Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

caravans have been shredded the whole time I was there. One of Zarek’s lieutenants, Dagar, told us what happened to caravans he led. On the way south, the ANA ambushed them. He lost a quarter of the guns and explosives he was carrying. Had to disperse his men and reassemble in Kandahar. On the way home, he carried opium. Gunships attacked him north of Wanat and destroyed a third of his load. Killed many good men.”

“Was that a regular occurrence?”

“I think so. A few months later, another good guy, Adim Fazili, was wounded leading a guns caravan south.”

I find it jarring to hear Robyn speak of drug runners as “good guys.”

“I checked on that,” Stein says. “Pulled every piece of intel from CIA, State, and the Pentagon. There is no data to substantiate Zarek’s claim. Islamic leaders are notorious for hyperbole. Zarek is no exception.”

“I believe him.”

“So do I,” Robyn says.

“What if it is true?” Stein frowns. “It might be due to some operational difference between Zarek and Shahzad.”

“My head hurts.” I get to my feet. “I’m going for a coffee.”

36

On the X

Falls Church

Saturday, 2345

I go down the stairs and look into the kitchen. The garish light from the pool deck floods the space and casts long shadows across the walls. I turn left, go into the library.

Adcox sits at the library table, cleaning his SIG P226. His MP5 lies next to the laptops. Franz sits in the living room, reading a magazine. His submachinegun rests on his lap. The curtains are drawn across the picture windows, and the lights have been dimmed.

“Anything going on,” I ask.

“All quiet,” Adcox says.

I stand behind him briefly, look at the monitoring screens. The cameras show no unusual activity. A pickup truck drives past the camera positioned at the main road. The motion sensor oscilloscopes show flat lines.

The house is quiet. I walk into the living room. Standing to one side of the picture windows, I part the curtains and peep outside. The SUVs are parked in a line across the front of the house. In a firefight, their armor will afford the house some protection. They also make it impossible for an attacker to ram a vehicle through the front door. Nellis paces between the vehicles and house.

I let the curtain fall back and return to Adcox’s side. Scan the displays again.

Something’s wrong.

A pickup truck drives past the camera monitoring the road.

Again.

The same truck, in the same direction, at the same speed.

“Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Adcox straightens.

I point to the video of the truck. Passing, over and over. “They’ve hacked the system. It’s playing the last minute on a loop.”

Radio to my ear, I key the mike. “Spider Two, this is Black Widow.”

Jimenez does not respond.

I reach for the house mobile phone. Clench it in my fist.

A splintering crash shakes me—Hard as a physical blow.

Struck by a battering ram, the front door bursts open. Three men wearing balaclavas and Kevlar vests force their way into the living room. They carry suppressed H&K MP7 submachineguns. Small caliber, high-velocity weapons specifically designed to penetrate body armor. On a proportional basis, the tiny 4.6 mm cartridges pack as much propellant as an assault rifle. High penetrative ability, extremely high cyclic rate of fire. Each burst slaps three or four rounds through the same hole to get the kill.

The men navigate the living room like they know where we are. They must have killed Nellis and Orcel. Used thermal imaging to ascertain our locations before breaching the door. The first man through fires two bursts in quick succession. Franz dies where he sits.

I dive for the kitchen doorway. Hear the MP7s firing. Forty-round mags, high burst rates. The suppressors can’t mask the sonic booms of the high-velocity slugs. Crashing behind me, bullets shatter laptop screens and riddle Adcox.

Through the doorway. I crouch and flatten myself against the wall.

Hold my breath. The killers drop their mags and reload. I hear the metallic clack of bolts slamming home.

An MP7 is fired through the wood, scattering splinters and bits of drywall over me. Had I been standing, I’d have been shredded.

The shooter rushes through the doorway, leads with his weapon.

That’s a mistake. I grab the muzzle of the gun with my right hand, force it away from me. The man fires, and the bullets splinter the bottom step. I slash my left hand over the top of the gun, club him across the throat. With one blow, I smash his larynx. Cartilage and soft tissue collapse. Cervical vertebrae crack. The gunman drops like a stone.

I twist the MP7 from his hands, scramble for safety.

“Breed, get down.”

Stein’s voice. I throw myself flat against the stairs.

There’s a short burst of popping sounds. Stein’s small-caliber MP5 on full auto. I look back. The burst caught the second attacker in the chest, knocked him down.

“Go,” Stein urges.

I get to my feet, make it to the landing. The man Stein shot gets to his feet, charges the stairs again. His armor saved him. He fires and I flatten myself on the floor.

Stein learns. Empties the MP5 at the attacker’s legs, riddles his thighs and knees. He screams and falls.

I shove the MP7 and mobile phone into Stein’s hands.

“Take Robyn,” I say. “Call for help.”

Stein hits a speed dial. The QRF out of Quantico. The clock starts ticking. Twenty minutes before any hope of rescue.

I draw the Mark 23 from my waistband and turn.

The third attacker at the bottom of the stairs drags his wounded buddy out of the way. Raises his MP7 and unloads on me. The high-velocity bullets splinter the wall above the landing.

I look through the bedroom door. It’s a fifteen-foot drop from the second floor. Stein helps Robyn out the window, uses the MP7’s sling to lower the girl a couple extra feet so she can jump.

Stein calls to me. “Breed.”

“Go,” I tell her. The attacker downstairs is changing out his mags. I fire two quick rounds, trying for head shots. He ducks back into the library, charges his weapon, and