CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
“There is a guard,” Albert said, handing James the vintage field glasses, from another time, another war.
He focused in, the guard coming into view, an AK47 snugged in the crook of his arm. He scanned past the guard, taking in the entire perimeter, then the slope of the wall at the mine, then back to the entrance.
Albert had been certain there were four of them at the farmhouse. That meant that three more were inside. And Kris and Valentine were somewhere in there with them.
He crouched low, hidden by the cover of low branches and scrub. He glanced along the ridge of the hillside that was in fact the mine itself. Albert had spoken about a fallen tree that had collapsed through the roof and then grown inside the entrance.
He stood and felt the hand on his shoulder. He nodded to Albert then silently slipped through the cover of oak and pine, working his way toward the entrance of the mine, then slipped behind a boulder and waited. Eventually the guard came into view, making his sweep around the front of the mine.
James took in everything, it was second nature after too many missions—the guard's height, approximate weight,anything else strapped to his body, the flak jacket, the way he moved then shifted the weapon.
God chooses us. Did he believe it? Did he believe in anything?
It slipped out of the box and moved along every nerve ending, the way it had from the beginning, that first sight of dark, shoulder-length hair with red burning through it, the way she had looked at him, the stubbornness...
They would kill her. He knew that, and it would be easy to just leave the bodies there in the mine where no one would ever find them.
It swept back over him. The sound of automatic weapons’ fire, the smoke, taking him back as the adrenaline pumped.
Eric on his right, Case behind him, three out in front, Mikey screaming over the handset, yelling coordinates as everything exploded around them; then Eric was down, shadows swarming at them through the smoke and fire, the handset on the ground...He tried to grab it, but his arm was numb at his side, pain tearing through his shoulder; somewhere overhead the drone of a helicopter; he saw Case go down, the blood, then it was over...
'Captain Morgan? Can you hear me? Hold on, Captain!
Then a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back, holding on, someone who knew, who understood...
“Let it go, my friend,” Albert said gently.
James took a deep breath, then another. Albert held out a hand to him. He nodded in understanding.
“It is always there,” the old man said. “The dark beast, the things we have seen and done, that comes in the night, but it will not take us. We cannot let it take us. There are still things we must do.”
In Albert's face he saw himself—the things that both had seen and done; different wars, decades apart, the same. The woundswere the same, carried inside. But there were things that had to be done.
“Merci, my friend,” he told him.
He slowed his breathing. His heart rate followed. Everything around him slowed—the next step the guard took, a step closer, then another, one more step, and then turned back toward the entrance.
Any gunfire would alert those inside. He couldn't risk it. He pulled items from his pocket that he'd purchased—two pull-cords for a chain saw, knotted together, with a handle at each end.
He slipped out from behind the tree cover and closed the distance to the quarry entrance. He waited, then as the guard approached then turned back, he stepped from behind a large boulder. In one quick motion, the cord was around the guard's neck and he pulled it taut.
There was that instinctive struggle, the guard kicking out as he fought the cord on his neck. The automatic rifle fell into the snow as the guard clawed at the cord with both hands. He tightened it. The guard kicked out once more, then ceased to struggle. He slowly eased him to the ground.
“You said there were four,” he whispered as Albert came up behind him. The old man nodded.
James handed him the automatic rifle, then checked the guard and pulled the 9mm from the guard's shoulder holster. The clip was full, the 9mm better at close range and in tight places.
Albert nodded. “Four.”
That meant three more were inside, including Faridani, and the woman Albert was certain had been with them. Alyia Malik.
He remembered that brief introduction, the paintings she was preparing for a show at the London gallery—War and Aftermath.
“Come,” Albert said, cradling his shotgun and the automatic rifle in one arm with surprising agility.
