A Cold Day In Mosul (31 page)

Ethan found himself lying stunned on the balcony, near the minaret edge. His ears rang. Groggily, he lifted his head. William, Doug and Sam were sprawled beside him in various states of consciousness. Above them, he saw a blast pattern in the upper wall, vaguely reminiscent of a rocket strike.

Militants and Russians stormed the balcony and disarmed the stunned operatives. They even took away the concealed Glock that was strapped to Ethan's right ankle, along with his radio.

A towering Russian stepped onto the balcony. The feature that Ethan noticed first about him were those chilling, yet strikingly bold blue eyes. Jet-black hair, graying at the temples, framed that blocky face. A beak-like nose resided between his thin lips and fierce brows. He held himself with the confidence and swagger of a commander.

The Siberian Laika, no doubt.

He ignored the others and stared right at Sam with those vibrant blue eyes; she was only then lifting her head.

"Dmitri," she muttered.

"So we meet again, my old enemy," the Laika returned in Russian-accented English.

Sam pushed herself up onto her elbows. "How did you find Al Taaraz?" she said weakly.

The Laika glanced at the fighter beside him, who wore a black balaclava under his cap. The militant removed the cap and ski mask in one smooth motion, revealing his face.

"Ah, so you're the mole," Sam said tiredly.

thirty-three

E
than wasn't entirely surprised by who he saw.

Othunan shrugged. "Why do you think I've stayed alive this long?" He replaced his cap, hiding the ugly, cross-shaped scar branded into his forehead. He pulled the sides low to cover his missing ears. "My country has passed through the hands of five invaders over the past fifteen years. What am I supposed to do? In a country of malleable leaders, one has to form malleable alliances. I align myself with whoever will benefit me the most at any given time."

"But we paid your group very well to help us capture Al Taaraz," Sam said flatly.

"And the Russians paid me very well to get him back." Othunan smiled. "You see how that works? He with no ears gets the earrings!"

The Siberian Laika didn't look pleased with Othunan. Ethan had the distinct impression the Russian hadn't known the resistance leader had helped them kidnap Al Taaraz; the big man shot Othunan a dark look that promised violence later.

"But you helped us escape execution," Sam pressed.

"Wasn't me," Othunan said quickly, apparently well aware of the Laika's angry gaze. "Another resistance cell decided to help you."

"Enough," the Laika told the man.

Othunan clamped down on his tongue.

"I promised you the three men," the Laika continued, sweeping his hand over the male operatives. "Kill them, then. But do so quickly. It is not wise to toy with operatives such as these."

The Laika hefted Sam to her feet.

"Let me die with my men," Sam told him.

"Death at the hands of the common rabble is not for you," the Russian said. "You are mine, Widow. But first"—he grabbed her cheeks with a big hand and forcibly turned her face toward Ethan—"you will watch your men die."

The regret that shone in her eyes was heartbreaking. Ethan wouldn't have wished her fate on anyone. To watch the men under your command executed at point-blank range, men who were more than brothers to you... what a terrible thing to endure.

Othunan turned his Kalashnikov on Ethan. Unlike the other militants, who carried only AK-47s, Othunan held an AK-12 like the Russian. He flipped the ambidextrous fire selector with a twist of the thumb, sliding it all the way forward into the full automatic position. "Good bye, not-so-intelligent agents."

"Wait," Ethan said.

Othunan cocked an eyebrow.

"I die on my feet," Ethan said.

Othunan leered, and Ethan thought he was going to fire anyway, but incredibly the man showed a modicum of human decency and gestured for him to rise.

Ethan scrambled drunkenly upright, using the remains of the balcony railing to support himself. The other militants kept their AKs trained on him the whole time.

"I'm ready," Ethan said. He wasn't, really, but he was all out of ideas. If he tried to wrest the rifle away from the closest militant, the others would mow him down in an instant. There simply was no escape.

He knew every mission he took on was a risk. There was always a chance of returning home in a body bag. Unfortunately, his time had finally come.

He had no regrets. He wouldn't allow himself to have them.

