back, John.”

“There’s only one thing that will stop me.”

Carson knew what that was.

Death.

She drew a long breath and nodded. “Okay.”

Puller slung the rifle over his shoulder and in a few seconds was gone.

Carson blinked. It was like he had simply vanished. And for a man as big as he was, that took some skill.

But then again, he’s a Ranger, she thought. That’s what they do.

She gripped her Glock, racked the slide, slid her secondary weapon, Puller’s M11, into the back of her waistband, and took up her defensive position in a slot she burrowed on top of the dune. She was trying to make herself as invisible as possible. You couldn’t kill what you couldn’t get a bead on.

Gun on gun she could hold this piece of sand for a time. But after that it would just be inevitable.

She would die.

And if they fired another grenade she would be blown into little bits of organic matter.

She crossed herself, settled in, and took aim.

CHAPTER

79

PULLER HAD SIZED UP the battlefield and chosen his high ground. Now he knew he simply had to get there “fastest with the mostest.”

And in that he had pretty much summed up the winning strategy of every military campaign ever fought.

When opposed by superior numbers and firepower it was essential to hit the other side fast and hard and in multiple spots. This would hopefully cause confusion, blunt any momentum they might have, and ideally force a tactical retreat.

Puller would be just fine with confusion. But then he would also be just fine with killing all of them.

He found his spot and shimmied up a tree, coming to rest in the crook formed by the trunk and a sturdy limb. He settled his rifle into place and sighted along the scope, dialing in necessary adjustments to fit the wind, distance to target, and other factors.

There were six men. They came on in two groups of three. They were moving in a V shape, one leader and two followers. From Puller’s perch up the tree they looked like two arrowheads moving forward across the sand. They had some military training, he deduced, but not as much as they should have. He scanned behind the men, looking for reinforcements waiting to be deployed. He’d made that mistake at the Sierra; he didn’t intend to make the same error again.

No reserves—they were bringing their full force against one they presumed was a weaker foe.

Puller’s tactics had already been thought out. He didn’t just line up one shot. Like a chess match he was lining up four. Two from each group. That would leave it at two on two, odds he liked much better.

He observed Carson burrowed in on top of the sand dune. He knew she would see the oncoming enemy, but she was holding her fire, awaiting his first strike. Then he knew she would know what to do because she was a soldier just like him. On the battlefield stars, bars, and stripes fell away. You were just two trained fighters using that training to defeat the other side.

He glanced out at the water and saw a curious sight. It looked like a boat coming in. The navigation lights were steady red and green, so it was heading directly to shore.

This might be backup coming from the big boat out there. If so, he had to get this skirmish on the beach over with pronto.

He let out a breath, got his physiological barometer to cold zero, optimal for minimal muscle quiver, and lasered his crosshairs on target number one.

Bang.

Number one went down.

Bang.

Number two hit the sand.

Puller had known what the other four would do when the first two went down.

They scattered. But they scattered in a predictable pattern.

Bang.

Number three went down with one of Puller’s 7.62 NATO rounds blowing a large hole in the man’s chest.

Bang.

This kill shot came from a Glock.

Number four went down and stayed there.

Carson was emptying the clip from her Glock, spraying fields of fire both left and right, which were the only two directions worth aiming at, because it would also cover fore and aft movements.

She dumped her Glock and aimed the M11 but didn’t fire.

The two survivors down there had made it to cover, both from Carson below and Puller above.

But Puller had gotten most of what he had wished for.

It was now two on two.

The only unknown was the boat.

But for that, he would have just played a waiting game, keeping the two pinned down until they lost their patience and made a run for it.

It would have been a short run.

Puller would get one.

Carson would get the other.

But the damn boat was coming on fast, so Puller didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

He looked down at the same moment Carson looked up. He didn’t know if she could see him without the benefit of the goggles he had on, but she had obviously either seen or heard the boat.

He shimmied down the tree, landing quietly in the sand.

A minute later he had rejoined Carson.

“Two left,” he said.

“Right, but reinforcements are coming from the water.”

“I know. I saw.”

“Now what? Those two are between us and the road.”

“So we have to remove the obstacle.”

“We don’t have time for a standard pincer movement.”

