Part 4 (1/2)

Just before the Boyds entered the sorting room via the luggage ramp, the Operations Captain, a man named Ahmed, keyed his earpiece, calling his Field Commander. A voice immediately boomed through his headset, startling the otherwise stoic killer.

”Do you see them?” asked Ahmed's superior.

”No sir, but Karakura and his team are tracking them down as we speak.”

”Karakura?” Asked the other man.

”Ha.s.sim, sir.”

”Ah yes, Ha.s.sim. Very good then, Ahmed,” said the man on the other end. ”Call me back as soon as you have what we need. Is that understood?”

Ahmed Hajjar, also known as Viper to the others within his mercenary team, hated dealing with his field commander, an American. He knew little about the pig, except his callsign, Wolf. He also believed that like most American's he had dealt with in the past, Wolf had no respect for him or his fellow team members, which is why he was called by his first name and not by his operations name. But, Ahmed also knew how dangerous the man was and that he was not to be toyed with. There were rumors he was in the United States Special Forces at one point, but he wasn't sure if those stories held any water, or if they were fabricated as a scare tactic.

”Yes sir, not a problem. You'll be the first to know.”

The call ended and Ahmed cursed the man's existence. Hopefully, this job would be over...quickly. He would hate to see what Wolf did to the men who failed him. If the stories were true about the man having an affinity for using less-than-humane interrogation practices... Ahmed shook the thought from his head. He really didn't want to find out.

He keyed his mic again, ”Karakura, have you found them?”

There was a momentary pause over the air waves and Ahmed heard what sounded like the pounding of boots and heavy labored breaths coming from the other end. Then the man called, Karakura, named after a Turkish demon, answered breathing heavily, ”Viper...we are heading for the sorting room...we think...they may have ducked inside...trying to escape.”

”Do not let them elude us, is that understood?” Ahmed said with a little bit of a bite at the end. He would not go back to Wolf with bad news.

”We won't,” Ha.s.sim confidently answered. ”They are unarmed and scared. We will find them.”

Ahmed liked the certainty in the man's voice-not a hint of doubt.

He signed off, bringing his attention back to his own whereabouts. He stood over the body of an airport security guard. The man had been shot twice in the chest by one of Ahmed's men and was lying up against the mangled ATM he was trying to use for cover. He stepped over a bloodied body seeing that the victim was a civilian and not a member of the opposing force. The man had tried to grab some of the money being spewed by the machine, Ahmed remembered. Fool.

A groan sounded from behind the machine, alerting Ahmed. He strode to the other side of and found the voice's owner behind an overturned table, lying in a pool of blood and Dinar. He looked down at the pathetic man, watching his life drain away little-by-little.

Feeling a small amount of pity for the man, Ahmed turned away to let him die in peace, he had no qualm with him, it was just business. As he rounded the ATM he saw the dying security officer had raised a pistol towards him, pain etched on the guard's face at the effort of holding the weapon steady while slowly bleeding out from his wounds.

Ahmed kicked the weapon from the man's hand then drew his own sidearm, aiming it. Without even blinking, Ahmed, the Viper, pulled the trigger. A .45 caliber bullet drove through the security guard's forehead, splattering pieces of brain matter and fragments of skull on the hard floor beneath the man's head, killing him instantly.

The a.s.sa.s.sin holstered his gun and turned, leaving the carnage through the gaping hole in the wall he had only just a few minutes earlier blown open.

10.

With nine iron in hand, I lead us off the belt system and down to ground level where travel will be much faster. My goal is to skirt around the men trying to kill us and get Dad and me to safety. The golf clubs are a contingency plan just in case we have to fight back, even though I pray we won't have to. I can't imagine a scenario where a set of Ping's can out do a bullet.

”Stay low and follow me,” I whisper. ”Oh, and try to keep up, I'm not slowing down.”

Dad looks terrified, like he's about to mess up his shorts and I can't blame him. I'm not doing much better, but I'm holding it together better because quite frankly, I have to.

We tip-toe behind some heavy machinery-what looks like a ma.s.sive instrument panel or control station of some kind. I hold my hand up telling Dad to wait' and flip open a cover. It's the main power breaker for this section of conveyers. I also notice that it has a set of manual override switches. Like in Jura.s.sic Park, I think. Then I get an idea.

”Diversion,” I say to myself ”Diversion?” Dad asks, hearing me.

”I'm going to throw the override switch for this section. Everything will turn on and draw our friends over. While they come this way to check it out, we will circle around the other way and do our best to avoid them. All we need to do is find a safe route out to the tarmac and signal for help.” I look over for agreement, ”Sound like a plan?”

Dad shrugs, ”I don't like it, but it's better than anything I can come up with.”

”Good,” I say. ”Let's tee it up and stay out of the rough.”

”Are you about done with the golf jokes?” Dad retorts.

”Almost,” I reply. ”I've got a few more in the bunker for later.”

Dad rubs his forehead like he's warding off a migraine, ”Any more of this and I'm going to beg to be shot and taken out of my misery.”

I'm about to comment but I get cut off.

”Dammit, just flick the switch already will you?” Dad growls.

I give him a toothy smile and activate the manual override system, flipping on the red switch. This quarter of the room blinks to life with a cacophony of lights and sounds. The overhead conveyer belts whirl to life, as do the large fluorescent ballasts hanging from the metal utilitarian ceiling.

Shouts from across the room spur us into action as we duck around a corner into an unlit section of the room and wait. The only problem with my plan is exactly what I hoped didn't happen. I hear the shooters agree on a plan of their own.

”Split up and stay quiet. They are unarmed. If they don't come willingly, shoot him in the leg and we will drag him out.”

d.a.m.n, I think.

”What of the son?” Another asks.

I get the answer that makes me almost pee myself.

”Kill him. We only need the old man.”

Double d.a.m.n.

There's a tap on my shoulder that awakens me from my stupor.

”Now what?” Dad asks in a hushed tone.

I try to think, but nothing new comes to mind, ”Same plan but this time if we run into anyone swing away and don't miss.”

I'm surprised when he says nothing, but nods in agreement, gripping his club handle tighter. He knows the stakes as well as I do. If we don't succeed, I'm dead and he's in a whole heap of trouble.

I jab a thumb over my shoulder and we set off-away from the newly awoken machines. We zigzag our way through without following a certain path. The only constant is that we are moving toward the facilities outer doors and away from the gunmen.