Oath of Office

Ding shook his head. “Missing. Dom counted five guys, probably Taliban, but possibly ISIS. They hit the van with a sticky from the back of a motorcycle. Our guys were on the way to a safe house. Dom says Ryan was ambulatory when he was taken.”

Clark looked across the room at Adara. She couldn’t hear the content of the whispered conversation, but the frown on her face said she knew it was about her boyfriend. To her credit, she stood her post beside da Rocha.

“And Dom’s injuries?” Clark said.

“Sounds bad,” Chavez said. “Third-degree burns, broken ribs, ruptured eardrum. An Afghan pistachio farmer found him wandering on the side of the road a couple of hours ago and took him to the NATO base outside Herat. It only has a small hospital, so they’re arranging transport to Ramstein.”

Clark closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. “Get all the information you can. It’s a shitty deal, but I need to let someone know about the possibility of nuclear missiles in Iran. When I’m done with that, I have to get word to the President that his son has been kidnapped.”

49

Jack caught Dovzhenko’s eye, glancing quickly at the two Afghans who stood over him. The Russian gave a slight, he hoped imperceptible, nod. Both men had been around the block enough to know they’d need to make a move soon or not at all. In his bravado, Omar had released them from their bonds so they could eat. Jack’s bloody face and the entire group’s generally hammered look certainly made it seem like five guys with rifles were plenty to tamp back any aggressive action. They would be tied again when the meal was over. Jack was certain of that.

There was a chance there were more guards in the house, but no one had been summoned during the meal or the procedure to reattach Ryan’s ear. Men like Omar were big summoners, calling servants for this or that to help them feel important. He clearly got few visitors, and this was the rare opportunity for him to put on a show for the foreign devils. Jack felt reasonably sure they were looking at the whole cadre.

The five visible guards were posted around the low table, surely hungry themselves and grumbling inside about why the prisoners got to eat at all, let alone first. Jack could see the two nearest Dovzhenko as well as one on the far side of Omar and Ysabel. The Russian had eyes on the two behind Jack.

Jack gave Ysabel another nod. She blinked and then extended three fingers. She folded one, then the second — a count down. As she folded the third finger, she began to gag. She fell to the side, clutching her throat with one hand while she pulled the hem of her skirt up with the other, exposing her calf and then her thigh.

Every man there looked down, entrapped for an instant by their accidental exposure to Ysabel’s smooth olive flesh. Ryan spun, throwing his shoulder into the knee of the guard nearest him. Ligaments tore and the leg gave way, bringing the man and his Kalashnikov down. Ryan snatched the rifle, still attached to the wounded man by a sling around his neck, and flicked the lever down one notch south of safe to full auto, firing as he rolled. Three rounds slammed into the remaining guard who towered above him, dropping the man before he could bring up his own rifle. The first man attempted to pull away now. Ryan adjusted fire, turning the muzzle of the gun inward, shattering the man’s shinbone with two rounds. The guard yowled in pain, grabbing at what was left of his leg. Ryan swatted the arm out of the way and pulled the sling over the screaming man’s head. More shots popped over his shoulder. He hoped they were being fired by Dovzhenko. Ryan turned in time to see a third guard bringing a rifle up to aim at his chest. Dovzhenko put a single round in the side of the man’s head.

The last guard down, both men turned to find Ysabel had jumped on top of a writhing Omar Khan. She stabbed him over and over in the neck and face with a greasy lamb shank, screaming and sobbing with each thudding blow. Like most meat in the Middle East, the lamb carcass had been hacked into portions with an ax, leaving a jagged bone that provided a sloppy if serviceable weapon.

Strings of black blood flew through the night air each time Ysabel drew back the lamb shank, spattering her face and chest. Omar ceased to struggle, eyes locked open, but Ysabel continued her assault until Jack reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s me,” he said. “We got them. We’re good.”

Ryan felt his own legs begin to buckle. He took Ysabel by the shoulders and helped her off a lifeless Omar, and the two of them slumped to the cushions together. Rifle bullets at close range tended to rupture skulls like melons. Limbs were left hanging on by thin pieces of tissue, if at all. The carpets and cushions were soaked in blood and gore. Jack tried to cover Ysabel’s eyes, but she pulled away.

“It is much too late for that,” she said.

Two more shots popped from inside the house. The Russian came out a moment later carrying a rifle.