He said, “What do you suggest, General?”

“So I’m back in command?”

“Superior rank is never really out of command. You earlier deferred to my judgment. Leadership defaults back to you.”

She looked around. “Feint, draw out, and strike. Speed and finality.”

He nodded in agreement. “I’ll do the feint and draw.”

“I was thinking the other way around. You’re better with the rifle.”

He shook his head. “We’re close enough range to do it with pistols. And I know you’ve kept your certifications up.”

“How?”

“You’re chasing the second star. You wouldn’t let something that simple trip you up.”

“I am damn good with a handgun at anything under twenty-five meters.”

“Then we’re well within your comfort zone.”

“But the feint will get shot at.”

“That’s the hope.”

She gazed at him. “Did you so readily volunteer for all the dangerous assignments in Iraq and Afghanistan too?”

“All the assignments over there were dangerous.”

Puller checked the water again. The boat was almost there.

“We’re out of time.”

“Let’s do it.”

It worked.

Nearly perfectly.

But anything less than perfection under the circumstances was problematic.

Puller took up position fifteen meters off the left flank of the targets, who had committed the tactical blunder of retreating to the same spot. It marshaled their firepower but also left them sitting ducks for the strategy devised by Carson.

Carson had taken up her strike position five meters off Puller’s left flank, down in the sand, the M11 positioned on the hard shell of a long-dead sea creature. She had the goggles on now. She had crystal-clear fields of fire.

Now it was up to Puller to do the feinting just right.

And he did, almost.

He sprinted out of seemingly nowhere, a nearly six-foot-four blur wide-stepping through the sand running a zigzag route as though traversing a minefield.

The shots rang out almost immediately from the two men.

Puller had chosen his angle well.

It had made the two men step out from cover in order to draw a bead on him.

Carson popped off four shots. They were well placed, compact rounds, designed for close-quarter battle and max damage.

Two shots hit one man in the torso. The other two hit the other man in the exact same spots.

Double tapped, they dropped to the sand.

But so did Puller.

CHAPTER

80

“JOHN!”

Carson raced forward through the sand.

She reached him in seconds. He had already risen to one knee.

“Where?” she said automatically.

“Left side. In and out,” he said. “I think it was the first guy who fired. He obviously knows how to grid shoot.”

“Let’s make sure it’s out.”

She pulled up his shirt, felt around for the entry and exit points, and found them both.

“You’re bleeding pretty heavily.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“I’m not arguing with that. In my duffel in the Tahoe I’ve got some medical supplies. I’ll patch myself up.”

“I can patch you up, Puller.”

He looked over her shoulder.

“Okay, but right now, keep low, get your gun ready, and turn around.”

She flinched, but just for an instant.

“The boat?”

“The boat,” he replied.

“Shit.”

She turned and saw what he had already seen.

The boat was beached on the shore. There was no one in it.

“Looks like the opposition has already deployed,” said Puller.

“It’s not a RIB. Maybe fewer people.”

“More than two is problematic. We’re clearly not at full strength.”

“Can you manage?” she asked.

“Not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“I know.”

Puller took off his shirt and wound it around his middle to try to stanch the bleeding. He gripped the rifle and stood.

“How many rounds do you have in the M11?” he asked.

“Ten. You?”

“Five and then I’m out.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“Seek and destroy. I go left and you right. You see me fire, you fire at whatever I’m targeting. I’ll do the same with you.”

“Let’s manage our ammo carefully.”

“We need to kill what we can when we can, General. Hand-to-hand after that if it comes to it.”

“They hit you one time on your wound you’re going down.”

He turned to stare at her and said quietly, “It’ll take more than one time.”

Her lips parted, she eyed the bloody shirt and said nothing before looking away.

They split up. Carson moved toward the water, Puller the opposite way. Fifteen meters apart they stealthily advanced, their gazes rotating side to side, up and down.

Puller stopped when he smelled it.

Sulfur.

It was coming from his right, meaning Carson’s left. They were up ahead. The stench on the clothes of whoever was out there was being driven into his nostrils by the breeze.

And then Puller realized what that entailed. He and Carson carried the exact same stink. The wind changed, carrying their smell the other way.

“Down,” he roared as shots flew overhead.

