Now he was in a macabre race to see if he could reach the end of his thirty-round magazine before the van’s mud-crusted black bumper crushed his pelvis. Coleman didn’t know why emptying his magazine before dying seemed so important, only that he had the fleeting thought that a gunfighter shouldn’t die with rounds still left in his weapon. He wondered if it would hurt when the vehicle broke his body in two or whether his brain would just short-circuit on his way to oblivion.
One moment he was nose-to-nose with the radiator.
The next he was flat on his back, staring at the sky.
For an instant, he felt nothing but rage as he realized that his bolt had not locked to the rear. There were still rounds left in his magazine. Then he had another realization.
He was still alive.
“You crazy fucker,” Will said.
Coleman wasn’t sure how to respond. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. Given that the Suzuki that had been trying to turn him into a hood ornament was nose-down in the depression he’d been occupying seconds ago, friendly banter wasn’t high on his to-do list.
As if hearing his thoughts, the van’s front passenger door squeaked open.
“On the ground,” Coleman said as he clambered to his feet. “Now.”
Just to ensure that the passenger got the message, Coleman repeated his instructions in two more languages. Whether it was his way with words, the crash, or seeing the man seated next to him impaled by high-velocity rifle rounds, the passenger sank to his knees, hands in the air.
“Clear the rest of the vehicle,” Coleman said.
“On it,” Mas said.
The Delta assaulter glided forward like a panther, his rifle’s muzzle locked on the Suzuki’s rear passenger window like it was a bird dog’s nose. At just short of the window, Mas edged around and did a quick peek into the interior.
“Clear,” Mas said. “The driver and rear passenger are both KIA. No one else inside.”
“Chaos 7, this is Shock 6. Trail and rear vehicles have both been neutralized. What’s your status, over?”
Without being told, Will had slapped flex-cuffs on the survivor’s wrists and ankles before sliding a black bag over the man’s head. Mas was searching the van, rummaging through the interior.
What was his status?
The interdiction hadn’t gone as Coleman had envisioned, but his teammates were safe, they had a prisoner to interrogate, and the danger posed by the Iranian-modified shoulder-fired missiles had just been mitigated.
All things considered, Coleman’s status was pretty damn good.
“Chaos 7, this is Zeus, all threats neutralized. I’m ready for exfil, over.”
“Roger that, Zeus,” Coleman said, feeling his lips twist into a smile. “I’m on the horn with Shock 6 now. Exfil birds should be en route momentarily.”
Charlie responded with two clicks of the radio transmit button. Coleman reached for the push-to-talk on the radio that was tuned to Shock’s air-to-ground frequency.
They’d actually done it.
“I think we’ve got a problem!” Mas yelled.
Coleman turned toward the voice, his index finger hovering over the transmit button. Mas’s headed poked from the Suzuki’s open door.
He didn’t look happy.
“What kind of problem?” Coleman said.
“The kind that’s gonna ruin your day.”
CHAPTER 70
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
THOUGH it was difficult for his Persian pride to stomach, Azad Ashani believed the Islamabad Serena Hotel was perhaps the most magnificent resort in the Middle East and easily among the top five in the world. Located in the northeastern corner of Islamabad within hiking distance of Shakarparian National Park and Rawal Lake, the resort was more a destination than a simple place to spend the night. With fourteen acres of gardens, six restaurants, a full spa and heated outdoor pool, and a stunning façade influenced by Islamic architecture, it was easy to understand why the Serena was Pakistan’s only five-star hotel.
But Ashani was not here for the amenities.
The hotel’s outdoor gardens featured dozens of paths that meandered past ponds, courtyards, benches, gazebos, and countless other secluded nooks and crannies. Though the architects who designed the facility had surely not had this in mind, the pedestrian area offered multiple opportunities for a spy with much on his mind to ensure that he wasn’t being followed. But even this wasn’t the reason why Ashani found himself seated on a bench in a quiet corner of the garden with a wall of nicotine-colored stone to his back and a leafy privacy hedge to his front. He was here because the hotel was famous for housing another contingency besides vacationers.
Foreign delegations.
Ashani fished a cell phone from his pocket with trembling fingers.
The tremors had begun during his flight from Kabul and had continued intermittently for the next several hours. Though he wished otherwise, Ashani could not attribute the shaking to fear. While in a particularly morbid mood, Ashani had once forced his doctor to detail how his final days on earth would be spent. The physician had explained that Ashani would experience neurological symptoms during what the doctor had euphemistically termed the “final stage.”
Uncontrollable trembling was one of those symptoms.
After a few embarrassing mishaps, Ashani managed to extract the phone and place the device on the bench next to him.
As he stretched an index finger toward the phone icon, the tremors ceased.
The flight from Kabul to Islamabad, while short, had provided Ashani with much-needed time to think. With no faces of passersby to keep track of, no text messages to answer, and no emails to read, Ashani was able to devote the sum of his intellect to his current situation. While his body was in a state of terminal decay, Ashani’s mind was as sharp as ever and the period of intense introspection had yielded several valuable conclusions. One, until he secured a deal with the Americans, his family would remain vulnerable. Two, Rapp’s failure to meet must be an indication that the terms Ashani had previously offered were no longer lucrative enough to garner the American’s attention. To address conclusion one, Ashani was left with a singular course of action.
