Читать книгу Promise To Defend - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Monrovia, Liberia

David McCarter navigated the van through the throngs of soldiers, bystanders and journalists gathered two blocks from the American embassy.

The van bore the symbol of a humanitarian organization, an effort by Phoenix Force to disguise its approach. If his opponents were smart enough to seize a well-guarded embassy, McCarter figured they also were smart enough to station observers among the crowds gathered outside the perimeter. Wheeling the panel van to the curb, he brought it within thirty yards of a rug store that had been evacuated and converted into a command center. The embassy lay straight ahead, its top floors visible over the security fence. At least one terrorist was visible from the rooftop, watching the approaching vehicle through a pair of binoculars.

“Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” asked Gary Manning, who was riding shotgun.

“Hope the bastard gets a good look,” McCarter said. “Pretty soon, one of us is going to be the last thing he sees.”

Shifting the van into park, McCarter and Manning disembarked. Motion in a second-story window caught the Briton’s attention. Glancing up, he saw a figure fill the embassy window, watching his every movement. Two more sentries, brandishing AK-47s, faces swathed in brightly colored scarves, also were visible through the bars of the security fence surrounding the embassy compound. The brazenness didn’t surprise McCarter. He knew the terrorists assumed they’d be safe so long as they had hostages. Their threat had been clear: for every terrorist harmed, two hostages die.

He averted his gaze and proceeded to the back of the panel van.

As he moved, he took in the burned-out or bullet-pocked buildings, leftovers from a civil war that lasted nearly a decade and killed hundreds of thousands of Liberians. Rounding the rear of the van, he saw the other three members of Phoenix Force—Calvin James, Rafael Encizo and T. J. Hawkins—disembarking, carrying with them coolers and insulated boxes used for transporting food. Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi had remained at a nearby airfield, ready to provide air support, if necessary.

McCarter grabbed one of the boxes, lifted it. He felt a hand clap him on the shoulder as he came to his full height.

“’Bout time you decided to join the working people,” Hawkins drawled.

“I’ll be happy to do just that, mate,” McCarter said. “If I ever find them.”

Laughing, Hawkins hefted a cooler and started to walk away from the van.

A pair of U.S. Marines stepped into their path, their M-4 rifles held in easy reach. McCarter and his crew had already been through two other checkpoints, and the Briton was starting to lose his patience with all the security hoops being forced upon him.

“Halt and identify,” the first Marine ordered.

McCarter set his cooler at his feet. Fingering an ID card bearing his picture and fake credentials suspended by a small chain around his neck, McCarter held it up for the soldier to inspect. “Rick Cornett,” he said, using an alias supplied by Stony Man Farm. “Your man should have alerted you to my arrival.”

The soldier studied the ID for another moment. He nodded over his shoulder. “Mr. Colvin’s expecting you. He’ll see you immediately. I’ll show you inside.”

“Bloody decent of him,” McCarter growled.

Stepping inside the shop, the Phoenix Force warriors stripped away their white coveralls, revealing black combat suits. Opening the coolers and insulated food bags, they emptied their contents—weapons and equipment—onto the floor, each man arranging his gear in a neat pile. Five Marines donned the coveralls and hats. In about five minutes, they’d load up in the van and leave, their faces hopefully obscured by the hats and the coming dusk.

McCarter and the others readied their weapons. The Briton heard footsteps moving in clipped cadence approaching from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a slender man, about five feet eight inches, his white hair trimmed close to his pinkish skin and flat on top, moving toward them. He halted about ten feet away and scrutinized each member of Phoenix Force with a hard gaze, saving McCarter for last. Scowling, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the Phoenix Force leader.

“So you’re the hot-shit commandos the White House made us wait for,” he said. “God, give me strength.”

“He just did, mate,” McCarter said, “in spades. You got a name?”

“Colvin. Steve Colvin.”

“You’re State Department?”

Colvin nodded. “Diplomatic Security Service. And you’re Justice Department.”

“Rick Cornett,” McCarter said, using his alias. He didn’t bother to introduce the other men. He didn’t plan to start a long-term relationship with Colvin.

“You with the FBI? Hostage Rescue Team maybe?”

“No.”

“Delta Force?”

