SEAL Team 666

52

Walker saw them move out of the warehouse, then disappear. No, not disappear. They fell through the ground. He started to climb down from his perch, but thought better of it. An image of Holmes’s angry face shot through his good intention. He remained where he was but stared through his scope, hoping to see something to shoot.

Hoover growled from beneath as if she knew something was wrong.

“Easy, girl. Let’s see what’s going on.”

Suddenly the sounds of a firefight rent the night. He heard the distinct rapid-fire burps of the MP5, the angry barks of the shotgun, and the dull stutters of AK-47s.

What the hell was going on?

The sound of vehicles came from the front of the warehouse. Three five-ton trucks lumbered around the building. The firefight continued, but at a lesser rate. He saw Yaya crawl out of the hole and stagger to one of the boxes. He’d lost his shotgun. He pulled his 9mm from his thigh holster and in one move fired at the two men coming after him.

The trucks made the turn and rammed into the crates. Wood exploded into splinters. Crates tumbled. Yaya disappeared beneath an avalanche of broken and splintered wood. The trucks skidded to a halt. Men in uniforms poured out the rear of each vehicle. Walker tracked them through his scope. He wanted so badly to take a shot. But there were too many of them. If he fired, he’d only succeed in bringing attention to himself.

Damn!

As the soldiers surrounded the hole, the sounds of firing diminished to nothing. The soldiers cheered.

Walker bit his lip.

He watched as the bodies of Holmes, Laws, and Ruiz were dragged out of the hole and carried into one of the trucks. More bodies were pulled out. He was gratified to see that there were five dead soldiers for every dead SEAL.

His chest tightened at the realization that his team was dead.

The soldiers weren’t messing around. Once they had the bodies loaded on the trucks, they climbed aboard and started the engines.

Walker felt helpless. He wanted to shoot, but he knew that someone had to survive the mission to tell Billings and NAVSPECWAR Command what happened. He pounded the tree with his fist as the trucks pulled away.

Hoover took off after the trucks.

Walker called out to her, but the dog was single-focused. What she’d do to the trucks if she caught up with them, Walker had no idea. But he shouted his encouragement. “Get ’em, girl! Chew their hearts out!”

He watched until the trucks and the dog were out of sight, and then he shouted to the universe. “Motherfucker!”

It took five minutes for him to compose himself enough to climb down from his perch. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled out his pistol. He held it in a two-handed grip angled toward the ground as he walked morosely toward the killing zone. With the lights off, it was hard to see, but he didn’t need the lights. The image of the location was burned into his mind and would remain there forever.

Sometime during his mini-breakdown it had occurred to him that Yaya was still beneath the crates—he hadn’t seen them take him. The least he could do was to check the body and confirm what he already suspected.

When he arrived at the rear of the warehouse, he flicked the light on his pistol to On. He moved carefully to the hole. It was a rectangle, about fifteen by thirty feet. Judging from the litter of boards ten feet down, it appeared to be nothing more than a large animal trap. He could imagine its construction—a series of long boards down the middle, boards along the sides, all covered with dirt.

There were still more than a dozen bodies in the bottom of the hole. Many had been shot in the face by a shotgun, eyes, noses, cheeks, mouths obliterated into a single mush of blood and gristle. Even more were stitched with MP5 rounds. It had been a horrendous firefight. Blood covered every surface in the trap. By the litter of shells, he could tell it had been a shooting gallery. His brothers had really had no chance.

He turned and examined the avalanche of crates. There was no sign of Yaya. He tried to move a crate and found them only moderately heavy. Using both hands, he could move them one at a time. So began the project of moving and hoping. With each crate moved, he searched for signs of his brother SEAL. But it was as if Yaya had vanished. Walker moved eleven crates and still there was triple that amount.

Then he heard a moan.

It had to be Yaya. Walker waited until the sound came again; then he located the direction and began slinging crates out of the way as fast as he could. He didn’t care where they went or even if they fell into the hole. His entire focus was on the sound of the intermittent moans.

He saw a booted foot. By the make of the boot—Hi-Tec—he could tell it was Yaya. The SEAL was faceup beneath a crate. Walker moved two more crates, then was finally able to lift the crate off his friend.

Yaya’s face was covered in blood and his left arm was twisted at an awkward angle, but otherwise he seemed okay. Then again, there was no telling what kind of internal bleeding or organ damage he’d suffered.

Walker kneeled beside him. “Hey, wake up. Where does it hurt?”

“Ungh. Everywhere,” Yaya answered, as if he were on Valium.

Walker began to compress the skin around the kidneys, lungs, and finally the pelvis. Yaya gave him a sickly grin. “Not even a bottle of wine, sailor?”

Walker grinned as well and grabbed the SEAL by the shoulders. “Maybe next time, Yaya.”