Overwatch: A Thriller Page 30

  The men didn’t speak. Their common focus was on one thing—reaching dry ground.

  Logan had seen less violent crashes do more damage to life and limb. Maybe the Big Guy upstairs really was looking out for their welfare. He didn’t have time to contemplate it. In his mind, the clock was ticking, and when it reached zero, the Middle East became a powder keg.

  Logan redoubled his stroke, drawing strength from a place he had almost forgotten he possessed. Suddenly, he felt the shifting dirt and silt of the riverbank. The last few steps were the hardest, but he finally emerged from the river, soaked and filthy, but alive.

  He pulled the pilot up onto the wet earth, took off his helmet, and checked his vitals as the rest of the group emerged from the murky water.

  Thank God. He’s still breathing.

  “Jesus Christ,” he heard John say, “I never liked helicopters—no offense, Captain,” speaking to the injured man he’d just rescued from the crash.

  “None taken,” the young copilot said, grimacing in pain and wincing as he lay on the ground. “I’ve got bigger problems right now than your fear of flying.”

  He pulled out a portable PRC-434G personal survival radio from a zipped cargo pocket in his flight suit. He pressed two buttons, activating the GPS transponder and personal locator beacon, and turned the selection dial to voice.

  “Haditha COC, this is Raven Six. We are down in Haditha. I say again, we splashed down in the river. Current location is the riverbank inside the city. The helo is in the river underwater. All onboard alive. Request immediate QRF support.”

  Logan interrupted him. “Captain, if we have any chance in hell of catching Cain Frost and his men, we need to leave now.” He looked at Mike, who sat and examined his right ankle. It was swollen to almost twice the size of his left one. It was either severely sprained or broken. Regardless, Mike shook his head, silently confirming to Logan what he already suspected—he was out of commission.

  It’s just John and me.

  Logan turned to the crew chief and his gunner. “Gunny, can I take your radio? They have a head start, but in the event that we catch them, we’re going to need support. We’ll contact you as soon as we can.”

  John checked his 1911 .45-caliber pistol, pulling the slide back to allow any trapped water to escape. He ejected the magazine and inserted a fresh one; he did the same for his M4, which had survived the crash slung across his back. He looked up at Logan once he was finished. “Ready when you are, boss.”

  Logan nodded. “Gunny, the people of this city aren’t exactly friendly to Marines after what happened here. Be careful. Call us if you have trouble, but understand one thing—finding Cain is our number one priority.”

  “Roger. Good luck, sir. If anyone tries anything, Sergeant Cruz and I can handle it. It’s not our first Iraqi rodeo. Hell, it’s not even my first crash,” he added, somehow managing a smile as he said it.

  Mike stared at the pilot. “Fucking Marines—you’re all nuts. Stop dicking around, Logan, and go get that sonofabitch. We’ll be fine.”

  “See you soon, Mike.” Without another word, Logan unslung his M4, and he and John sprinted up the slope and disappeared into the city.

  CHAPTER 56

  The three men worked their way through the convoluted maze of Haditha. Each Iraqi they passed stopped and stared at them. It didn’t help their conspicuousness as Westerners that they carried assault rifles and a large metallic suitcase as they ran.

  The buildings were no more than a few stories tall, but they were tall enough to confuse the casual traveler. Streets intersected at odd angles, with no discernible pattern. Some were paved; others, just dirt and rock. Old cars and pickup trucks sped by in the streets. Some slowed down as they spotted the foreigners but then sped off at the sight of their weapons. The afternoon commotion added to Cain’s confusion.

  Spotting an alley only a few feet away, Cain said, “I need to check our location.” They moved off the main road to the unpaved side street.

  Cain pulled out a thick, laminated map and his Garmin GPS. He cross-referenced the map with the coordinates from the GPS and said, “Okay. We’re still a little more than half a mile away. We need to keep going down this main road, and in about three hundred yards, veer left into what looks like a residential neighborhood. The soccer stadium should be on the other side. Let’s move.”