“No.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

His cheeks reddening, Colvin glowered at McCarter for a stretched second. Despite his rising impatience, the Briton didn’t avert his own gaze. Colvin reached into his breast pocket, extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes and tapped one into his palm. Replacing the pack, he lit the smoke with a disposable lighter, inhaled deeply and gestured with a nod at the space behind him.

“All right, Cornett,” the State Department man said, “why don’t you drag your Limey butt over here and I’ll brief you.”

He turned and headed toward a table topped with a pair of laptops and three satellite telephones.

McCarter glanced at Manning, who grinned. “‘Limey butt?’” Manning asked. “Not very diplomatic for the State Department, eh?”

“He’s sizing me up,” McCarter said. “It obviously hurts his professional pride a little to have Washington send in outsiders to handle this mission. Probably wants to see whether we’re up for the job.”

“Think we passed his test?”

“I couldn’t care less,” McCarter said.

Manning shot him a grin and they fell into step behind the State Department man, following him to a makeshift briefing area set up in the rear of the store. A table topped by laptops, architect’s drawings and scattered papers sat in the middle of the converted storeroom. Three technicians, two women and a man, all dressed in civilian clothes, were positioned around the table, working at computers.

“Lynn,” Colvin said, “show us the layout.”

A thirtysomething brunette nodded. She tapped a few keys and moments later an architect’s drawing of the embassy filled the screen. McCarter noted several X’s situated at various points on the image. A small laser pointer in his grip, Colvin rested the device’s red dot on a large rectangular room.

“This is the first-floor lobby,” he said. “According to early security camera images, there were at least eight shooters in this area. Unfortunately the latter information is dated. Within thirty minutes of taking the embassy, they’d shut down the surveillance feeds to our satellites. Doing so creates a closed system. They can monitor every inch of the place, but we can’t see a damn thing. We can still track people by their body heat, but we can’t tell whether they’re the good guys or the bad guys.”

“What about the second floor?” Encizo asked.

Colvin nodded at the computer operator, who with a few keystrokes, changed the picture again. “Flyovers indicate a great deal of body heat here. And it’d make the most sense for them to keep hostages here. They can herd them into rooms, most of which have no windows, for security reasons, making it easier to guard the prisoners.”

“What are your negotiators telling you?” McCarter asked. “What do these blokes want?”

“Typical terrorist crap—release certain members of their group, cut U.S. aid to Israel, withdraw troops from the Middle East.”

“In other words, the impossible,” McCarter said.

“You got it. Frankly, I think they’re stalling. These guys may be fanatics, but they aren’t stupid. They have to know we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Especially in today’s climate. I don’t understand what their endgame is here.”

“Probably doesn’t matter at this point,” McCarter said. “The only endgame I envision for these bastards is to go horizontally. How many hostages do we have inside?”

“About fifty, including the six Marines killed during the initial fighting. When they seized the place, they let a lot of the locals go. Some of the staff was out of the compound, doing other things.”

“The locals tell you anything?”

“Depending on who you believe, they have anywhere between two dozen and thirty fighters in there. We’ve had U2s winging over the compound all day, snapping off surveillance photos. Near as we can tell there’s between a half dozen and ten terrorists patrolling the grounds or stationed on the rooftops at any given moment, just daring us to take them out. According to the people who got away, everyone else was herded into the main building.”

“What other ways are there into the building?” asked James, the lanky former Navy SEAL.

Colvin’s associate changed the screen again. A split-screen image pictured the embassy’s rooftop in one frame and a boarded-up hotel in the other. McCarter remembered seeing the hotel as they’d approached the embassy. His face must have betrayed his curiosity because Colvin immediately jumped in to explain.

“Liberia was a damn mess for years,” he said. “A corrupt government, a civil war, drug-crazed rebels. At the same time, al Qaeda has hammered embassies on this continent and has more than its share of followers running around. Place is a security man’s nightmare.”

“Only more so today,” James said, running the tip of his index finger along his pencil-thin mustache.

“Sure. Compound that with other events like the attacks on the WTC and the takeover of our Tehran embassy in the 1970s, and you know the State Department’s been waiting on something like this to happen for years. We didn’t necessarily expect it here in particular, but we did expect it.”

“The point?” McCarter asked.

