The twelve-man KWA strike force climbed back in their BMPs to catch up with the main element of Desert Hawks Brigade, but when they didn’t move out after twenty minutes, Van Wyk got on the radio with company command and found out that Ali Company had been ordered to halt here at the refinery to await further instructions. The mercenaries filed out of the vehicles again, went back into the command building, and found a shattered, ruined office with blasted-out windows on the top floor in which to wait.
The body of a man well into his fifties, perhaps even his sixties, lay in the center of the room. Blood splatter on the floor told the story. He’d been engaged from the doorway; the blood was fresh, so Court knew it was someone on the KWA team that shot him. The body wore a simple white button-down and brown slacks, he wasn’t geared up in any way as a fighter, and there was no weapon nearby.
Court couldn’t say for certain this man had been a noncombatant, and for all he knew the dead man had charged right at the men who came through the door, but Court seriously doubted it. From what he’d seen and heard of KWA, he assumed this man had just been squatting here in the building and was shot dead while unarmed by the mercenaries who encountered him.
When the team moved into the office, Saunders and Broz picked up the body in the middle of the room, dragged it over to the blasted-out window, and swung it out, letting it drop down onto the concrete below.
Court just looked away.
Van Wyk had been with the Desert Hawks leadership in the command post to find out the reasons for the delay, and now he leaned his head into the room. “Bashar and Chadli Companies are heavily engaged to the northeast. They think it’s FSA, company strength at most, but well dug into the hills. Nothing for us to do; it’s long-range engagement, snipers and mortars and RPGs. Definitely not the CQB stuff they use us for. The militia is calling the Syrian air force for assets to disrupt the enemy in the hills, but so far nothing’s available.
“We’re to wait here at battalion HQ for orders, but I don’t expect it will be long before the Hawks need us. I’ll be downstairs in the CP.”
The rest of the twelve-man team found places to sit or lie down around this ruined office. Court took off his rifle and his backpack and leaned against the wall. He was still fuming about the murder of the noncombatants, but he knew the sooner he focused his attention on his real mission here, the sooner he’d be done with these KWA assholes.
And he was well aware that being positioned here near the Hawks Brigade command post had presented him with an opportunity. Court knew he needed to find a way downstairs into the CP. There would be maps, plans, men discussing the tactical needs of this security operation, and, somewhere in all that intelligence, Court was hopeful he’d find some information about Ahmed Azzam’s rumored trip to Palmyra.
Sure, Court was embedded with one militia unit that, from what he had been told, had been positioned at the outer edge of the security ring around Palmyra. It was too much to hope for that that tactical operations center for the Desert Hawks Brigade was going to have all the plans for the entire operation laid out for him to see, but he didn’t necessarily need to know everything.
He was looking for a definite time and an exact place, and he would love to know as much as he could about the security setup for the president during his visit.
He had no illusions that he’d learn everything he needed to know. Still, he’d take whatever he could get and he’d make the most of it, but first he needed a way to get into the TOC.
Court had been thinking this over for several minutes, lost in his thoughts, when he looked up and saw Broz leaning back on his backpack, sitting on the floor by the wall and staring at him from across the room.
Court looked away, but the Croatian mercenary said, “What’s your problem, Kilo Nine?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Court answered.
Saunders was sitting nearer to the window. He said, “Don’t worry about him, Broz. The new bloke will come through when the fight is on.”
“Yeah? Sounds like he wants to do an interview with every son of a bitch in every firefight before deciding whether they get a bullet. Is this asshole going to have my back when he sees some lady pull out a pistol on my six? I don’t trust him.”
Court turned back to the Croatian. “So you don’t trust the guy who doesn’t shoot innocent kids? Are all you guys that twisted?”
Saunders gave Court an “eat shit” look, while some of the others mumbled curses Court’s way. But Broz was the one who stood up from his position. He left his M4 rifle on the floor where he’d been sitting, but he walked over to Court.
Court stood up and faced him.
Broz said, “You’re a little better than the rest of us, aren’t you, Wade?”
“I didn’t come here thinking that, but you guys aren’t impressing me much with your actions.”
Broz stuck a finger in Court’s face. “Bastards who look just like those three we shot downstairs wear S-vests all the time!”
“Which three? You mean the boy and the two ladies? I didn’t see any S-vests on them.”
“I’ve lost men to women and kids before. You might not have to worry about that in Toronto or wherever the fuck you come from, but you’re in the real world out here in the desert.”
“So . . . what? You just shoot everybody you see to be sure?”
Broz said, “That would suit me. God’ll sort ’em out. Seriously . . . why are you here?”
Court said, “Maybe God sent me to sort you out.”
Court and Broz went for each other simultaneously, locking up and falling to the floor. Court rolled on top of the bigger man, pinning him by his chest, but as Court brought his fist back to deliver a punch to the man’s face, the Croatian shifted his weight onto his right hip, shoved his right elbow inside Court’s knee, and bridged his body up, thrusting hard to the right.
Court knew judo, he knew the move Broz was trying to execute, and he knew how to counter it. He made to slide his left leg away from his body to stabilize himself so he couldn’t get thrown, but as he moved his foot he realized Broz had brought his own left leg over his own body, then hooked it down around Court’s foot, trapping his leg tight.
Court’s weight was on his knees, not back at his feet where he could fight Broz’s new leverage, so the Croatian easily flipped Court off to the side, and Court slammed down onto his back.
Broz didn’t hesitate to exploit his advantage; he rolled onto Court, pinning his shoulders to the dusty concrete floor. He head-butted Court, using his helmet in an attempt to break the pinned man’s nose, but Court’s helmet blocked the brunt of the strike, so the Croatian changed tactics, sitting up to get enough distance to rain punches down on Court’s face with his hard-knuckled combat gloves. But as Broz postured up, Court realized the danger he was in, so he moved with the man above him, shot his arms around Broz’s body armor, and grabbed his own wrists behind the man’s back. He pulled Broz back down close to him. Here Court used his right leg to trap Broz’s left, used his right arm to overhook Broz’s left shoulder, and clamped in tight, so when he pushed off the man wouldn’t be able to catch himself with his left hand on the floor. Court exploded hard up with his left foot and let go of his grip behind Broz’s back, sending the two-hundred-pound man and all his gear rolling to his left, where he slammed onto his back.
Court rolled on top of Broz’s torso, pancaking his shoulders to the floor.
He felt Broz reach for something with his left hand down at his waist, so Court himself used his left hand to reach for his own boot.
Broz brought a fixed-blade knife from its scabbard and pressed its tip under Court’s body armor at his right hip. Simultaneously, Court thumbed the button on his switchblade, springing the four-inch blade like a bullet.
Just as the Croatian began putting pressure on the knife at Court’s hip, Court brought the razor-sharp edge of his switchblade up and against Broz’s carotid artery.
Both men froze in this position.
“I’ll gut you!” Broz said.