So many aircraft orbited overhead that I had to strain to hear the radio transmission over my earpiece—Cancer speaking in his usual pissed-off tone.
“Can’t believe the one fuck we were sent here for in the first place was the only bad guy to survive.”
Keying my radio, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
Worthy replied, “Commander didn’t tell you?”
“The GFC hasn’t told me shit,” I said. So far he’d been too occupied with running communications—to his troop sergeant major via his own radio, to his command via the unit radio operator, and to the aircraft by way of the Air Force combat controller— and even if that weren’t the case, he didn’t seem interested in my team beyond knowing we were all within the formation prior to leaving.
Worthy’s response caught me off guard. “Usman is in the formation—they took him captive. He’s walking out with the hostages.”
My gut response to the news was revulsion. The man had decapitated an American citizen on camera, then distributed the footage along with his demands. If there was one person Delta should have shot in the face at the first available opportunity, it was him.
But there was a plus side to having him alive, and I pointed it out on my return transmission.
“At least they’ll be able to interrogate him. It’s not like we had the manpower to pull off a snatch operation on our own, or the legality.”
Reilly pointed out, “That didn’t stop us in China.”
“The exception that proves the rule,” I said. “My guess is the Agency interrogators will convince Usman to renounce his wayward path. Who knows, maybe he’ll provide some good intel.”
“I hate to break this to you,” Ian broke in, sounding irritated, “but Usman’s captivity is going to be short-lived, and in the meantime, he’s going to be eating filet mignon under the capitol building in Abuja.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Do the math. Six oil execs were captured, and only five of them survived until the rescue. Delta just freed four, along with three mystery women—I have my theories as to who they are—which leaves at least one hostage in the breeze. And if you think he’s dead, think again.”
Threading my way between the thorny bushes on either side of me, I said, “Why don’t you spare us the dissertation and get to the fucking point.”
“You want the point? Here it is: the US will transfer custody of Usman to the Nigerians.”
“No way,” I said, crouching and pushing a vine away from my face as I cleared a low swath of tree cover.
“Think about it. America just launched a knee-jerk hostage rescue to the tune of a hundred million dollars, and one of the execs is still missing. You think they won’t give up Usman in a heartbeat to get him back?”
Cancer pointed out, “America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Ian was undeterred.
“No, America doesn’t publicly negotiate with terrorists. They’ll work through proxies all day, though, and in this case let Nigeria do it for them. Nobody knows that better than Usman himself.”
“Bullshit,” Cancer said.
“Think I’m wrong? Suicide, ask the GFC how they rolled up Usman alive. Want me to spoil the surprise? He hid out with the hostages, and surrendered unarmed.”
I hesitated for a moment, then keyed my mic and said, “Stand by.”
Closing the distance with the Delta commander, I tried to ask what had happened, but the combat controller spoke first. “Sir, Warlock has eyes-on six armed men skirting a field eight hundred meters to our northwest. Well outside minimum safe distance.”
“Legal?” the commander asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Hit them.”
The combat controller’s tone went from conversational to clinical as he transmitted, “Warlock Three Two, this is Anarchy Two Seven. GFC assesses imminent threat to friendly forces; you are clear to engage PAX in the open, request two-by Hellfire and clean up with 30 mike-mike, send battle damage assessment when able.”
I couldn’t hear the aircrew’s radio response, but the outcome was clear enough. The distant screech of two missiles was followed by their near-simultaneous explosions and then the low, rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of a 30-millimeter chain gun firing.
“Roger all,” the combat controller transmitted, then, to the commander, said, “Six EKIA.”
The GFC relayed the development over his own command frequency, and I waited for him to finish before asking, “How’d you guys manage to roll up Usman?”
Seeming inconvenienced by my interruption, he answered, “Usman surrendered, unarmed.”
“So?”
“So,” the commander continued impatiently, “he was with the witnesses—er, hostages.”
I knew what he meant. These guys could have smoked him under any number of perceived-threat justifications—maybe he had a suicide vest, for example—but not in front of seven civilians who could report a questionable kill, potentially to the media.
Falling back to my previous interval, I transmitted to my team.
“Angel, you’re right.”
“I know I am,” Ian shot back, “and here’s another thing no one is considering. The missing hostage we know about isn’t the only one. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been women on the objective.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because of the number three.”
Before I could ask him for clarification, we’d reached the clearing, and the lead elements in the formation began fanning out to secure it for exfil. I’d barely arrived at the edge of the field when I heard the first Marine Osprey thundering in to land. The long fuselage was suspended between stubby wings whose tilt rotor assemblies were angled upward, the shadowy discs chopping the air as the bird spun in place and touched down with its ramp facing us.
I could make out a field surgical team in the open cabin, prepared to treat the hostages and any casualties from the assault force. My view of the men aboard was obscured by the first contingent of Delta operators crossing in front of me, escorting the hostages to the aircraft. It was my first clear look at them the entire mission, four men and three women shuffling forward beside a corresponding shooter clasping them by the arm.
At the end of the row was an eighth passenger, this one with his hands bound behind his back, a soldier on either side of him. Usman passed within a few feet of me, his expression clear in my night vision—the smug bastard looked completely at ease, walking casually, as if his escorts were personal aides.