Target America

74

By the time Akram stumbled from the trail and onto the logging road, he looked and felt like he’d just fought a running battle with a mountain lion. His face was torn and bleeding from crashing headlong through juniper thickets, and his injured testicles were throbbing. He ripped open the back door of a green Ford Excursion and tossed the TAC-50 onto the seat. He was reaching for the driver’s door a moment later when he realized that both tires were flat on that side of the vehicle. In disbelief, he looked over at the second truck to see that it had been disabled in the same fashion.

“Ain’t that a bitch?” Gil said, standing at the edge of the road twenty feet in front of the truck.

Akram looked up, shocked to see his enemy standing there in the dawning light bleeding from a head wound. He flexed the fingers of his gun hand, considering whether to go for the pistol, but he could see that Gil’s holster flap was loose, so he chose to wait, allowing the arrogant American time to make a mistake.

“I like seeing you bleed,” he said. “Your wife, she bleeds too. So does her mother.”

Gil stepped fully into the road. “Ever seen a Gary Cooper movie?”

Akram smirked and stood up straight, squaring himself to face Gil directly. “Even if you kill me, there will be another and another — always another until you and your wife are both dead.”

“Dog’s ass.”

Akram went for his pistol.

Gil jerked the 1911 and shot a hole through Akram’s wrist before he could even touch the Berretta.

Akram held his arm in shock, scarcely able to believe a human being could move so fast with such accuracy. He stood gaping at his left hand now dangling uselessly at the end of the radius bone, the end of the ulna shot completely away. His knees gave out, and he slumped against the fender of the Ford.

Gil came forward to take the Berretta from his hip, tossing it over his shoulder into the brush. He holstered the 1911 and stood looking at Akram, the heel of his hand resting on the butt. “I reckon you can guess what happens now.”

Akram spit in his face. “The bomb goes off. That’s what happens… and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Gil reached to take hold of Akram’s nearly severed hand, twisting it around.

Akram screamed, sinking to his knees beside the wheel of the truck. “Allah will punish you! He will punish all of you!”

Keeping a grip on the hand, Gil stood looking around. “Well, in the meantime, you can tell me where to find the bomb.”

“Fuck you!”

Gil nodded. “I figured you’d say that.” He gave the hand a powerful jerk, and the ligament popped as the appendage broke off the end of the bone.

Akram screamed, clutching the bleeding stump to his chest.

Gil crouched down, holding the hand as if it were nothing more significant than an empty glove. “Here’s the deal, partner. You’re gonna do the right thing and tell me where to find that bomb, or I’m gonna do some horrible shit to you — the kind of horrible shit you people do. Is that what you want? You want to look out there in the road and see your body parts layin’ in the dirt? Because that’s what you’re gonna see. Just as sure as God makes little green crocodiles, that’s what you’re gonna see.” He tossed the hand out into the road, where it landed palm down and flopped over. “See there? That’s the beginning.”

Akram stared back at him, his eyes burning with defiance.

Gil jabbed a thumb into his eye, and Akram jerked his head back, whacking it against the fender of the truck.

“See how silly it gets? How fast a man loses his dignity? This is why you don’t let yourself be taken alive.” Gil shook his head. “Just tell me where to find the goddamn bomb.” He jammed a thumb deep into Akram’s other eye, and the man’s head bounced off the fender again as if they were playing out a macabre Three Stooges parody.

Half blind, Akram swatted at Gil’s eyes, but Gil grabbed the hand, twisting it hard around until the wrist snapped. Akram screamed, and Gil adjusted his grip, getting to his feet as he continued to twist the arm, popping the elbow and jamming his bloody boot hard into Akram’s armpit to dislocate the shoulder. Akram sprawled with his face in the dirt, bawling out loud, and Gil let the ruined arm drop to the ground.

“And these are just the prelims.” Gil crouched back down, picking up a stone and tossing it down the road. “You gotta understand me when I tell ya this ain’t Guantanamo. Hell, this ain’t even Afghanistan. This is downtown hell, and you’re on the corner of Main and Broadway with the devil’s boot on your neck.” He took hold of the now-quaking Akram to help him sit up against the tire, drawing his Ka-Bar and placing the blade alongside Akram’s nose. “Now, you tell me where to find that fuckin’ bomb — right fuckin’ now — or you’re gonna get the VIP tour! And I absolutely do not mean maybe.”

Akram’s eyes were too badly injured to keep them open, but he could feel the cold steel against his face, and he knew what it meant. With shock setting in, he shivered uncontrollably, swallowing hard before mumbling, “San Diego.”

Gil cut off his nose and Akram screamed.

“Don’t lie to me!” Gil grabbed one of his ears and laid the blade alongside of his head. “We know it’s in DC! Tell me where!”

Akram clutched his face, screaming in pain and horror. “Washington was the primary target, but the bomb never got there!”

Gil cut off the ear and Akram went berserk with impotent rage, beating ineffectually on Gil’s leg with his one good arm as Gil grabbed a handful of his hair and began to slowly scalp him. “Where’s the fucking bomb, asshole?”

“San Diego!” Akram shrieked. “San Diego! San Diego!”

Gil let go of his scalp and crouched down in front of him. “Where in San Diego?”

Akram began babbling prayers to Allah, his blood pouring down over his face. “I don’t know,” he stammered, shivering like he was attempting to shit a peach pit. “Kashkin. Kashkin’s people have it. The Chechens. The bombs were Kashkin’s plan… Kashkin’s plan.”

Gil stood up and drew the 1911. “Shovin’ my wife’s panties in her mouth was the single dumbest thing you ever fuckin’ did.” He put the muzzle to the top of Akram’s head.

Crosswhite and a pair of SEALs burst through the brush, ready to throw down with their M4s.

“Wait!” Crosswhite shouted.

Gil pulled the trigger, and Akram fell forward onto his face. “Wait for what?”

“What the fuck do you call that?” Crosswhite said, his chest heaving from the near-legendary run up one side of the mountain and down the other.

Gil holstered the pistol. “Due process. Did you find Marie?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. The dog too.” Crosswhite kicked the hand from the road and came forward. “Alpha and Shearer are carrying them down to the ranch.” He pointed at the body. “He have anything to say before you blew his brains out?”

“Yeah. Gimme the sat phone. I gotta call Pope.”

Crosswhite gave him the phone, and he got Pope on the line.

“Bob, it’s Gil. Listen, the bomb is not in DC. It’s somewhere in San Diego. The DC bomb went off in New Mexico.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Akram al-Rashid just told me.”

“Gil, we have to be sure. Are you sure he’s telling the truth?”

Gil looked down Akram’s battered body. “I’d bet my life on it, Bob.”