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The former SEAL was pinned down in a wrecked office near the center of the building. The bottom four feet of the enclosure was constructed from plywood, with windows above, running a full three hundred sixty degrees. The ceiling was low—probably no more than seven feet, with a few damaged acoustic tiles hanging lower.
Whoever Coleman was fighting had managed to stay out of Rapp’s line of sight. Based on the former SEAL’s movements, Rapp’s best guess was it was one man, that he was fast as hell, and that he’d taken cover along the east wall.
A shot rang out from the street below and Rapp glanced around the edge of his scope to make sure it wasn’t anything he needed to worry about.
The sound of gunfire in the warehouse had sent the people on the crowded road into disarray. A few cops and soldiers had arrived on the scene and one had fired into the air in an effort to get the evacuation of the area under control. Predictably, it had the opposite effect.
When Rapp returned to his optics, he eased the rifle a little farther left, focusing on the same massive industrial machine that Coleman was locked onto. One edge of it was obscured and he assumed that the shooter had slipped behind it there. If he reappeared on the south side, Rapp would be able to line up on him. If he tried to come out on the north side, Coleman would have a clear shot.
“Mitch, I’ve got two tangos leaving through the back of the building,” Maslick said over his earpiece. “Both are on foot and not carrying anything other than a small backpack.”
“Copy that,” Rapp said, scanning the mast of a crane that rose up behind the machine. “Hold your position. Don’t follow.”
“Affirmative.”
Maslick’s chopper was hovering just off the south side of the building and wasn’t getting too much negative attention yet. The Pakistanis would assume that the Russian-built Mil Mi-17 was being operated by the military, but the illusion wouldn’t last. When they couldn’t raise it on the radio, the local commanders would figure out that it wasn’t one of theirs. Hopefully, the backstabbing dysfunction the local armed forces were known for would delay that epiphany a few more minutes.
Rapp kept exploring the crane mast through his scope, finally coming to its junction with a steel track that ran the length of the ceiling from north to south. He felt a dull surge of adrenaline when he saw that it passed directly over the office at a height of about twenty feet.
“Scott!” Rapp said into his throat mike.
It was possible that Coleman had been forced to remove the helmet to improve his field of view and that the radio was still functional. If that was the case, he might still be able to hear a transmission.
“Scott! Do you copy?”
No reaction.
Coleman was one of the best soldiers he’d ever worked with but he had a tendency toward two-dimensional thinking. In a way, it was the result of his training. Even in spec ops, the U.S. military was a little too focused on there being a right way and a wrong way for a battle to develop.
Rapp’s mentor, Stan Hurley, had been a hell of a lot looser. He’d stressed creativity and improvisation over learned knowledge. One of his many mantras fit this situation perfectly: If everyone else is thinking right and left, you fucking well better be thinking up and down.
Hurley’s premonition became a reality a moment later when Rapp saw a flash of dark gray near the top of the machine. His finger tensed on the trigger but he had no shot.
“Look up,” he muttered, but Coleman’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead.
The figure moved quickly along the gridwork that made up the crane’s mast, staying behind the heavy steel and as deep in the shadows as possible. Whoever this prick was, he was talented. Beyond climbing the vertical surface faster than most people could run up a set of stairs, he maintained a weaving path that kept him obscured from as many angles as possible.
It took only a few seconds for him to reach the horizontal track and slip behind it. Rapp kept his scope locked on, but that section of rail was solid. He could see occasional flashes of sleeve and pants leg at the bottom but nothing that he could score any damage hitting.
The man’s plan of attack was obvious at this point. He’d simply get above the office and drop. It was around twenty feet to the ground, but hitting and breaking through the ceiling would absorb some of the impact. As strategies went, this one was incredibly risky. He could hit the edge of the desk, the roof could hold, or he could get hung up on his way through. Despite those unknowns, it was the best option and likely the one Rapp himself would have chosen. The element of surprise was everything against an opponent as formidable as Scott Coleman.
Rapp resisted the overwhelming urge to go over the side of the building and run for the warehouse. His gut was screaming at him to get into this fight but his head told him that it was impossible. By the time he pushed his way across the street and into that building, it would all be over.
Rapp reluctantly adjusted his scope to focus on the area above the office. This tango wasn’t going to give him a shot while he was climbing but there was no way he could avoid exposing himself forever. He’d have to make the drop, and in that split second, he’d be vulnerable.
Rapp controlled his breathing, willing his heart to beat slower and relaxing his shoulders. He’d have only one chance at this.
Movement at the edge of his scope surprised him and he tried to adjust his aim as the man swung from beneath the crane well to the left of the office below. He let go and came in at an angle instead of dropping straight down. Again, Rapp’s finger tensed on the rifle’s trigger, but the unexpected move reduced his chance of a hit to near zero. In all likelihood all he would do is give his presence away to both the tango and the soldiers gathering on the street.
The figure arced through the air, firing a rapid series of shots into the roof below. He came down hard and the addition of sideways momentum made the impact even more dangerous. Despite the complexity of the landing, he handled it with what could almost be called grace, disappearing through the roof in a dense cloud of dust and debris that made it impossible for Rapp to pick out a target.
The haze was immediately lit up by the flash of shots being fired but there was no way to know who was doing the shooting or if they were hitting anything.
“Come on, Scott,” Rapp muttered, feeling the rage building over his inability to help his friend. “Get him up. Get him up where I can see him.”
• • •
Scott Coleman’s initial instinct was to drop at the sound of the shots, but then he registered that they were coming from above. Instead he threw an arm protectively over his head and crouched, firing upward in a wide pattern.