“The point is that we have more entrances into the embassy than we let on. The thinking was that we needed a way to get our people out of here in case of an emergency, an escape hatch, if you will. To do that, we built a tunnel that connects the embassy to this burned-out hotel.”

“Get out,” James said. “You’re saying there’s actually a secret tunnel leading into the embassy?”

“Of sorts. But it’s secure as hell. It stretches about three hundred yards, with battleship-steel doors every seventy-five yards or so. It also has a boatload of cameras, motion detectors and other protective measures installed. We designed it to get people out, but also to sneak commandos in.”

“Any way they could know about it?” McCarter asked.

“Only an idiot would guarantee that it’s foolproof.”

“Then that’s the way we’ll go, at least some of us. I want to hit these SOBs from more than one direction. So I’ll need at least two volunteers.”

MAJID JASIM CURLED his fingers under the edge of his ski mask and peeled it away from his face, discarding it with a careless toss. He noticed a few of the hostages, all bound by ropes but not blindfolded, sneak looks at him, maybe memorizing his features in case they were rescued. Or just to satisfy their own morbid curiosity, a look at their executioner, perhaps. He allowed himself a smile. Let them look.

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, replaced it in his pocket and unconsciously smoothed the hairs of his mustache with the thumb and forefinger, raked back his thick black hair with the fingers of the same hand. At five feet ten inches, he had a wiry build of a welter-weight boxer and the ramrod posture of a soldier. He’d been both for many years, but that was before he’d lost everything and been forced to change professions.

Scowling, he gripped his weapons belt with both hands and hitched it higher up on his hips. He rested his right hand on the worn grip of the Heckler & Koch VP70 pistol, one of the few things he still possessed from his former life. He’d been a commander in Saddam Hussein’s fedayeen army, had lived comfortably with the government salary and an endless supply of money, food and sex extorted from civilians. He’d provided a good life for his family. But all that changed after the Americans invaded the country and Baghdad fell. He’d stood and fought, both during the invasion and as an insurgent in the ensuing occupation. He’d pretended it had been out of a sense of nationalism, a conviction that the infidels wouldn’t sully his homeland with their damned occupation. In reality, though, he just had hoped to wear the Americans out, make them go home. As that possibility had become increasingly distant, he’d fled the country and journeyed to Syria where it had been all too easy to parlay his military talents into mercenary work.

That’s how he’d met the American, David Campbell. The man had sought him out, wanting him to help pull off an impossible mission. And when it had come time to discuss price, Campbell had—how did the Americans say it?—made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. So he hadn’t.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He looked and saw another man, face wrapped in a scarf, approaching. He held an AK-47 by its pistol grip, let the muzzle point at the floor. Although the wrap obscured most of his features, Jasim could see the man’s furrowed brow, his narrowed eyes, all telegraphing his concern.

The man—Tariq Hammud, who Jasim considered his closest adviser—kept his voice barely above a whisper, addressing him in Arabic.

“Sir, you expose your features to these people. Is that wise?”

“Is it wise to ask such a question?” Jasim countered.

“I mean no disrespect. But I was told we must keep our identities secret. At least, that’s what the American said. Has all that now changed?”

“Have I said it’s changed?”

“No.”

“Do you take orders from me, or from the American? Are you now a loyal subject of the infidel?”

The creases in Hammud’s brow deepened and his voice took on a cold edge. “Of course not.”

“But you suppose that I am a loyal subject of the American and should follow his orders to the letter. Am I understanding this correctly? Or perhaps that I should behave like a woman and cover my face in public. Is that it?”

“Never,” Hammud said, his voice rising in volume. “To suggest such a thing would be an insult.”

“My point exactly. We are agreed, then, that I may expose my face as I choose, rather than when given permission?”

“Of course. I was in error to suggest otherwise.”

Jasim suppressed a smile as he watched the other man squirm. “Did you come only to harass me about this?”

Hammud shook his head. “No, we found Fisher. He wants to speak with you.”

“He has news?”

“He says so.”

“We’ll see. Have we secured the grounds? Nightfall is only a few hours away. We will be at our most vulnerable.”

“We’re taking the necessary precautions.”

“Fine. Tell Fisher I will meet in him the library.”

“I’ll have him taken there.”

