Hunt the Wolf

Chapter Sixteen

Without knowledge, skill cannot be focused. Without skill, strength cannot be brought to bear. Without strength, knowledge cannot be applied.

– Alexander the Great’s chief physician

Using a wet paper towel to wipe the blood from his face and neck, Crocker remembered his circumstances-the hotel, his men waiting near the garage, Sheik Rastani, Cyrus and, hopefully, Malie, in a suite not far away-and knew that more trouble was coming.

He strode down the hallway unaware that he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints.

He felt like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, walking straight into the face of evil. Determined to stop the wolves. But there was no Ennio Morricone music playing in the background. No two-note howl to let the bad guys know he was coming to kick their asses.

Just the pounding of his boots into the carpet.

Nor was there time to call for help.

Crocker assumed that the shots fired in the bathroom had been heard and that Sheik Rastani, Cyrus, and others were scrambling to stop him and/or escape.

He wasn’t going to let that happen, not when he was so close he could smell victory in the air ahead of him.

His heart pounded. His mouth, ribs, and neck hurt. His teeth ached; so did his face and jaw.

The adrenaline shoved all physical pain aside and pushed him forward, around the corner, where he saw the double mahogany doors to Suite 6C.

Bingo!

He knew this was his destination because of the bloody keycard and cardboard sleeve he clutched in his right hand. In his left he held the Makarov the pockmarked thug had dropped on the floor of the bathroom. Still warm.

He put his ear against the door and listened. An announcer’s voice in English reporting on a flood in the Philippines. A rescue was under way.

I’m glad.

Then tried the keycard. The lock flashed green and beeped. One deep breath later, he swung the door open and waited.

Come out, you motherfuckers.

The newscast segued into a Madonna song on the radio, her voice soaring and pleading at the same time.

His mind made thousands of lightning-quick calculations-the depth of the space, the darkness of the shadows, the quality of the light, the smell in the air.

It was a big, luxurious open space divided into functional areas. His eyes scanned right to left. A big flat-screen TV on a paneled wall. Tan leather sofas, a vase full of orchids, a view of the ocean, a prayer rug on the floor near the window. A half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs, a cup of tea, steam rising from a metal and glass table, and a hallway at an angle to his far left. Someone had been here seconds before.

Every second marked with a beat of his heart.

The song climbed to a crescendo.

He sensed that there was at least one other door into the suite, and somewhere people were escaping.

Gritting his teeth, he held the pistol in the ready position-like an extension of his arm-and stepped inside. Crossed past the sunken sitting area, swung around the table with the orchids, and entered the hall.

Like entering a bubble that was about to explode.

His back against the wall, he waited as the seconds ticked from a clock in a room to his right. Thought he heard a low voice like a moan. Maybe the wind? Or a big cat?

How likely is that?

Then something moved behind him and he spun, half expecting a panther or a cougar to lunge at him.

Phugt! Phugt! Phugt! Like someone spitting.

Bullets from a silenced pistol whizzed by his chin and tore into the wall. Throwing himself back, he crouched behind the corner. Residue of wallboard pelted his face and stuck in his eyes.

Tearing. Wiping the dust away. Trying to focus.

Aware of footsteps hurrying across the floor in the opposite direction, he stole a quick look only to see the blurry backs of two men running to the door. One wearing a long white shirt and pulling a large black suitcase, the other in a white dishdasha and ghutra.

The one pulling the suitcase turned and squeezed off a succession of shots. Crocker aimed and fired back.

A bullet tore into the man’s arm, causing him to let go of the suitcase and scramble out the door.

Crocker had a split second to decide whether to pursue them or keep going.

The person he was really looking for was Malie, so he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and continued down the hallway, inch by inch. Rooms to his left, two doors to his right.

Trying to calculate how much time the men had to get away. Confident that Davis, Akil, and Jakob would do what they could to stop them. Then considering the problems they might encounter.

There was absolutely nothing he could do about that now.

The first opening left led to a kitchen. Lots of cherry wood and stainless steel. A shiny double-doored refrigerator purring. Toblerone chocolate bar, a bottle of Evian water, two Orangina bottles, a roll of paper towels, and a money belt on the counter, but no people inside.

Four steps farther down the hallway, he pushed down on the polished chrome handle and kicked the first door open. The mirrored closet door reflected back his image. Not recognizing himself, he almost fired.

