The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

street some thirty feet below.  Behind a wall to his right, a barking dog began to throw itself against a wooden door in a frenzied attempt to get at some unseen intruder.  Glancing back, Noor found Corbett coming hard.  Desperate, he looked across to the flat roof with a vegetable garden standing one story below and a dozen feet away.   Stepping back and drawing a breath, he suddenly ran forward, hurtling himself through space, arms flailing as he landed hard beside the garden.  To his left, a door.  Scrambling up, he rushed at the door only to find it locked.

At the same time, Corbett came charging across the roof, loose tiles slipping beneath his feet.  Reaching the edge, he stopped, staring across and down to where Noor was now attempting to force the wooden door.  Putting his shoulder to the sun-bleached, rotting wood, Noor finally managed to splinter the doorjamb.  Swinging free on its hinges, the door yawned open and he disappeared inside.

Ignoring the steep drop to the stone street and barking dog, Corbett eyeballed the distance to the far building.  Then without waiting, he suddenly launched himself into the gaping void between the buildings. But instead of propelling himself onto the roof garden, he took aim at the second story window to the left of the now open door.  Hurtling through space, he shielded his face with his arms as he smashed through the window.  In an explosion of glass and wood, he came crashing onto the landing of a stairwell inside, a few steps from where Noor was now descending.  Caught unprepared, the Jihadi started to turn as Corbett slammed into him.  The force of the impact drove both men into the balustrade and down the steps onto the landing below.  Shards of glass and window trim flying everywhere.

Instantly, both men found their feet and squared off.  Fists and feet in rapid combinations.  Blow and counter-blow.  Without warning, Noor pulled a six-inch knife from a concealed sheath strapped below his left knee.  Lashing out, the blade sliced through Corbett’s shirtsleeve, barely missing his arm.   But as the Jihadi came at him a second time, Corbett caught him by the wrist, slamming his hand against the bannister repeatedly until the blade fell harmlessly between them.  Releasing his grip on Noor’s wrist, Corbett slipped around behind him.  Then wrapping his arm around the man’s throat, in a single move, Corbett snapped his neck.  Feeling Noor’s body go slack, he lowered him to the floor.  Still gasping for breath, he quickly turned and slipped unnoticed down the stairs leading to the street.

Reaching the street, Corbett cracked open the door and checked to be sure he was alone.  Seeing no one, he stepped out onto the cobblestone street, his eyes immediately registering details in every direction.  But as he started to make his way back toward the clinic, he was suddenly knocked off his feet by the concussive force of a deafening explosion.  Momentarily disoriented, he stared into the sky as a column of thick black smoke curled into the morning air several blocks away.  Instantly he realized: C-4…!  Scrambling up, he took off at a run, racing for the clinic.

TWENTY-FOUR

R acing on the double, his ears still ringing, Corbett reached the street leading to the clinic and pulled up short.  Before him, the skeletal remains of the stake bed truck now rested in a large crater directly across from the still burning entrance to the clinic.  A small clutch of villagers had begun to gather just up the block, openly fearful of moving closer.  Somewhere, the sound of a fire siren had begun to wail.  Minutes later the town’s volunteer fire brigade – four men in an ancient GMC pumper – arrived on the scene, making their way cautiously down the narrow street.  Coming to a halt before the clinic, the firemen deployed, coupling their hose to a yellow hydrant as they began pouring a steady stream of water on the flames in an attempt to keep the fire from spreading.

Filled with apprehension, Corbett spotted Nekane across the street, sheltering a young boy in her arms, her eyes fixed on the burning clinic.  Willing himself forward, he approached her, his voice raw with emotion.

“The doctor…?” he managed at last.  “Dr. Alesander… did you reach her?  Did she get out?”

Still in shock, Nekane stared at him as if unable to comprehend his question.  But before Corbett could ask it again, he heard the sound of protesting brakes as down the street came the same medical van Tariq had used to escape the Jihadi attack two days before.  Behind the wheel was Amaia, her eyes filled with rage.  Tariq sat in the passenger seat with the little girl perched on his lap.  Spotting Corbett, Amaia brought the van to a halt and leaped out.  Running full tilt at Corbett, she cursed him as she came.

“You son of a bitch…!” Doubling her fists, she wildly struck his chest with all her might.  “Bastard…!  Why?  We were free. Away from the violence and the terror.  All we wanted was a chance.  To raise a family.  Live our lives.  And now...!”

Stepping up behind her, Tariq carried their little girl in one arm as he reached out to Amaia, encircling her shoulders with the other.

“Amaia…” he whispered in her ear. “Amaia, listen…”

But she pulled away, unwilling to surrender what little peace they had known here without a fight.

“Michael… answer me!” she shouted in his face.  “Why? Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?”

Unable to blunt her rage, Corbett looked to Tariq. “It’s time,” he said quietly.  “Your father needs you.  Your country is on the edge of oblivion.  Turn your back and everything your father has worked for will be lost.  Any chance for peace depends on you.  Unless you come with me now…”

“Unless he comes with you now, what…?” Amaia repeated, her words awash with rancor.  Nodding her head