He sank into the sand but did not return fire. He had no clear target and with only five rounds left he had none to waste.

He just hoped that Carson had heard his warning in time.

He waited, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

He wanted to call out to Carson, but that would do neither of them any good. He had already told the other side there was more than one of them by calling out to her.

He gazed ahead, sweeping the area in grids. Carson had the goggles. She would be able to see things he couldn’t.

He decided to play off whatever she did.

He looked over and saw Carson on her belly gliding forward. The sound of the breakers covered this movement.

He did the same. Her movements became faster and Puller, shot up as he was, was hard pressed to keep up with her. Then it occurred to him that she wanted to get there first, to absorb the attack or counterattack before he would be in harm’s way.

“Screw that,” he muttered and redoubled his efforts.

It all came to an end several seconds later. Carson jumped to her feet and aimed.

Puller got there a millisecond later and did the same, his rifle finding and fixing on the target.

One gun was pointed at Carson.

One gun was pointed at Puller.

Mecho faced Puller.

Chrissy Murdoch confronted Carson.

Mecho and Puller recognized each other at the same instant.

Carson and Murdoch did not have the same advantage.

Puller said, “Who the hell are you?”

Mecho looked back at him, his finger a bare millimeter from the trigger of his weapon.

Murdoch kept her gaze dead on Carson. The women’s gun muzzles were barely six feet apart.

Murdoch said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Brigadier General Julie Carson, United States Army.”

Puller said, “Special Agent John Puller, Criminal Investigation Division, United States Army.”

Mecho did not take his gaze off Puller.

Puller did not take his gaze off Mecho. He said, “Now who the hell are you?”

Mecho again said nothing. Puller eyed Murdoch. “The last time I saw you, you were in your bathrobe at Lampert’s estate and your name was Christine Murdoch.”

“That is my cover name. I’m actually Lieutenant Claudia Diaz with the Colombian National Police. I’m assigned to a joint task force between my country and yours.”

“For what purpose?” asked Puller.

“Antislavery efforts. It has been authorized by your State Department.”

“And him?” asked Puller, motioning at Mecho.

“He’s assisting me.”

“He doesn’t look Colombian to me.”

“That is because I am not Colombian,” snapped Mecho.

“But you saved my butt the other night,” said Puller. “Why?”

“I didn’t like the odds. Too many against one.”

“Did you know who I was?”

Mecho shook his head.

“Why are you helping her?” Puller asked.

“That is my business,” replied Mecho.

“Can we all show some creds?” said Carson.

Puller, Carson, and Diaz pulled out their badges.

Mecho pulled nothing.

“Where are you from?” asked Puller.

“Not from here,” said Mecho.

“You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be.”

“That is not my problem.”

Diaz said, “We were attacked by a half dozen of the slavers.”

“Seems to be going around,” said Carson. “So were we.”

“And you obviously survived,” said Diaz.

“As did you,” replied Carson. “We carried the bodies out to the ocean. I would recommend we do the same for you,” said Diaz.

“Why?”

“To cover our tracks. So the big fish do not get away.”

“I’m afraid they already have,” said Puller. “The truck with the people got away.”

“Damn,” said Diaz, and she was the first to holster her weapon.

Carson followed suit.

The two men did not budge; their guns remained pointed at one another.

Diaz said to Mecho, “Stand down, Mecho. They’re obviously not with the slavers.”

“Puller, lower your weapon,” said Carson.

“Screw that! Him first.”

“The same,” snarled Mecho.

Carson and Diaz looked at each other with exasperated expressions.

“Men,” said Diaz. “They have too much—”

“Testosterone,” finished Carson. “Shall we?” she added, and Diaz nodded.

The women walked over and stood between the men’s pointed weapons.

“Stand down,” they said in unison.

With their targets obstructed, Puller and Mecho slowly lowered their weapons.

Diaz looked at Puller. “You’ve been shot!”

“Yeah, that one I had figured out. You two have some filling in to do.”

Diaz said, “But we also don’t have much time. If the truck got away, they know what’s happened. They will pull out of all their operations. And we’ll lose any evidence we might have.”

Puller glowered at Mecho. “Then we don’t have any time to lose, do we? And I hope you can change a tire, big guy.”