The ferocity in his own eyes surprised him.

Shit, do I really look like that?

He took a deep breath from his diaphragm and counted to four before exhaling, then repeated the process a half-dozen times, the way Holly had taught him. Boxed breathing, she called it. Something she’d learned from yoga class at the gym.

He felt more centered in his body, clearheaded.

The room appeared empty. Opened suitcases. Clothes scattered across the double bed and floor. A travel guide to Oman open on the nightstand, next to a stack of CDs. A copy of the French edition of GQ.

A pair of women’s white high-heeled shoes by the drape-covered window. The shoes new. Barely worn, if ever. He stepped over them and opened a door to the right of the nightstand.

Another dark hallway that reeked of gasoline, with a sitting room to the right that overlooked the hotel gardens. To his left, a walk-in closet. Mostly empty, except for a silver-gray man’s suit wrapped in clear plastic, a pair of men’s sandals.

Sensing something emerging from the sitting room across the hallway, he twisted his body left to reduce the angle of access through the door. His heart skipped a beat as a gun behind him discharged.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Intense heat splashed against his face, and searing metal grazed the skin above his jaw.

His ears numb, he spun down to the carpeted floor and held himself up on his left forearm. Caught sight of the dark figure out of the corner of his eye.

A torch of some sort illuminated the man’s face and torso.

With the pistol in his right fist, Crocker fired repeatedly into the man’s shins and knees. First the sound of cracking, splintering bone, then a bottle exploded against the edge of the doorway and flames burst into the closet.

An eruption of gold singed Crocker’s eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair.

He jumped back into the closet as the man wailed from the sitting room and fire spread in the hallway between.

A patch of gasoline flames jumped onto the right front of Crocker’s shirt. He ripped the polo off and flung it against the wall. Smelled his own burning flesh.

Lying on his back, he raised the pistol in both hands and discharged round after round in the direction of the groans across the hall, spending the ammo completely. Then, pulling the suit from the hanger and ripping off the plastic, Crocker used it as a shield to cover his face and torso as he hurried through the flames into the sitting room.

Breathing hard, he stood over the man who had thrown the Molotov cocktail, watching his face relax with a final sigh, a kind of prayer. Then heard a rattle from his throat.

Another wolf down.

Crocker’s whole body throbbing with determination and fear, he felt above his right jawbone where blood oozed from a shallow crease. The skin near his right shoulder was red and tender. The smoke and heat burned his eyes.

He had to dismiss the pain now and recover the pistol from the man on the floor, because the one he’d been using was empty.

A terrible, soul-wrenching grimace leered from the man’s gaunt, bearded face. It didn’t appear to be Cyrus or anyone else he could identify. Dark pants, a white shirt, a round gold pendant around his neck engraved with the throne verse of Ayat al-Kursi from the Koran.

After prying the Glock 19 from the dead man’s fingers, he waited, expecting others. Then squeezed past the flames that were climbing up the wall and entering the closet. Through thick, astringent smoke, five more paces to a door that was locked.

A smoke alarm screeched and overhead sprinklers went off.

His head and shirt were practically drenched when he tried the a door second time.

Same result.

He had to get inside. So, holding the Glock in his left hand, he cocked his right foot back and smashed his boot into the door near the lock. The slick wood splintered and buckled but didn’t break. The second time he lifted his foot back, he slipped on the carpet and fell.

Bracing himself against the back wall, he kicked again. This time a piece of the frame shattered and the door came halfway open.

Standing behind the right door frame, he pushed it in with the hand holding the Glock. No response came from inside the bathroom. Just the hiss of falling water and smoke, which seemed to grow thicker by the second.

Seven rapid beats of his heart before he poked his head in. Through the light gray haze, he saw opulent green marble and gold interrupted by a large white object hanging from a hook on the left wall.

Crocker identified it as a wedding dress with a ruffled skirt and a lace top.

He thought he caught a whiff of flower-scented perfume in the acidic smoke.

On the double-sink counter rested a brush, a toothbrush, a tube of Colgate, a pair of scissors. To the far right corner an oversized tub. To his immediate right a glass-enclosed shower. And in front of that another door that he assumed hid the commode.

His eyes burning, Crocker turned the knob and swung it open.

