“And then you’ll bleed out right where you lay!”
Court turned his head to the sound of movement and saw Saunders leaping up to his feet from where he had been sitting and watching the fight. He charged over, reaching for his pistol on his leg as he moved. Court kept his left hand, and his knife’s blade, right where it was against Broz’s neck, but he untucked his right arm from its clutch around Broz’s head and fired it down to his right hip, over the knife jabbing into his lower back. In less time than Saunders could make two bounding steps towards the fight, Court drew his SIG pistol, whipped it around and over his body, and pointed it at Saunders at a range of ten feet.
The Englishman stopped, raised his hands, and froze in place.
And then Van Wyk stepped back into the room. “What the holy fuck is going on in here?”
Both Broz and Gentry breathed heavily, but neither man moved their edged weapons from their lethal positions. Van Wyk shouted, “Knock it off! Wade! Broz!”
Still neither man moved. Court thought Broz was a psychopathic murderer; he wasn’t about to relax his guard as long as the man had a knife pressing against him.
Van Wyk realized this was a tense situation that had to be untangled the right way. The team leader said, “All right. First . . . Saunders, turn away and walk back over to your kit. Do it slowly, and Wade won’t shoot you. That’s right, isn’t it, Kilo Nine?”
“That’s right,” Court said through labored breath, his pistol still aimed at the Brit’s face.
Saunders lowered his hands, turned slowly away, and returned to where he was sitting.
“Right. Pistol down, Wade. Slide it over to me.”
Court did as instructed but kept the switchblade tight against Broz’s neck.
Van Wyk next said, “Brunetti?”
The Argentine sat on his backpack near the window. “Yeah, boss?”
“You got a dog in this fight?”
“No, boss.”
“Good. Raise your weapon. Shoot the first man who doesn’t do as I tell them.”
The man with the broken nose reached for his AK leaning against the wall. He leveled it at the two men lying together on the floor across the room, then flipped off the safety lever. “Okay.”
Van Wyk said, “On three you will both lower your weapons, unravel, and go back to your kit. One . . . two . . . Brunetti, you good?”
“Yes, boss.”
“And three.”
Court retracted his switchblade with a snap, and Broz dropped his knife to the floor next to him with an audible clang. Both men climbed to their knees without looking at each other, and then stood.
Seconds later their knives were restowed, Van Wyk kicked Court’s pistol back to him, and the men sat down on opposite sides of the room.
The South African team leader said, “That doesn’t happen again or I start killing men for the good of the mission. Now, I came up here to give you a sit rep. Companies Bashar and Chadli are moving into the northern hills; they’ve broken up the opposition lines there. Battalion command can’t get any SAA air online to attack the FSA while they’re on the move, so they are trying to reach out to the Russians.
“Either way, we’ll be heading due east in fifteen mikes, bypassing the hills and staying on the highway. There is a town we have to take by dusk to get us into position for tonight.”
Saunders asked, “What’s tonight?”
Court noticed that Van Wyk glanced his way before saying, “Looks like a raid is in the works. That’s all I know.”
The team leader left the room, but Court climbed to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and followed along into the hall to the stairs there.
“Sir?”
The South African turned around at the top of the stairs. “Don’t call me sir. It’s boss, Van Wyk, or ‘hey, mate.’”
“Right, boss. Look, sorry about that back there.”
Van Wyk put a gloved finger in Court’s face. “I’ve got enough to deal with. Don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t.”
“Klossner told me you were good but didn’t have a lot of experience on the dark side. You’ll learn . . . not to love it, but you’ll learn to do it.”
This guy was as lost as the rest of these cutthroat killers, Court could see. He changed the subject. “You said they were trying to get Russian air to the hills?”
“That’s right.”
“I speak Russian, if they need someone in the operations center.”
Van Wyk seemed surprised by this but said, “SAA has Russians embedded with them, but the Hawks don’t. If the Hawks want Russian air, they’ve had to go through the army.”
“Maybe I can raise them on the radio directly.”
“Come with me,” Van Wyk ordered.
Court went back to collect his gear, then followed Van Wyk without a look or a word to the other men.
CHAPTER 60
After traveling from Damascus up to the interior of the nation, Court finally found himself about twenty-five feet away from where he really wanted to be. This was progress, yes, but he also found it frustrating as hell.
He’d been led into the Desert Hawks battalion command post on the second floor of the refinery control building, but he’d been moved along a wall and taken to a communications station at a long table in the corner. He stood there with Van Wyk and a few Desert Hawks captains and majors, but twenty-five feet off his right shoulder was an open and damaged doorway to another part of the command center, and right inside this room was a detailed map lying flat on a large table. The map appeared to Court to be the size of a twin bed, and militia officers moved around it, talking to one another and on handheld radios.
He was certain the map held the secrets for whatever this security operation was all about, and if, in fact, an Azzam visit to Palmyra was the reason behind the operation, then Court knew he needed to find his way into that room.
Court stole glances over to the table every chance he got, but from his position he couldn’t make out a single feature of the map.
He had been standing here waiting for the radioman seated in front of him to dial in the Russian Air Force frequency that would put him directly in touch with Russian forces. It was weird, he had to admit. He was about to request that the Russians send air support to attack retreating Free Syrian Army forces. The thought made him feel nauseous, but he was in cover, and he’d seen no other way to finagle an invitation down into this room, where he knew he might be able to find the answers he was looking for.
Court was in this mission all the way now. He’d do what he had to do to get the intel for the FSA that could target Azzam personally.
Finally Van Wyk gave Court a long list of instructions relayed from the Syrian officers standing around the radio table, who themselves were in radio contact with the two companies pursuing the enemy forces to the north. When Court had everything written down, he took the radio and actuated the microphone. “Calling Russian air assets on this frequency. This is Desert Hawks Brigade battalion tactical operations center.” Court gave the code name of the Hawks unit commander, as instructed by the Syrian officers standing around.
“Send your traffic, Hawks Brigade,” came the terse reply in Russian.
Court was working off a map in front of him, although it wasn’t the map he wanted to see. On the table where the radio was set up was a laminated map with grease pencil notations, showing this command position in the refinery, the highway to the north, and the hills farther north where the FSA were running from the two regime militia companies. Court glanced at the map and said, “We have enemy in the open, fleeing to the northeast. Request any air assets in the area to prosecute. How copy?”
There was a long wait before any reply, and when it came, it was a different Russian voice.
“Who is broadcasting on this network?” the Russian asked.
Court replied, “I’m a contracted PMC officer for the Desert Hawks Brigade.” Court repeated the code words for the unit commander.
There was a pause. “You’re not an Arab.”