'You don't look dead to me,' Flaherty said.

'Roselli managed to infect me with one of his lab experiments,' Stokes said. 'Some home-grown variety of anthrax, apparently. So if that's the case, I won't last another day. With that in mind, I'm determined to witness the results of all my hard work. And right about now, you're making that very difficult for me. Give me your gun.' He extended his free hand and motioned for it. 'Be sensible and, unlike me, you'll both live to see another day.'

Flaherty knew that despite Stokes's hopeless condition, the former Special Ops commando was fully capable of pulling the trigger at least once before going down - no matter how well executed Flaherty's shot might be. With Stokes unconcerned about confessing his heinous acts, Flaherty had to gamble that he'd keep his word. After all, though at the moment it seemed an abomination, Stokes was a servant of the Lord. 'Fine,' he said, lowering the gun and pa.s.sing it to Stokes. 'You win.'

Stokes pocketed Flaherty's Beretta. 'Now while I attend to business, you can make yourselves comfortable.' Keeping the Glock on Brooke and his eyes on Flaherty, Stokes stepped backwards towards the door. When he'd crossed the threshold into his office, he lowered the gun and reached for the door handle. 'Behave yourselves and I'll have someone let you out after this is over.'

Then Flaherty and Brooke watched helplessly as Stokes pulled the door closed.

61.

IRAQ.

'You're sure these coordinates are right?' Meat asked, checking his handheld GPS unit again. 'I mean, this thing's pretty accurate.'

Fist-sized stones that littered the unpaved road forced Jason to slow the pickup to a crawl. 'Mack has yet to be wrong,' he said.

'But you said Mack is getting his information from the Israelis,' Meat reminded him.

Twenty minutes ago, the satellite trace Jason had called in to Mack had pinpointed the square paint marker he'd scrawled on the hood of the truck Staff Sergeant Richards used to spirit Al-Zahrani away from the camp. The grid provided by Israeli Intelligence led them here, to a desolate region twenty-four kilometres south of Irbil, and less than a twenty-kilometre drive from the downed Blackhawk. The perfectly flat terrain provided long-range visibility over the wheat fields extending out in every direction. An occasional ramshackle structure poked up into the landscape.

But no sign of the hijacked pickup truck.

'I don't trust Israelis, especially Mossad,' Meat said.

'Come on Meat, there's no reason to believe the information isn't credible.'

'Sure there is: no truck. That's good enough reason for me.' Meat groaned in frustration and punched the dashboard. 's.h.i.t, Google. We can't go losing these Al-Qaeda f.u.c.ks now! Not after what they've done!'

Jason felt equally frustrated. Losing Jam and Camel was a crushing defeat. He'd called Camp Eagle's Nest and requested a rescue patrol to be dispatched to the crash site.

'They must be on the move again,' Jason guessed. 'I'll have Mack request another-'

'Whoa ... hang on,' Meat said, craning his head to see something out the side window.

'What is it?'

Meat waved his hand as if he was greeting someone. 'Stop the truck.'

'What the h.e.l.l are you doing?'

'See that s.h.i.t box over there?' he said, pointing out the window to a two-storey house constructed from cinderblocks, which glowed in milky moonlight.

'What about it?'

Meat grinned deviously. 'Seems someone is expecting us ... or should I say their expecting the guys that should should be riding in this truck.' be riding in this truck.'

Jason stopped the truck and barely glimpsed an Arab man pa.s.sing beneath the house's bright porch light and disappearing around the building. 'Who? That farmer?'

'That's no farmer. The guy was strapping an AK-47. Back it up. We're going in.'

'How do propose we do this?' Meat asked Jason, flipping the safety off his Glock and c.o.c.king its slide bolt.

'Fast,' Jason simply replied. He rolled to a stop and let the truck idle twenty metres from the house. There appeared to be no one outside, but in the second-storey window, he saw two silhouettes moving like shadow puppets behind drawn shades.

'You think they brought Al-Zahrani here?' Meat asked. 'This place is a dump.'

'Exactly. It's perfect.'

Meat's eyes went wide. 'Oh, hey ... look over there.' He pointed to a crude overhang attached to the side of the house. 'There she is.'

Only a corner of the scratched-up b.u.mper and a sliver of the sky-blue tailgate stuck out from beneath the camouflage netting that covered the stolen pickup. 'Good eye,' Jason said.

'Get ready. There's our host,' Meat said, pointing with his chin to the side door. The Arab leaned out from the doorframe into the porch light. The AK-47 was slung over his right shoulder. He was moving his head side to side, trying to see inside the truck, but the greasy windshield was casting nasty reflections.

Meat grabbed for the door handle, but Jason gripped his arm. 'Hold on. He can't see us through the glare.' Jason eased the truck forward and put it in park five metres from the house. 'Sit tight. We'll let him come to us.'

Looking deeply concerned, the Arab waved to them again in a hurrying motion.

'Get your knife out, then wave him over to your side. Let's see if he bites.' Jason reached down and grabbed the AK-47 he'd stripped from the dead Al-Qaeda photographer.

Meat set down the Glock and unsnapped a K-bar knife from a sheath clipped to his belt. Then he stuck his arm out the window and made a summoning gesture.

The Arab scowled, didn't budge. He looked back into the house, as if someone was beckoning him.

'Ta' al huna!' Meat yelled in Arabic, and motioned again with more urgency. 'Come on over here, stupid,' he grumbled.

Finally the man broke away from the house and made his way to the truck with hands spread in confusion.

