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The night of the mission was cool and clear. The quarter moon shone bright against a field of fiery stars.
The Stealth-equipped Black Hawk crossed the Qarami border unobserved. When it reached the agreed-upon landing zone, the men of STUD One, dressed in black and with black balaclavas over their heads and faces, made a quick exit to the desert floor.
They set out at a jog meant to get them where they were going without any effort. The only sound that stirred the silence was the soft crunch of booted feet on sand.
They reached the ruins of the ancient fort. It took a minute to locate the mouth of the old tunnel. Once they’d cleared away some debris, the entry was accessible.
The narrow tunnel, carved out of the earth and lined with stone centuries before, was wet and clammy with age. The men crawled through. Arms and legs got scraped. Clothing got snagged. But breathing was the real problem. There was air, but it stank of dead creatures, of damp, of men whose purpose in being there was lost in the fog of time.
Still, nobody bitched. Bitching wasn’t in the STUD code. Besides, the tunnel led straight to the basement, exactly as the old sketch had shown. As for entry into the basement… That was anybody’s guess. Was it through a door? A door with a lock? Worst case scenario: Had the opening been bricked over? They had explosives with them, but the last thing they wanted was even a muffled bang.
Romano switched on a small LED flashlight.
Yes. There was a door. It opened inward. He pushed against it. He could feel the wood start to give. Time and moisture had done the job. Two more hard shoves and it gave way.
They were in.
There wasn’t much light, but there was enough. Slimy water on the stone floor indicated that the area hadn’t been used in a long time. The stink was almost as bad as in the tunnel.
And things scuttled away from their feet.
“Rats,” Spanos whispered.
Romano, who had a thing about rodents, whispered back that they weren’t rats, they were beetles.
“Beetles wearing size thirteen shoes,” Sullivan whispered.
Soft chuckles. Hey, laughter was good, especially in tough situations.
For the next few minutes, it was textbook simple. Locate the service stairs. Done. Move quietly up those stairs to the first floor, hold for a three-count, then climb to the second floor. Done. Go down the corridor soundlessly. Done. Move slowly down the hall, weapons at the ready. Stop at the end where the corridor did a right turn that would lead to Uncle Shit’s private chambers.
Dec held up his hand.
Everybody flattened themselves back against the wall.
He stepped out. Took a fast look.
As expected, there was an armed guard at the door.
Dec moved.
The guard saw him, but only at the last second. His hand went to his holster…
Too late.
Dec’s knife was an efficient, silent dispenser of death.
He caught the guard as he fell, eased him to the floor. Waved his guys forward. A quick nod at Olivieri, who reached for the doorknob. Dec and the others trained their HK MP7s on the door itself.
The knob turned. The door opened.
They were in an elaborate sitting room. Nobody there. Just silence. Wait. What was that? The sound of an impatient voice.
Quick hand signals. Romano dragged the guard’s body inside and soundlessly shut the door. Dec pointed at him. Romano nodded. He would stay by the door. The others moved through the sitting room. Into a short hallway. Saw a half-open door ahead.
The bedroom.