CHAPTER

81

MECHO CHANGED THE TIRE on the Tahoe and plugged the gas tank hole while Carson and Diaz patched Puller’s wound.

“You still need to get real medical treatment, Puller,” said Carson.

“She’s right,” added Diaz.

Puller put his shirt back on and stared at each of them. “Okay, first we get the bad guys and then I go get stitched up. Deal?” He glanced over at Mecho. “You done yet?”

Mecho gave the last tire lug one final turn and then rose holding the tire iron in one big hand.

“I’ll drive.”

“No, I’ll drive,” said Puller. “You just tell me where.”

The women rode in the back and cleaned and reloaded all of their weapons.

Mecho sat next to Puller and gave him directions to the warehouse.

“Can you fight with your wound?” Mecho asked Puller without looking at him.

There was no sympathy in the question. Puller neither expected nor wanted any. Mecho simply wanted to know the physical status of his comrades in arms. He wanted to know if he could count on Puller or rather have to compensate for him.

Puller would have wanted to know the exact same thing.

“They gave me a painkiller I had in my duffel. I can shoot and I can fight and I can take punishment. So don’t worry about me. I’ll handle my end. You cover yours.”

“What about your woman?” asked Mecho. “Can she hold her own?”

“What about your woman?” asked Puller. “Can she?”

“Are you always this cooperative?”

“I don’t even know who you are, so yeah, this is about as cooperative as it gets from me.”

“Diaz will be fine.”

“So will Carson.”

They rode for another minute in silence. The only noise was the sounds from the women readying the weapons.

Finally Mecho said, “My name is Gavril. That is my given name. My surname would mean nothing to you. But people call me Mecho.”

“You’re Bulgarian,” said Puller.

Mecho glanced at him. “How did you know?”

“I fought with them in Iraq way back. They were great fighters and could drink any other nationality under the table. Even the Russians.”

Mecho smiled. “The Russians think vodka is gold. It is merely water with perfume. It does not even put hair on the chest.”

“Were you military?”

Mecho’s smile faded. “I used to be. Then things changed.”

“What things?”

Neither man noticed that Carson and Diaz had finished their work and were listening intently to this exchange.

“Bulgaria was no longer part of the Soviet Union, of course. But some things don’t change. I love my country. It is a place of beauty. The people there are good. They like to work hard. They love their freedoms. But that does not mean that every leader we have is a good one who deserves the respect of the people. So sometimes when you do not follow along blindly things happen to you.”

“Were you imprisoned?”

Mecho glanced at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“Because the Soviets were big on that, that’s why. And Bulgaria was part of that world for a long time.”

“For a time,” Mecho said. “Perhaps a longer time than I care to remember.”

“How did you end up here going after slavers?”

“I come from a small village in the southwest part of my country. The Rila range, it is called. It is remote. The people there work hard. There are few if any outsiders who come there. My family still lives there.”

Puller said, “But outsiders did come?”

Mecho nodded and glanced out the window so as not to show the tears forming in his eyes.

“Men came and promised things, a better life for our young people. Education, jobs, all good things. They took about thirty of them.” He paused. “Including my youngest sister. We are a large family. She is far younger than me. She was only sixteen when she left.” He paused again. “No, not when she left, when she was taken.”

“They were slavers,” said Puller.

Mecho nodded. “Who thought that a little village on a mountain in Bulgaria would never be able to strike back for the evil that was done. I was not there at the time, or I would have not allowed this to happen. I have seen a lot of the world. The people in my village have not. They are trusting, too trusting. When I came back and found out what had happened, I started to look for my sister. And the others.”

“What’s her name?” This question came from Carson, who had put a hand on Mecho’s big shoulder, gripping it.

“Rada. This is she.”

Mecho took out the photo and held it out to Carson. She took it and looked at it.

“She’s very beautiful,” said Carson, and Diaz nodded in agreement.

“Not like the rest of the family,” said Mecho matter-of-factly. “They look more like me. Big and ugly.”

“You are not ugly, Mecho,” said Diaz fiercely. “You are a man trying to do the right thing. There is nothing more handsome than that.”

“And you tracked her down to Lampert?” asked Puller.