Jasim grabbed the suitcase that stood next to his ankle. He strode past the hostages, making a point to meet their gazes as he passed. As expected, most of them looked away. However, he caught one man, a Marine dressed in camouflage fatigue pants and matching T-shirt, glowering at him as he walked by. His hands were bound behind his back, his legs tied at the ankles, his boots removed and discarded.

The Arab halted and stared into the American’s pale blue eyes, held his gaze for several seconds. Another Marine, secured in a similar fashion, was situated several feet away.

“What are you looking at?” Jasim asked.

“You killed my sergeant, you piece of shit,” the Marine replied.

“Tom, let it go,” the second Marine warned.

Jasim smiled. “You should listen to your comrade. He has the right idea.”

Color spread through the first Marine’s neck and inflamed his cheeks.

“Kiss my ass,” Tom said.

With lightning-quick movements, Jasim fisted the VP70 and aimed the weapon at the second Marine, the one who’d uttered the warning. Jasim stroked the handgun’s trigger, unleashing a 3-shot burst that reduced the man’s skull to a crimson spray. The remaining Marine’s eyes bulged with anger and shock, while other hostages gasped or screamed.

“You son of a bitch.” Despite his bonds, Tom struggled to come to his feet. Jasim watched the man’s struggle with amusement.

Jasim swept the gun around the room. Hostages screamed and flinched, some were paralyzed with fear while others balled themselves up to form smaller targets.

“I made it clear from the beginning that heroics would cost lives. Resistance would cost lives. That includes your incessant yammering. For every ill word you speak, someone dies. So choose each word carefully.”

The Marine’s face beamed pure hatred. The Marine’s lips had tightened into a bloodless line and his skin had turned an angry scarlet. After a long pause, Jasim said, “Nothing else to say? Good.”

Holstering his weapon, he spun on his heel and started for the library, whistling as he went.

A few minutes later he stood in the library, smoking a cigarette. The door handle rattled, grabbing Jasim’s attention. Turning, he saw a slender, pale man with unkempt hair enter, escorted by a pair of Jasim’s men.

Jasim gestured toward a nearby chair. “Mr. Fisher, sit.”

Fisher did so. Lacing his fingers together, he set his hands on his knees and studied his thumbnails while Jasim looked down at him. Fisher, a low-level embassy worker, had been feeding Jasim and the others intelligence on the embassy for months. From what Jasim understood, the American had been frequenting underage prostitutes in Monrovia’s slums. When confronted with photographs and promises of cash, Fisher had been all too happy to betray his own country.

“You killed somebody else,” Fisher said.

“You have an issue with that?”

Fisher shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I have no issue with anything.”

“Good,” Jasim said. “You had something you wanted to tell me.”

“One of the women, Barb Kendall, she’s CIA.”

Jasim felt his gut twist into a knot. Heat radiated from his face. “Why am I just now learning this?” he asked.

Fisher tensed visibly, anticipating a blow. “I just found out. I overheard her discussing it with the ambassador. I always thought she was a public-information officer. I guess that was a cover.”

“I will deal with her. Anything else?”

“She says that there’s a tunnel, a way out of here. Which means, a way in.”

Jasim scowled. “This tunnel, where is it?”

Another shrug. “I asked, but she wouldn’t say. I didn’t want to force the issue. I figured she’d get suspicious. I did all right, right?”

Jasim looked at the guards. “Return him to his cell. And bring me Kendall. I want to speak with her. We need to find this entrance before it creates a problem for us.”

MCCARTER HELD his sound-suppressed Heckler & Koch MP-5 at hip level as he moved through the concrete corridor leading to the embassy. Like his fellow commandos—Manning and Hawkins—he scanned his surroundings through night-vision goggles, which bathed the area in pale green. The DSS agents had extinguished all tunnel lights, an effort to give McCarter and the others an advantage should their approach be discovered.

“Crawling through tunnels like a bunch of bleedin’ rats,” he groused. “I can’t believe we flew halfway around the world for this.”

“Three minutes without a complaint,” Manning whispered. “I think that’s an all-time record for you.”

“Feel free to kiss my arse,” McCarter said. “How much farther?”

“Another 150 yards or so,” the big Canadian said. “Then we hit the third door. Two more after that and—bang—we’re in the basement.”