  We’re almost there. If our luck holds out, we’ll be in Syria by this evening.

  * * *

  Logan and John raced through the streets in hot pursuit. Logan had no frame of reference for Haditha since neither John nor he had spent any operational time there. Street vendors and pedestrians moved away from the rushing Americans, fear and doubt visible on their faces. A young Iraqi woman shielded a small boy ahead of them on the sidewalk.

  Logan tried to crack a friendly smile as he dashed past her, but they shied away.

  They moved down the main thoroughfare of the city, but there was no sign of Cain and his men. Finally, they stopped at a large intersection with traffic moving in all directions, each driver exercising his own version of traffic rules and etiquette. Iraqis on all four corners turned and looked at them. The contempt was obvious, but Logan felt no threat. They’ve just seen too many Americans in uniform.

  “I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but this isn’t looking good. They’ve got a head start and know where they’re going. We don’t. This is turning into a wild goose chase. Hopefully, we can get a UAV or direct air support to try and pick them up again. Otherwise, brother, we’re just shooting in the dark.”

  “Just give me a second.” Logan continued to scan the streets. Come on. Give me something, anything.

  He looked back and forth across the intersection. He was about to give up when something caught his attention.

  “Bingo,” he said in a low voice. “Across the street on the far corner. Let’s go.”

  John looked and finally spotted what Logan had seen. On the far corner was a young Iraqi teenager, waving for their attention as he repeatedly pointed down the main road that continued on the other side of the intersection.

  “I’ll be damned . . .” John said.

  Both men sprinted into the street in pursuit of their prey. It’s not over yet, asshole.

  * * *

  Cain stopped again at the end of the main road, which curved away to the north. They moved into what was in fact a small suburb of densely packed homes, although the mazelike streets were not laid out in any sort of grid. The street they were on ended in an intersection 150 meters away, where it branched left and right in a Y.

  “Once we’re through these streets, we should see the soccer stadium.” Cain turned and faced the two men. Both were breathing heavily, but for Scott and Cain, who were in superb physical shape, this run was a moderate exertion. Tom, on the other hand, was breathing hard, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  Cain and Scott looked at each other and then back at Tom. “Tom, are you going to make it? We can’t slow down. You understand?” The words were casual enough, but Tom understood the threat behind them. Keep moving, Tom, or we’ll leave you behind.

  “I’ll be fine, sir. Just had to catch my breath. I can keep up.”

  Tom saw another glance exchanged between Cain and Scott, and then Cain said, “Okay, then. Let’s go.” Tom had received a brief reprieve.

  Cain and Scott turned to enter the neighborhood when crack! crack! crack! shattered the relative afternoon calm.

  Cain whirled around, assault rifle up as he searched for targets. Tom Denton lay in the middle of the street, the suitcase on the ground, blood leaking from two bullet holes in his back. Then Cain saw the shooters.

  “Three hostiles, one o’clock! Grab the suitcase!” Cain returned fire at a group of three Iraqi males pointing AK-47s in their direction. The man who’d dropped Tom was on one knee.

  As the other two men opened fire from standing positions behind him, a quick burst from Cain’s HK Commando assault rifle caught the kne
eling man in the chest. He immediately fell forward, his face striking the concrete, the AK-47 skidding across the pavement.

  His friends saw their comrade fall and shouted in Arabic. They then did something Cain hadn’t expected. They ran toward Cain and Scott, firing wildly as they moved across the street.

  Cain fired another burst; he missed but provided Scott enough time to retrieve the nuclear weapon. He watched as more Iraqis appeared from around the corner of a house, AK-47s in hand.

  Uh-oh. Now we’re outgunned.

  “Scott, we need to leave! Three more hostiles! Follow me!”

  Scott, suitcase now in his left hand, turned back and fired his HK with his right. He didn’t hit any of the men, but his fire had the intended effect—all five Iraqis dove to the street for cover. He’d bought them a few precious seconds.