"No!" Sam tore free of the Russian and struck Othunan. She shoved the AK-12 skyward and he sprayed bullets into the air.

Ethan leaped into action in the confusion that followed; he plowed into the closest militant, using the man as a human shield when some of the others opened fire.

But before he could do anything more, the airstrikes came.

Ethan heard the keening only a split-second before impact. The air flashed orange above him. His lungs rattled for a microsecond, as did his brain case. The entire world seemed to move, and he blacked out.

Ethan came to seconds later. The air was thick with black dust. A constant, high-pitched ringing filled his hearing, far worse than the aftermath of the earlier rocket strike. The lower half of his body was covered in dislodged bricks. He shoved them away drunkenly, rising on spongy feet. His right leg suddenly throbbed in pain; a long gash had been torn down his thigh, through the cargo pants. The wound wasn't bleeding too badly, so he knew it wasn't deep. Still, the gash stung like hell with all that dust digging into it. At least nothing seemed to be broken, as far as he could tell.

He called out for Sam, but his voice sounded extremely muffled. The ceaseless ringing didn't help matters. It was as if someone had constructed a dog whistle for humans and was blowing it nonstop.

He remembered Sam typing away at her laptop earlier. She had called in the airstrikes, of course. Though somehow he doubted she had planned for the bombs to hit so close. Then again, maybe that was precisely her intention.

As the dust cleared further, he realized the left portion of the minaret where he had been standing had collapsed, and he'd fallen into the imam's alcove on the second floor.

His first thought was to get back up there and render whatever assistance he could to the other operatives, who were likely still fighting their captors.

The spiral staircase wasn't too far to his left. He started toward it through the clearing dust, but then movement drew his gaze to the right. A figure in an abaya was clawing its way out of the bricks.

Sam.

Ethan hauled her from the debris. He tried to help her stand, but her left foot wouldn't take the weight.

"Broken," she said. Her voice sounded distant.

Damn this ringing.

He started to help her toward the stairwell but then spotted more motion to his right: near where Sam had been buried, another figure emerged.

The Siberian Laika. He held a long, black Voron-3 blade.

Ethan set down Sam and positioned himself between the Russian and her.

The Laika bore his teeth in a rictus and tentatively approached, stepping clear of the debris.

Ethan crouched, assuming a defensive posture as his opponent made a few probing feints. Ethan kept his arms raised, ready to block any incoming blows, but his foe never followed through with the attacks. The Russian seemed to be appraising Ethan.

All at once the Laika charged, thrusting with the knife from the underhand position.

Ethan stepped forward, leading with his forearm. He intended to chop his wrist into his opponent's knife arm, while grabbing the elbow with the other hand. But the Russian's attack was another feint—the Laika shifted the blade in midstrike, aiming directly for Ethan's exposed forearm.

Ethan twisted, collapsing his entire frame like water, allowing the blade to flow past. The knife glanced his forearm, cutting a shallow gash. He struck out with his right foot, tripping the man.

The move unbalanced Ethan and he followed the Russian to the floor. The Laika landed face down, and Ethan attempted to pin him.

His foe immediately abandoned the knife and used both hands to right his body. With his back pressing into the floor, the Russian kicked, shoving Ethan backward.

Ethan attempted to close the distance, but those legs whipped out again, wrapping around Ethan's chest and holding him at bay. The man began to squeeze, a move that, if left unchecked, would rob Ethan of precious oxygen in a time when he needed it most. He was in the Russian's "guard." His first priority was to escape it.

Ethan reached for his opponent's biceps to initiate the escape but the Laika was already attempting a collar chokehold. Ethan swatted aside the Russian's arms three times and then managed to grab his biceps, but before he could perform the escape the Laika exploded to the side, using his weight to flip Ethan onto his back. In the blink of an eye he was on top of Ethan, in the mount position.

Pinned with his back to the floor, Ethan instinctively extended his arms, wrapping his hands around his opponent's throat and keeping the Laika at a distance. The words of his Gracie Jiu Jitsu instructor echoed through his head:

Whoever controls the distance, controls the fight.

