Weapons of Mass Destruction by Margaret Vandenburg Read Free Book Online Page B

cold-blooded. But it was hard not to get sentimental over such a well-appointed nest. Home sweet home.
    The minute he got comfy, shit was bound to hit the fan. Murphy’s Law. A gang of insurgents appeared in the alley bisecting the block. They ran, single file, hugging garden walls for cover. Enemy fighters were perpetually in transit, wary of being trapped and mortared in buildings. Mobility was their best defense against the superior firepower of coalition forces. Sinclair dialed the elevation and zoomed in.
    “We’ve got company,” Sinclair said. He spoke calmly into his headset, to avoid disturbing his aim.
    Most of the men were wearing checkered kaffiyehs, the insurgency’s unofficial uniform. They carried AK-47s and Dragunovs, the same vintage as the ones in the weapons cache. Their destination was unmistakable, a garden shed at the far end of the block, one of a handful of locations outside Sinclair’s line of fire. Either they knew he was overhead or dumb luck was on their side. They had to sprint across an exposed driveway to get there. Sinclair squeezed the trigger. His first kill of the day.
    “Location?” Radetzky said.
    “West of Wolf’s—”
    Sinclair’s warning was cut short by the sound of rocket-propelled grenades. Insurgents had set up their launchers behind the shed. They kept trying to lace RPGs through the windows of a freestanding compound. Wolf’s men were trapped inside. Even when grenades missed the mark, random explosions blasted debris across the courtyard. The squad couldn’t risk making a run for it. Machine gun muzzles appeared in the windows. Trapp and McCarthy ducked in and out, pummeling the shed with multiple rounds. An enemy RPG hit home and torched the bedroom right next to them. Close, but no cigar. Sinclair crept around the perimeter of his rooftop, trying to improve his angle. There was no way to nail the bastards without relocating.
    Radetzky’s squad was hamstrung in a neighboring compound. If they came to the rescue, they stood a good chance of getting blown away. Enemy gunners trained their sights on every conceivable escape route. The scope of Radetzky’s strategic imagination had apparently eluded them. His men rappelled from unseen windows and stormed the shed. Most of the insurgents were picked off before they could even grab their gear. Gunners returned fire over their shoulders as they fled. One stampede of moving targets pursued the other down the smoke-filled alley.
    When they reached the adjoining street, an insurgent managed to hurl a grenade before diving under a parked car for cover. It exploded well in advance of Radetzky’s squad, but the concussion knocked a rookie off his feet. It was Sanchez, a new recruit from Tallahassee. Momentarily stationary and vulnerable, he was winged by enemy fire.
    “Call a medic!” Radetzky shouted. “Let’s get you out of here.”
    “It’s a scratch,” Sanchez yelled back. “I’m good to go.”
    Blood stained but didn’t saturate the sleeve of Sanchez’s uniform, evidence enough that he had plenty of fight left in him. The rest of the squad picked up the pace, determined to avenge his wound. But by the time they rounded the street corner, there was no one in sight.
    “Enemy combatant under the car at three o’clock,” Sinclair reported into his headset.
    “Roger that,” Radetzky said, motioning to three of his men.
    They surrounded the vehicle. The insurgent pinned underneath fired wild shots to stave them off. Seeking cover, Radetzky decided to play it safe. He summoned Percy, who didn’t even bother consulting his range finder. Positioning himself behind a nearby truck, he braced the SMAW against his shoulder and fired at almost point-blank range. The car exploded into flames. The squad exploded into laughter and applause.
    “Bull’s-eye,” Sanchez said. He felt vindicated.
    “All clear,” Sinclair said.
    The platoon reconnoitered in the alleyway. Wolf’s squad high-fived the guys responsible for