  He turned and followed his boss into the once-quiet Haditha suburb.

  * * *

  The sound of gunfire echoed across the city. Haditha’s citizens stopped wherever they were to listen. Each man and woman calculated his or her distance from the battle. Those closest to the gunfight sought refuge inside their homes. Experience told the others, even those on the streets, they were far enough away to be relatively safe—at least momentarily.

  Logan and John’s reaction was slightly different. Both men looked at each other and then picked up their pace, sprinting toward the sound of automatic weapons fire.

  What the hell was going on? Logan hadn’t expected to hear a gunfight. He hadn’t expected to hear anything, for that matter. Something must’ve gone wrong. Bad for them; good for us.

  They ran on, noticing Iraqis on the sidewalk looking down a side street out of view at the next intersection. They ran to the corner and stopped, M4s at the ready, absorbing the scene in front of them.

  They were near the entrance to a neighborhood. The street they were on continued for at least 150 meters, ending in front of a row of homes where the road split in two directions. Logan saw a group of men with weapons disappear up the right branch of the road.

  Thirty meters in front of them, one man lay lifeless on the pavement, blood pooling beneath him. Two more Iraqi males knelt beside him. One of the men talked on a cell phone as he looked farther down the street.

  Logan saw another body in the middle of the street. Logan realized it had to be one of Cain’s men. He didn’t see the weapon. They’re still alive.

  “Umm, Logan. They know we’re here.”

  Logan looked back at the two Iraqis. The man on the cell phone was pointing at Logan and then back at his phone. The other man stood up, but he didn’t raise his assault rifle toward them. That’s a good thing, I think.

  “Logan, were you expecting a call?” John said incredulously. “Because these guys seem to know you.”

  Logan sensed no threat from the two Iraqis. “How’s your Arabic? Mine’s rather rusty.”

  “That’s better than mine, which is nonexistent.”

  “Well, then, this should be a short conversation.”

  Logan and John jogged over to the man on the cell phone. They nodded in greeting, and the man on the cell phone began speaking rapidly in Arabic.

  The man realized they had no idea what he was saying. He spoke again into the cell phone and then thrust it toward Logan.

  “This should be interesting,” John said.

  Logan accepted the phone, put it to his ear, and said, “This is Logan West.”

  “Logan! It’s Gunny Branch back at the crash site!” Logan was surprised to hear his voice, and his face broke into a grin of stunned disbelief as the crew chief explained the situation.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but after you left, a group of Iraqis approached the riverbank to see what happened. There was an English teacher with them. So I started talking to him and told him what was happening. Turns out he was an officer in the Republican Guard and returned here to live with his family after the war started.”

  “Gunny, get to the point. We’re running out of time.”

  “Actually, you now have more time than you thought. I had an idea. I told him that we were chasing three very dangerous men who had a weapon on them that would kill a lot of people in Haditha if they got away. I also told him you and John were on foot trying to catch them. And this is where it gets crazy—he offered to help. Turns out his brother and his cousins were also in the military. They have a sort of militia here to help preserve the safety of their neighborhood from any remaining insurgents. He called his brother, Ahmed—that’s who you’re looking at—and his brother got the gang together and started looking for Cain and his men. And obviously, they found him. They think they know where he’s going, and when I’m done talking, Ahmed will take you to go after him. They also have his cousin and a group of men on the other side of the neighborhood you’re in to keep them from squirting out.”

  “Gunny, that’s a brilliant piece of thinking. When this is over, you’ll hopefully have helped save thousands of lives. We’re going now, but before you hang up, please tell Ahmed we’re sorry for the loss of his friend. They already took one casualty helping us. Thanks, Gunny.”

  “Good luck. Get that sonofabitch.”

  “Roger. Out here.” Logan handed the phone back to Ahmed.