Ethan began to squeeze.

The Laika placed his corded arms inside Ethan's and thrust outward, breaking his hold. The Russian abruptly leaned forward, slamming his upper body into Ethan's face and holding that position. The man's dusty jacket smothered him.

Unable to breathe, Ethan immediately attempted the escape, hooking one foot over his opponent's ankle and flicking his waist upward, but the Russian proved too heavy. Ethan was about to try again when the man abruptly sat back.

Ethan realized the Laika had no intention of dispatching him in that manner: the Russian had used the move merely as a diversion to retrieve his knife.

Ethan exploded his hips upward, rolling onto his left shoulder. He almost broke free but his opponent struck downward with the knife, forcing Ethan to counter—he grabbed his opponent's wrist with both hands and swung it far to the left, so that the man's unsupported upper body crashed into Ethan's. Their heads slammed together, and Ethan momentarily saw stars.

He was about to try the escape again when he felt a sharp pain above his eye: the Russian was sinking his teeth into Ethan's face. The upper incisors dug into his right eyebrow, the lower incisors pierced the area just above his eye socket.

Ethan gritted his teeth at the excruciating pain. Almost as bad was the blood flowing into his sclera—that secondary, stinging agony forced him to close the eyelid, blinding his right eye.

Ethan, wishing only to get the man off his face in that moment, momentarily released his hold on the Russian's knife hand and violently shoved upward. The man tore away—probably bringing a part of Ethan's face with him—and plunged the Voron down with both hands.

Ethan narrowly seized his foe's wrists and halted the blade an inch above his throat. He could have easily missed that grab, given his sudden lack of depth perception.

Both he and the Russian grunted as they fought for control of the blade. The guttural noises they made sounded distant, as if belonging to other fighters in the room.

The Russian put the weight of his entire upper body behind that knife, and the tip of the black steel slowly sunk downward.

Ethan exerted all his strength to counter him and managed to halt the seemingly inexorable descent. His hands shook from the effort. He had no strength left to try any other escapes. He was focusing all of his being on keeping that blade at bay.

Ethan could feel the cords in his neck strain against his collar, and the tendons in his forearms press into his sleeves. His arms burned everywhere from the exertion—fingers, forearms, shoulders, though the worst pain was reserved for his triceps, which were on fire. He managed to hold the stalemate for a total of three seconds. It seemed an eternity.

And then the blade jerked downward.

Ethan barely stopped the knife again. He felt the cold steel kiss the skin above his jugular notch repeatedly as his hands shook more violently than ever. Rivulets of blood joined the perspiration on his neck.

The Laika wore an expression of victory.

thirty-four

E
than felt his strength ebbing. He knew the Laika had won. In seconds that knife would plunge straight through his windpipe.

The moment before his muscles failed him entirely, a white brick crashed into his opponent's head.

The Russian's resistance vanished and Ethan's hands shot upward, slamming the hilt into the man's chest. Ethan slid to the side as the Laika collapsed. He shoved the Russian's hands in the opposite direction, not wanting the blade to impale him.

When the limp body landed, Ethan pushed the Laika off him and spotted his rescuer.

It was Sam, of course. She lurked behind the Russian—she'd hauled herself forward with her hands, dragging her injured left leg along behind her. She held her torso upright with both arms.

"About time you decided to help," Ethan said above the ringing in his ears.

In answer, Sam collected the knife from the stunned Russian and plunged the blade into the man's back.

The Laika howled. He spun around, knocking Sam's hands out from under her. Her upper body slammed into the floor.

Ethan started toward her, intending to help, but she said, rather crossly: "I got this."

The Laika hauled himself on top of her. He squeezed one hand around Sam's neck. With the other he reached behind his back for the embedded Voron.

Sam groped frantically to one side, searching for the brick she'd dropped earlier. Her fingertips brushed the edge but the white block proved just out of range. There was no other rubble nearby.

The Russian wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the Voron in his back and he pulled, grunting loudly. Crimson fluid spurted forth as the blade tore free.