BARBARA KENDALL FELT fear gnaw at her insides as the guards led her up the embassy steps to the second floor. They had untied her feet, but had left her hands secured behind her back. The captor to her right dug his fingers hard into her bicep, causing white lancets of pain to emanate from the area. She ground her teeth, suppressing a pained yelp.

“Watch it, asshole,” she said in flawless Arabic.

The terrorist raised an open hand, ready to strike her. The guard on her left, a short, barrel-chested man, yanked her toward him. “Stop it,” he said to the other man. “We do not strike this one without Jasim’s approval.”

Hesitating, anger still flaring in his eyes, the first man finally let his hand drop. “You’ll die before this all ends,” he said.

We do not strike this one without Jasim’s approval.

Her captor’s words troubled her. Considering the abuse being heaped on the other hostages, why not strike her? And why was she being summoned in the first place? In the best-case scenario, they wanted her, as the public-information officer to communicate with the outside world, perhaps to put an American voice to their demands. But, a dyed-in-the-wool cynic, Kendall put little stock in best-case scenarios. Did they know that she also was an intelligence agent? The possibility chilled her to the core, but she knew she couldn’t dismiss it. If so, she could face torture, or even death, she thought, suppressing a shuddering.

Arriving at the library door, they stopped. Her heart hammered against her chest as she waited. The guard who’d nearly hit her took out his aggressions on the door, striking it hard with his knuckles. A heartbeat later she heard someone call for them to enter. She heard the metallic click of a handle, the almost-imperceptible squeak of the door swinging on its hinges, then a hard shove to the middle of her back stole her breath and sent her stumbling into a room.

She scanned the library and saw three hardmen positioned throughout the vast area. A fourth man, seated to her right, cleared his throat and she turned toward him. The Arab wore a pistol on his hip and he had an AK-47 propped against a table within easy reach.

“The tunnel,” he said, “where is it?”

A cold rivulet of fear coursed down her spine. He knew, she thought. How the hell? She tried to keep her face impassive, then gave him a confused smile. “What? What are you talking about?”

His features hardened. “The tunnel leading out of the embassy. I know of it. I have people searching the grounds even as we speak. It’s only a matter of time before we find it. It will only help you to help us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, letting her voice sound uncertain, confused.

“You are an agent of the CIA.”

In spite of herself, Kendall tensed. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out how he knew this and how she should respond. Other than the ambassador, no one else knew of her role here. She’d played her part to the hilt, or so she’d thought. Did he really know something or was this a game the bastard playing?

She laughed nervously. “CIA? I’m with the State Department. I’m a public-information officer. I write press releases and talk to reporters. I have nothing to do with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“I hear otherwise.”

“You’ve heard wrong. Ask anyone here. They’ll tell you otherwise.”

“Excellent idea,” he said. The man looked past her. Nodding at one of the men behind her, he said, “Go get the ambassador.”

She spent several minutes standing in front of the terrorist, his gaze cold and unreadable, pushing against her like an unseen force. Relief washed over her momentarily when the door flung open, grabbing the seated man’s attention. The sense of relief immediately dissolved when Ambassador Bruce Hughes tumbled through the doorway, shoved forward by one of his captors. A sick feeling twisted at Kendall’s gut as she watched the man, hands tied behind his back, struggle to come to his feet. A tall man with long hair and a patchy beard rewarded Hughes for his efforts by striking him repeatedly in the kidneys and spine with a rifle butt. Kendall winced in sympathetic pain as she watched the red-faced man struggle to regain his breath. Kendall felt anger burn hot through her skin as she witnessed the cruelty.

“What the hell do you want?” Hughes asked.

“What do you know of this woman?” Jasim asked.

Hughes’s eyes rolled up at Kendall, caught her gaze. She felt an urge to look away from his reddened, pained expression. But she tightened her lips into a bloodless line and forced herself to hold his gaze.

“She’s our PIO,” Hughes said. “Didn’t she tell you that?”

“What she told me and what I believe are two different things,” Jasim said. Fisting his side arm, he raised it and leveled it at Hughes. Kendall opened her mouth, but the weapon cracked once, the sound causing her words to catch in her throat. A 9 mm round drilled into the floor next to the ambassador’s face. A moment later the stench of human excrement filled the room.