  Ahmed spoke into it briefly and hung up. He looked into Logan’s eyes and saw the empathy for the loss of his comrade. He scrutinized Logan and then nodded, breaking through the language barrier, as if to say, I appreciate your condolences.

  The moment passed, and Ahmed pointed down the street.

  Logan extended his left arm in the universal gesture of “lead the way.”

  Ahmed nodded again, spoke to the other armed man, and jogged down the street to where the others had disappeared.

  This is starting to break our way—finally.

  * * *

  Cain and Scott moved deeper into the labyrinth of the neighborhood. They used the narrow streets to try and put distance between themselves and their pursuers, but the convoluted layout of the area made it easy to become disoriented. Cain thought they were heading west, in the right direction, but he couldn’t be sure.

  They snuck down an alleyway between two houses. At the end, they paused, and Cain peeked around the corner. He saw a deserted street stretching in both directions. Another row of houses was on the other side of it, but he sensed a large, open area beyond.

  We have to be close.

  “Hold here. I need to check the GPS to make sure we’re where we’re supposed to be. If not, whoever that was is going to get to us before we can get the hell out of this mess.”

  “Who were those guys, anyhow? We should’ve had a clean getaway.”

  “Who knows? But it doesn’t matter.” He looked down at the Garmin device once more. They were closer than before—a little more than a quarter mile away, but they’d somehow drifted south.

  “We need to cross this street, get to the other side of those houses through that alley down there, and then turn back to the north to get to the stadium,” Cain said.

  Scott looked in the direction Cain indicated. On the other side of the street were three parked cars and an old white pickup truck. Scott guessed it was at least eighty meters away.

  “I don’t like this one bit. We’re exposed until we cross that street. If any of those guys come around a corner, we’ll be caught in the open. And who knows what’s through that alley.”

  “We don’t have a choice. We can’t go back, and the longer we stay here, the greater the chances we get killed or caught. It’s our only option.”

  Scott knew Cain was right. “Well, then, what are we waiting for? Ready when you are.”

  Cain nodded, turned around, and exited the alleyway, exposed in the waning Iraqi daylight.

  Scott quickly followed on his heels, his eyes scanning up and down the street. A dog barked in the distance. A door slammed in a nearby home. A loud metallic clang came from somewhere behind them. Scott felt eyes crawling over his skin. We’re being w
atched. We’re not going to make it.

  But just as the doubt began to blossom into something akin to panic, they were across the street and jogging between the pickup and another car. The alley—and safety—was now only ten meters away.

  Cain knelt behind the bed of the truck and looked down the alley, which was at least thirty meters long. The homes might not have appeared to be that big from a distance, but up close was a different story. They were much longer than he’d thought.

  He saw a few metal trash cans, some bottles on the ground, but nothing else. A door was positioned midway in each exterior wall of the two houses facing each other across the alley.

  The alleyway itself was empty. Through the gap at the other end of the alley, he saw more open space. We have to be close.

  “Let’s go.”

  They broke from cover and sprinted toward the passage. Cain immediately slowed to a crouching walk once they were between the buildings. He looked at Scott and raised his right finger to his lips in a “quiet” gesture.

  They could hear a television inside the home on the left. Scott thought he heard movement on the other side of the wall in the house to their right.

  They crept down the narrow opening, cautious with each step. When they reached the end, Cain once again peered around the corner of the house, looking north. Each house had a dirt backyard that was about twenty meters deep, ending in a four-foot stone wall that ran the entire length of all the properties. What he saw past the wall turned his blood cold.

  Cain immediately motioned for Scott to retreat back down the alleyway. Cain risked one last glance and then rejoined Scott.

  “The good news is that we’re almost there. The soccer stadium is just north of here, across a small field of weeds and rubble. The bad news is that there are six Iraqis with AK-47s fanning out and moving across the field toward us. They’re only a hundred meters from here. I don’t know if they’re going to come inside the neighborhood or wait us out, but they don’t look like amateurs.”