Page 3 of Down and Dirty

“Uh, problem here. Passenger. Need harness.”

“Whaaat? A prisoner?”

“Not exactly. A little boy.”

Sammy made a snorting sound, still trying to be the little man.

“No way! Ya cain’t take any unauthorized person outta the country, cher.” Cage slipped into his Southern Cajun dialect when he was nervous, as he had every right to be now.

“Bull!”

Cage sighed. “Who is it?”

Zach hesitated, but then said, “My son.”

There was silence on the line after that. Zach didn’t know if they’d been cut off or if Cage and the guys were stunned speechless. Probably a bit of both. Master Chief Sylvester “Sly” Simms was no doubt on the Motorola in the chopper right now, relaying all this info to CENTCOM. He would bet his Budweiser, the Navy SEAL trident pin, that there would be a band of MPs awaiting him when they landed at Kabul. On the other hand, Sly was a good man… a friend. Maybe he would let Zach do his own communicating on this issue.

“I have to put a gag in your mouth, Sammy. No, don’t give me any more lip. I can’t take the chance that you’ll shout or give my location away. I’ll remove it as soon as we’re on the copter.”

“Copter? We’re goin’ on a helicopter?” The kid’s eyes went wide, then immediately reverted to their usual surly cast. “I ain’t leavin’ here.”

“Wanna bet?” Zach gagged Sammy with a handkerchief and lifted him over the shoulder of his nonshooting arm, though he could actually shoot just as well from either hand. The kid squirmed and grunted stuff under his gag, but Zach had a firm hold. He waited at the entrance of the cave, his heart pumping so loud it felt as if it might lunge out of his chest. But then he heard the thwap, thwap, thwap of the Blackhawk’s propellers, followed by Cage’s cue, three short bird calls. “We’ve only got two minutes to get out of here and in the copter, kid. So work with me, huh?”

With those words, he dashed for the hanging rope and harness about thirty feet away. Out of his side vision, he saw Cage and Luke “Slick” Avenil off on either side of him and Sly in a crouch, rifle raised near the rappelling rope, ducking and firing at the tangos coming in on all three sides. Zach and these three guys had suffered through Class 500 of BUD/S training together seven years ago; a SEAL might change teams or squads as ordered, but he always identified with his class number. The members were bonded for life.

The terrorists, still a considerable distance away, were firing at the copter and the other guys, not him, because presumably they saw that he was carrying the boy and had orders not to aim for him for fear of collateral damage… collateral in this case meaning Arsallah’s grandkid. At one point, a bullet zinged a rock near Slick’s foot. With a curse, Slick did a ninja-style roll, landing on his feet. Cage was crab running toward the helo, urging him to hurry. “Go, go, go!”

Zach strapped a terrified Sammy into the harness and wrapped himself around him on the rope, which was already being raised up to the copter. Meanwhile, Cage, Sly, and Slick were shooting off rapid rounds. Just before they started ascending the rope, each of them lobbed a grenade in three different directions. The helo took off by the time the explosions hit. Sly had a thigh wound that would need care as soon as they landed, and Cage’s palms appeared raw from rappelling down the rope. He must have forgotten his gloves, or else the action had worn through the Kevlar. Other than that, they were in good shape.

They all sat on bench seats, breathing heavily, adrenaline almost popping out of their pores. Sammy sat on Zach’s lap, too stunned to protest… yet. Finally, when their heart rates were down to about a hundred beats a minute, each looked at the other, grinned, then said as one, “Hoo-yah!”

Zach took off Sammy’s gag but not his hand and wrist restraints. Immediately, the brat launched into a tirade that involved fuck, shit, ass, snot, piss, bastard, hell, damn, cock, prick, and dick in a dozen combinations, both in English and his native tongue.

The guys continued to grin.

“Are you going to introduce us?” Sly asked.

“This is Samir Abdul Hassim Floyd. My son.” Zach exhaled on a loud whoosh. “You can call him Sammy. Or the Snot.”

“You sure ’bout that, cher? I mean, that he’s yer son?” Cage was only looking out for his best interests, but Sammy didn’t see it that way and let loose with another volley of expletives.

Ignoring him, Zach said, “Pretty sure.”

“I already wired ahead to a nurse I know. She’ll do DNA tests for you right away so at least you’ll have that defense.” Slick knew more ways to avoid the law than a corporate lawyer.

Zach nodded.

“You do realize you’re in trouble from so many angles you’re gonna look like a target riddled with bullet holes by the time they’re done with you.” This was Sly’s astute opinion.

He nodded again. “For the past two years, I’ve been miserable, mooning over Britta,” he told them. Britta was the one woman who hadn’t succumbed to his charms — and, yeah, he had plenty — and in the dead of the night, she was the one he fantasized about. “But, man, I sure wish I was back there with her right now.”

Cage laughed. “Nah! You’d just be tradin’ one misery fer another.”

“I suppose so.” Zach sighed and glanced down at his personal, present-day misery.

His misery stuck his tongue out at him.

NORTHUMBRIA, 1015 AD