Diaz answered while Mecho took the photograph of Rada back from Carson and stared down silently at it. “We have talked,” she said. “He actually worked the connection from the other way. Through Stiven Rojas.”

“Rojas,” exclaimed Carson. “He’s on our most wanted list. He’s even been deemed a national security risk. He’s involved in this?”

“He collects the product, the people, and then they are transported to this country,” said Diaz. “Lampert takes over from there. He has established buyers everywhere. He gets the people to them. They are separated into three main categories. Prostitutes are the most valuable. Next are drug mules. Then common laborers.”

Mecho added, “They wear different-colored clothing that shows which category they fall into. I have seen this.”

Diaz nodded.

Puller said, “We saw it tonight.”

“And you said he has buyers in the U.S.? For slaves?” said Carson.

“The slave trade has never been more lucrative,” said Diaz. “As governments crack down on drugs and guns, it is becoming more and more popular. You need people to carry drugs. You need hookers to score tricks. And you need people to work the fields and the factories. If you don’t have to pay them or pay them very much it is good for the bottom line.”

“But it’s not like you can keep those people locked up. Prostitutes, drug runners, laborers. Why don’t they just escape? America is a big country,” said Puller. “And there’s always a policeman nearby.”

“Because they tell them that if they do try to escape, or tell the police, their families will be killed,” said Mecho.

“How do you know this?” asked Diaz, looking at him curiously.

“I had a talk with two of Lampert’s men. They told me. And his housekeeper, I could tell from the little she told me that she is a slave. She is afraid for her family. Lampert also uses her for sex.”

Mecho’s eyes drifted toward Diaz’s when he said this last part, but she quickly looked away, her face reddening.

Puller said, “You had a talk with two of Lampert’s men? Would they be the same pair that were staying at the Plaza?”

Mecho did not answer, which to Puller was answer enough.

“So you killed them?”

“They were not human. Not any longer. They were like rabid dogs.”

“You still murdered them.”

“You have not killed before?”

“I have not murdered before.”

Diaz said, “That can be dealt with later.”

Puller said, “Mecho, do you know anything about the death of an old lady and an old couple?”

Mecho said, “I saw an old couple killed on the beach when I first came here.”

Puller glanced sharply at him. “On the beach? Did you see who killed them?”

Mecho shook his head. “But it was one person. Shots to the head. Then their bodies were dragged into the water. The tide took them out.”

“And you just let it happen?” said Puller.

“There was nothing I could do. It happened too fast.”

Carson said, “Okay, their bodies were dragged out to the water. So probably a man. Big, small, white, black?”

“Not that tall. I could not see the color of the skin clearly but I think white. And slender, but obviously strong.”

“And you blew up Lampert’s Bentley,” said Puller.

Mecho looked at him, puzzled. “How did you know that?”

“You have big feet.”

Diaz said, “This can all keep. We need to be prepared for what is coming up in the next few minutes.”

Mecho nodded. “The warehouse. It is where they keep the slaves. That is where the trucks go.”

“Then we should call in the police,” said Carson.

“No,” said Diaz. “Lampert and Rojas have assets everywhere. We can’t trust the police.”

“Then the U.S. military. Eglin is right up the road.”

“By the time they can send anyone it’ll be too late,” argued Diaz.

Puller had a sudden thought. “You said this was a joint operation with the U.S. Did you happen to be working with military-looking guys in a Chrysler?”

“Yes,” said Diaz. “They told me of their interaction with Americans. I guess that was you.”

“Guess it was. Were they tracking me or Betsy Simon?”

“They had spotted a car belonging to Simon near the transfer spot one night. They traced it to her. Then she was killed. They started watching.”

“Where are they now?” asked Puller.

“After their encounter with you, they were reassigned. No one has replaced them yet.”

“Great,” muttered Puller.

“Okay, give us the layout of the warehouse,” said Carson. “If they’re still there we’ll have to hit it hard and fast.”

“We will hit it hard and fast,” said Mecho. “And we will kill who we have to kill.” He looked at Puller. “Unless you have a problem with murdering slavers.”

“No problem at all,” said Puller. “If they’re trying to murder me.”

“That I think you can count on,” said Mecho.