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“He just told me. I have no—”
“Shut up and listen to me.” Rapp gave the top one more shove and it broke free. “This is your fault. You recruited these scumbags, and you were dumb enough to think you could trust them.” Rapp grabbed the top and lugged it back into the hallway. “You are going to get on the fucking phone, and you are going to call every last one of them, and you are going to tell them that I’m going to place a million-dollar bounty on every one of their fucking heads, and I’m going to be the one collecting it.”
Rapp tossed the heavy top up against the doorframe and leaned against it. He drew his weapon again, feeling a lot better about his position, but not so good about Sickles, who was yammering about how he didn’t understand any of this. That it simply didn’t make sense. With more important things to do than listen to Sickles’ senseless speculation, Rapp yelled, “Darren, I don’t give a shit what you think! Just get on the damn phone and make it clear to these assholes that I’m going to hunt them down and kill them.” Rapp was tempted to tell Sickles that he was going to kill him as well, but it was likely to be an extremely counterproductive threat, so he bit his tongue and hung up.
Rapp knew what their next move would be, and it likely wouldn’t take long. The U.S. had outfitted the Afghan Police with takedown gear that included battering rams, breaching shotguns, ribbon charges, and bulletproof riot shields. It was the bulletproof riot shields that worried Rapp the most. All a thoughtful commander needed to do was grab a couple of shields and do the old Roman tortoise. The first man in the line would hold the shield directly in front of him and the second man would hold the shield above them, protecting them from the men on the roof. They’d rush the front door with one or two lines of men. If that happened, Rapp knew they would overpower him and his little 9mm pistol in a matter of seconds. The thought of dying like that got Rapp thinking, and he yelled down the hall, “Scott?”
Coleman shoved a big metal exam table against his pile and turned to look at Rapp. “What?”
“You come across any oxygen tanks?”
“Yeah.” Coleman didn’t have to be told what to do. He ducked into one of the rooms and came out with two green tanks. He dragged them down the hall by the necks and dropped them at Rapp’s feet.
Rapp kept his eyes and his pistol on the door and asked, “Any more?”
“Yeah.”
“Put ’em in front of your pile down there and get your ass up on the roof.”
Coleman shook his head. “You get up on the roof. I’ve got this handled.”
“Stop wasting time. Drop the tanks down there and get moving. They’re probably running low on ammunition.”
Coleman reluctantly dropped two more tanks by the side door and then stopped to offer Rapp Reavers’s M-4 rifle.
“Nope . . . no need for that down here. This is all close quarters. Get your ass up on the roof and buy us some time.” Coleman started to leave, but Rapp grabbed him by the arm. “What did Mike say?”
“He said he’ll get some shooters here as soon as is humanly possible.”
“Call him back and tell him we’ll take anything. Get a Little Bird to give us an ammo drop and maybe a SAW or two.” Rapp glanced back at the front door. “Maybe some grenades, too.”
“I’m on it.” Coleman had his phone out and was calling Nash again. “Call if you need help.”
Rapp knew he’d be making no such call. He’d hold them off as long as he could and then, if he was still alive, he’d limp his way up to the roof. What a shitty way to die, Rapp thought to himself. All of the close calls he’d had and it was going to come down to being killed by men who were supposed to be his allies. He heard Stan Hurley’s gruff voice telling him to suck it up. Now was not the time to think about death unless it was the other guy’s mortality that you were focused on. Hurley was fond of saying that no matter how bad things got there was always a way out. Rapp clung to that idea, as there was an ebb in the volume of shots being fired—just a pop here and there instead of the sustained blister of rounds smacking into the building.
Unfortunately, Rapp knew what that really meant. It was too soon for Nash or Sickles to have been able to call off the dogs, so it was more likely that someone in a command position with half a brain had showed up and was now getting the men ready for an organized assault. Rapp holstered his gun and dragged the two oxygen tanks into the lobby. He stopped about six feet short of the front door, laid the tanks on their sides, and then drew his gun. Lest they think no one was guarding the front door, he slid along the wall until he had an angle to shoot from. He squeezed off two shots and then two more and ducked back into the lobby. He was pretty certain the first two shots had hit one man, but the second two had bounced harmlessly off a clear Plexiglas riot shield. Rapp went back to his position in the hallway with the foreboding feeling that this might be one situation he wasn’t going to be able to get out of.
CHAPTER 18
GOULD popped the hatch and had to will himself onto the flat roof. Somewhere out there, he feared, a sniper was still lurking. He rolled onto his side, the M-4 cradled protectively in both hands, and then crawled his way to the parapet of the roof. There was a two-foot stone parapet that provided sufficient cover. He carefully brought his head above the lip and scanned the buildings across the street. With no shooters in sight, he got up on his right knee and brought the butt of the rifle up to his right shoulder. Gould swung the muzzle over the edge of the roof, sweeping it from left to right with both eyes open, the big square EOTech aperture bringing his targets clearly into view.
The spotter in civilian clothes was standing behind one of the police trucks with his cell phone held to his left ear.
“There you are, you little prick,” the assassin said with a smile creasing his lips. Gould placed the red dot right over the cell phone, let loose an even exhalation, and then casually squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped a quarter inch, but Gould never lost sight of the target. The heavy bullet shattered the cell phone and then exploded through the man’s head, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter in a mini mushroom cloud onto the men and street just past him.
Three police officers were left standing in shock, gaping at the man who had just been urging them into action, and then three seconds after that they were all lying on the street dead. Gould worked his targets methodically, keeping the rifle in single-shot mode. It took the police approximately ten seconds to realize there was a new threat on the roof, but it had cost them dearly. Seven officers had been dispatched. Gould was about to swing his rifle around so he could go to work on the cops at the other end of the street when the air around him exploded with the sharp snaps of bullets. He dropped flat behind the lip as bullets began to thump into the stone like a jackhammer. It took a second to sink in, but Gould realized that his position had been discovered and that the men at the other end of street had something more to bring to the fight than the relatively light M-4 rifle. Since everything they had was provided by the Americans it was likely that it was the heavier-caliber M249 Squad Automatic Weapon or SAW. The machine gun fired the heavier 5.56x45mm NATO round and was effective out to one thousand yards. Gould guessed that they were firing from no farther than one hundred yards.
The machine gun continued to rake the edge of the roof, raining down shards of stone on Gould. For the moment all Gould could do was take cover beneath the edge of the roof and try to move to a different position. On his own, this was pure suicide. Gould began to wonder why he was sticking around. He had done his job and warned Rapp. True, the act had not been entirely selfless, as it had gotten him out of his own hot corner, but now he was in an even less desirable situation.
He glanced across the roof, wondering what lay on the other side. He couldn’t tell if there was a small gap between the two buildings or if they shared a wall. Worst case, he’d have to jump a gap. He could then scurry across that
roof and find access to the street. The police would be so focused on this gunfight that he was sure to go unnoticed. Gould made up his mind. He’d done enough, and martyrdom really didn’t suit him, so better to bolt before another hundred cops showed up and brought this building down around them.
It was time to save his own ass, so without further internal debate Gould rolled onto his stomach and began to crawl toward the far side. He was halfway across when one of Rapp’s men popped out of the hatch and asked, “Where you going?”
Gould ignored the question and said, “They’re raking the parapet with machine-gun fire.”
The man nodded, looked over at the parapet and asked, “Which direction is it coming from?”