“The ambassador seems to have fallen for your lie,” Jasim said through clenched teeth. “I’m not so stupid. Are you CIA or not? Give me the wrong answer and I’ll kill him. Then I move on to the next hostage.”

Kendall felt her resolve drain away. She looked downcast. “Yes, I’m CIA.”

“And there’s a tunnel leading into the embassy. Is that correct? Look at me.”

Kendall felt anger and frustration constrict her throat. She looked at Jasim, saw the stony expression on his face. She knew at that moment there’d be no negotiating with this son of a bitch. His next words only verified it.

“For every minute that passes without a satisfactory answer, I will kill a hostage, starting with the ambassador.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible, “there’s a tunnel.”

Jasim holstered his weapon and leaned back in his chair. He looked at the two terrorists flanking Kendall and barked orders to them in Arabic. She understood every word.

“I want that door found and wired with explosives. I want anyone coming through it killed.”

“As you wish,” one of the men said as he grabbed Kendall by the arm and spun her around.

CLAD HEAD-TO-TOE in black, Rafael Encizo crept through the blackness of the alley, a crossbow held steady and sure in his grip.

His nose unconsciously wrinkled against the stench of rancid meat and vegetables emanating from a nearby trash can. Dropping into a crouch, he set the crossbow at his feet, rolled up his sleeve and checked the illuminated dial of his diving watch. It was 9:05 p.m. He rolled his sleeve back down, obscuring the watch. Another sixty seconds and things would get very interesting indeed.

Grabbing his crossbow, he remained in a crouch, but moved to the alley’s mouth. The stifling heat barely registered with him. He was accustomed to such temperatures and, in fact, found them more comfortable than the cool evenings that sometimes prevailed in Virginia at Stony Man Farm.

He returned his attention to the problem at hand. Peering around the edge of the building, he stared at the embassy grounds and saw a pair of men, each carrying an AK-47, walking the grounds.

He felt a new rush of anger as he watched them swagger through the compound, faces obscured by scarves. They walked in the open, apparently unafraid, while they held innocent people inside, terrorizing them and the free world as they held the hostages.

Calvin James’s voice sounded in his earpiece.

“Rafe?”

“Go.”

“I’m in position. You?”

“Affirmative.”

“Fifteen seconds until they cut the power.”

“Then it all goes by the numbers, my friend.”

“Swift and silent.”

“Damn straight.”

The radio went silent. Encizo waited another moment until streetlights and the large halogen spotlights illuminating the embassy winked out, plunging the compound into darkness. When they did, he slid his NVGs down over his eyes, crept out from the alley and darted for the embassy grounds.

In less than a minute he came to rest a few yards from the fence, his approach obscured by the hip-high concrete walls used to stop truck and car bombers from hurtling into the compound. Chancing a look over the barrier, he peered through the gate and spotted a pair of terrorists separating from each other and sweeping the muzzles of their assault rifles over the horizon as they evaluated the power outage. Rising from behind the barrier only as much as necessary, Encizo locked the crossbow’s sights on the nearer terrorist and triggered the weapon. The shaft drilled into the man’s throat. Gurgling, stumbling backward, the man’s weapon fell from his hands as he grabbed for the bolt protruding from his throat. A moment later life left his body and he folded in on himself.

Staying low, Encizo turned at the waist and loaded another bolt. Upon seeing his comrade suddenly pitch to the ground, the other terrorist dropped to a crouch and fanned his AK-47 over the horizon, his free hand scrambling for a cellular telephone. Encizo triggered the crossbow. An instant later the terrorist froze as a bolt jutted from his ribs, the razor-sharp tip tearing through his heart. Even as his corpse pitched toward the ground, power returned to the embassy compound, probably thanks to the emergency generators. External lights kicked back on, flooding the grounds with white as lights winked back on inside the main building.

Encizo checked his watch: 9:07 p.m.

Right on time.

“Two down, Cal,” he whispered into his throat mike. “Status?”

A moment passed without reply. Another second—this one more agonized—came and went, too.

“Cal? Cal?” Encizo whispered again, this time more urgently. All that filled the silence was the plummeting sensation in his stomach. Before he could utter another word, gunshots rang out from within the compound.