Sitting on the toilet, bent over forward with her face toward the floor, was a pale-skinned woman in a frilly white bra and panties. Thick silver tape had been wrapped around her ankles, wrists, and mouth.

Crocker couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive.

“Malie?” he whispered, praying that she was still breathing.

No response.

“Malie, can you hear me?”

He saw the taunt skin near the base of her neck quiver.

“I’m an American. I’ve come to save you.”

He felt pride in saying it.

“Malie, look at me. Please.”

She lifted her head. With the light streaming through the window to her right and the fumes surrounding her, she reminded him of a painting of a Flemish Madonna. One eye blue, the other green, both wide with terror. The tears that had run down her cheeks left red streaks. Her wet, light brown hair was gathered on the sides in white ribbons.

“Malie, your ordeal is over.”

His heart clenched, imagining all she’d been through.

He tried to smile, but the effort hurt. And sensed that he must look frightening with the gash along his jaw, the claw marks, the blood running down his neck.

As she straightened up, her expression changed from a pleading anguish to a raw kind of anger.

She mumbled through the tape over her mouth. “My name isn’t Malie.”

“What?” Heavy disappointment. “Your name isn’t Malie?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Where the fuck is Malie? he asked himself, ignoring for now the consequences of what he’d done so far.

Even though the fire was out, thick white smoke still poured in from the hall, burning his throat and eyes.

When she did look up, he was struck by the expression of hurt and shame frozen on her oddly inert face.

That’s when he realized that the body heals, but the psyche inside it is more fragile. Thinking about the hundreds of thousands of children’s and young people’s psyches that had been shattered because of some kind of abuse or war, he peeled the tape from the girl’s ankles and wrists. He took special care with her mouth, then brought her a wet towel to clean her face.

With the tape removed, she looked no more than sixteen.

“You have a name?”

“Brigitte.”

“Brigitte, do you know Malie?”

“There was another girl. But they didn’t allow us to speak.”

“Blond?”

“Yes. Very light hair.”

“She came over on the boat with you and was here, in this suite?”

“Yes.”

When he helped her up, she trembled on legs that appeared atrophied. Makeup had been applied to cover purple and blue bruises on both thighs.

“Do you know where they took her?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He found a white terry robe on a hook behind the door and wrapped it around her. As delicate as a porcelain doll.

“Keep the towel over your mouth and nose,” he said, the smoke clogging his throat.

Her brown hair hung in limp curls and ringlets around her soft pink face. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Muscat, Oman.”

She shuddered. “I’m-I’m not sure I can walk,” she said through the towel.

“Lean on me. I’ll help.”

They made it halfway down the hall. But seeing the smoldering corpse lying in the scorched entrance to the sitting room, her knees buckled. The smell was horrible.

Crocker lifted her in his arms.

“Cover your nose. Close your eyes.”

He felt her frail bones under the robe. Her heart beating against his chest like a little bird’s.

Through the wider hallway to the living room, out the door of the suite. He followed the bloody footprints he’d left, hoping that Akil and Davis would find Malie so he could return to his family. Spend time with Holly and Jenny. Laugh, play games together, maybe take a vacation.

Rounding the corner, he saw a dozen soldiers in black riot gear and visored helmets pointing automatic weapons at him.

Reminded him of an image he’d seen in a video game.

A shorter soldier on the right of the group, holding a 12-gauge M1014 combat shotgun with a telescoping tubular stock, shouted in British-accented English: “Freeze right there or we’ll shoot!”

Stopping, he suddenly felt exhausted. The smoke was creating havoc in his head.

“Now slowly hand the girl to my men.”

“Okay.” Coughing.

Brigitte, in his arms, whimpered.

Crocker, feeling lightheaded, tried to reassure her. “They’re government soldiers,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

He transferred her to two big men who carried her away. Two other soldiers stepped forward and pointed their weapons at his head.

“Now get down the floor and hold your arms over your head!”

“I’m an official of the U.S. government.” Actually, his situation was a bit more complicated. But he couldn’t explain that he was a leader of a U.S. Navy SEAL Team Six unit on assignment with the CIA.

“Get on the floor!”

“I need to talk to-”

“GET DOWN, NOW!”

Crocker didn’t have the energy to argue. His head was wobbling. As he bent his knees, his legs gave out.

He was already unconscious when he hit the floor.