Promise To Defend. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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