at him for a moment before nodding.
“Good.” He helped her sit up, her back against a tree, facing the direction from which they had just come. “If you see anyone other than Mick come down that trail, you shoot them. Do you understand?”
When she nodded again, he double-checked to make sure a round was chambered, handed the weapon to her, and took off for the road.
The shooting from the fifty cal was coming in short bursts with long pauses in between. It sounded like the gunner was trying to conserve ammo, or was having some sort of trouble. Whether it was a mechanical issue, or he couldn’t pinpoint his targets, Harvath didn’t care. He planned on using the pauses to his advantage.
At the end of the path, he looked out toward the road and saw it—an improvised fighting vehicle, more commonly referred to as a “technical.” This one was a shitty, camouflage-green pickup truck with a .50-caliber mounted in the bed and spare fuel cans on the tailgate. Two other rebels stood in back with the gunner and there were two more in the cab. They were parked in about the same spot LC1 had been when the rebels had originally stopped them.
The gunner let loose with another barrage of fire and Harvath could immediately see why they were stationary and not advancing on the Land Cruisers.
At this range, their weapon was not only highly accurate and deadly, but it put them outside the reach of anything Ash and his men could unleash back in their direction. It was a very one-sided fight. Harvath intended to change that.
Crouching down, he made ready. As soon as they began firing again, he sprang and ran toward the road.
There were few things in life where “close enough” could be deemed a success. One was horseshoes. Another was hand grenades. Pulling the pin, Harvath sent his in a high, soaring arc. He would have been happy to have had it land anywhere near the truck. This one, though, was perfect and landed right in the bed.
It landed with a clank and then failed to detonate. This time, Harvath didn’t just think the word that rhymed with truck, he said it.
All three rebels standing in the bed turned in unison, two of them with AK-47s in their hands. The first thing they noticed was Harvath standing in the middle of the road. They then looked down at their feet and saw the grenade. That was when it finally detonated.
The entire truck, along with its rebel occupants and cases of ammunition, exploded in a massive fireball.
Pieces and parts were sent in every direction. Before some of themhad even landed, Harvath could hear Ash and the Brute Squad cheering over the radio.
As the rain sizzled on the flaming wreckage, Harvath ran back into the jungle for Decker. Mick was already there with her. Only three remaining rebels had come down the path, and he had killed them.
He offered to accompany Harvath back to the encampment to see if there were any more, but Harvath waved him off. They had killed everyone who had seen the truck and the name of the organization. There was no point in pushing their luck any further. The best course of action would be to put distance between them and what had happened. Lots of it.
Helping Decker to her feet, Harvath slung the AK over his shoulder and walked with her back to the road. Mick followed, keeping an eye on their six, just to make sure no one snuck up on them from behind.
When the time was right, Harvath was going to have it out with Decker. But right now, he just wanted to get in the Land Cruiser and get going. They were all exhausted and soaked to the bone. He would have given a month’s salary for a hot shower, a few bottles of beer, and a bed.
But those modest luxuries were still hours away. And hours could feel like a lifetime in a place like Congo, especially when the most dangerous part of the assignment was still in front of them.
CHAPTER 8
----
G ENEVA , S WITZERLAND
P ierre Damien sat on the terrace of his luxury Quai du Mont-Blanc apartment and took in the view.
“Good.” He helped her sit up, her back against a tree, facing the direction from which they had just come. “If you see anyone other than Mick come down that trail, you shoot them. Do you understand?”
When she nodded again, he double-checked to make sure a round was chambered, handed the weapon to her, and took off for the road.
The shooting from the fifty cal was coming in short bursts with long pauses in between. It sounded like the gunner was trying to conserve ammo, or was having some sort of trouble. Whether it was a mechanical issue, or he couldn’t pinpoint his targets, Harvath didn’t care. He planned on using the pauses to his advantage.
At the end of the path, he looked out toward the road and saw it—an improvised fighting vehicle, more commonly referred to as a “technical.” This one was a shitty, camouflage-green pickup truck with a .50-caliber mounted in the bed and spare fuel cans on the tailgate. Two other rebels stood in back with the gunner and there were two more in the cab. They were parked in about the same spot LC1 had been when the rebels had originally stopped them.
The gunner let loose with another barrage of fire and Harvath could immediately see why they were stationary and not advancing on the Land Cruisers.
At this range, their weapon was not only highly accurate and deadly, but it put them outside the reach of anything Ash and his men could unleash back in their direction. It was a very one-sided fight. Harvath intended to change that.
Crouching down, he made ready. As soon as they began firing again, he sprang and ran toward the road.
There were few things in life where “close enough” could be deemed a success. One was horseshoes. Another was hand grenades. Pulling the pin, Harvath sent his in a high, soaring arc. He would have been happy to have had it land anywhere near the truck. This one, though, was perfect and landed right in the bed.
It landed with a clank and then failed to detonate. This time, Harvath didn’t just think the word that rhymed with truck, he said it.
All three rebels standing in the bed turned in unison, two of them with AK-47s in their hands. The first thing they noticed was Harvath standing in the middle of the road. They then looked down at their feet and saw the grenade. That was when it finally detonated.
The entire truck, along with its rebel occupants and cases of ammunition, exploded in a massive fireball.
Pieces and parts were sent in every direction. Before some of themhad even landed, Harvath could hear Ash and the Brute Squad cheering over the radio.
As the rain sizzled on the flaming wreckage, Harvath ran back into the jungle for Decker. Mick was already there with her. Only three remaining rebels had come down the path, and he had killed them.
He offered to accompany Harvath back to the encampment to see if there were any more, but Harvath waved him off. They had killed everyone who had seen the truck and the name of the organization. There was no point in pushing their luck any further. The best course of action would be to put distance between them and what had happened. Lots of it.
Helping Decker to her feet, Harvath slung the AK over his shoulder and walked with her back to the road. Mick followed, keeping an eye on their six, just to make sure no one snuck up on them from behind.
When the time was right, Harvath was going to have it out with Decker. But right now, he just wanted to get in the Land Cruiser and get going. They were all exhausted and soaked to the bone. He would have given a month’s salary for a hot shower, a few bottles of beer, and a bed.
But those modest luxuries were still hours away. And hours could feel like a lifetime in a place like Congo, especially when the most dangerous part of the assignment was still in front of them.
CHAPTER 8
----
G ENEVA , S WITZERLAND
P ierre Damien sat on the terrace of his luxury Quai du Mont-Blanc apartment and took in the view.
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