'Put him down nice and quiet,' Jason instructed.

'Don't worry, I'll be tender.'

As the Arab drew close, Meat turned from view, pretending to get something from behind the seat.

The Arab cornered the truck's front b.u.mper and came to Meat's window, saying in an agitated tone, 'Ista' gil?! Esh cair fik Esh cair fik?' He slammed his hands on the door and leaned in for a better view.

The Arab made eye contact with Jason and his haggard face blanched.

Meat wheeled, grabbed a fistful of the man's tunic and tugged him close. In the next instant, he plunged the blade through the man's Adam's apple. He felt the tip of the knife clip bone. The Arab's attempted scream was instantly reduced to a gurgling yelp. Blood spewed over Meat's hand as he turned the blade like a doork.n.o.b, then sliced upward to the jaw and into the brain. The Arab's eyes rolled back into his skull and Meat made sure to let the body drop to the ground out of view from anyone who might be watching from inside the house.

'Let's go,' Jason said, calmly opening his door and stepping out from the truck. He directed his face away from the house and clutched his AK-47 low behind the opened door.

Meat got out and stripped the AK-47 from the dead man. The safety was off and he checked the clip. Full. Gripping the weapon, he hurried around the truck, headed straight for the door. His face was knotted with determination and adrenaline.

'So much for being subtle,' Jason mumbled and fell in behind him.

At the door, Meat intercepted a second unlucky Arab who'd been calling out for the dead guy. Without hesitation, Meat levelled the AK-47 at his chest and squeezed off a quick burst that opened his torso like overripe fruit. Then he charged inside.

Jason stepped over the body and shadowed Meat with his weapon drawn. Peering in at the house's tight rooms, he was glad to have an AK-47 since the weapon's short muzzle and rapid-fire action were just what the doctor ordered for a raid in a place like this. He turned right and swept the first room. Nothing but a wooden table and two metal folding chairs.

Like a raging bull Meat stormed to a second door that led into a narrow hallway. He held his AK-47 with a straight arm, turned flat. What he liked to call 'gangsta style'.

Jason heard frenzied voices overhead. Three distinct tones. He immediately moved back against the wall just as the plaster ceiling tore apart in a hail of bullets. He dropped to one knee, raised his AK-47, and strafed the ceiling in a wide 'G', followed by a tight 'X'. In one corner, a heavy whump whump shook the floorboards, followed by a second shook the floorboards, followed by a second whump whump near the middle of the ceiling. In both spots, blood dripped down from the sieve of bullet holes. The voices had gone silent, but a single set of footsteps pattered fast towards the centre of the house before Jason could line up for another sweep. near the middle of the ceiling. In both spots, blood dripped down from the sieve of bullet holes. The voices had gone silent, but a single set of footsteps pattered fast towards the centre of the house before Jason could line up for another sweep.

Meat also heard the runner and bolted to the base of the house's central staircase. He immediately spotted his target and opened fire. An agonizing scream rang out just before a rifle came cartwheeling down the stairs.

By the time Jason made it to the hall door, Meat had ducked into the next room and reappeared, shaking his head to indicate that it was empty. Jason signalled for him to remain still.

A perfect silence settled over the house.

Then Jason heard a small voice coming from a room at the top of the stairs. He listened intently. Someone was chanting a prayer.

'f.u.c.k this,' Meat grumbled. 'Cover me.'

Before Jason could stop him, Meat charged up the stairs.

Jason raised his AK-47 to cover the landing, fully expecting Meat to get hit with a faceful of lead. But there was no resistance from above. At the top of the stairs, Meat popped in and out of the room to the right, then disappeared through the left door.

Three seconds later, he yelled down, 'Google, get up here!'

62.

Crawford shone the floodlight up at the gaping hole the marines had opened on top of the rubble that dammed the tunnel pa.s.sage.

Emerging from the other side, a grimy face capped by a sand-coloured helmet appeared in the light. The marine reported, 'It won't be easy, but we can get through.'

'Fine, Corporal,' Crawford said. 'We'll make it work.'

'Colonel, there's a lot of blood on this side,' Corporal William Shuster reported matter-of-factly. 'Some fingers and tissue too. Not pretty. I'm sure there's plenty of meat buried under these rocks. I don't see how anyone could've survived the explosion.'

Crawford remained stonefaced. 'Al-Zahrani managed to walk out of here. Let's make sure no one else does.'

Shuster scuttled down the rocks, holding a flashlight in his right hand, an M-16 slung over his shoulder. His left hand was balled up in a fist and he opened it to reveal a palm full of gum-ball-sized metal ball bearings covered in a tacky film - trademark shrapnel used in padding suicide vests. 'Found these on the ground,' he said. 'They're covered in C-4 residue. Not sure why one of them would have detonated himself in there. You'd think he'd have waited for a few of us before pushing the b.u.t.ton ... take a few infidels with him on his way to paradise.'

'Mystery solved,' Crawford grunted for show. None of this news surprised Crawford. It wasn't just the lingering smell of motor oil that clued him in on the source of the blast. Stokes had been quick to inform him about the clumsy gunman who'd let loose some rounds into the man who'd been strapped with plastic explosive. With the cameras knocked off line, however, even Stokes had seriously underestimated the extent of the collapse. More troubling was the quiet calm on the other side of the blockage. Crawford antic.i.p.ated activity. Lots of activity. And not from the holed-up Arabs. 'Now I need you to take a couple men in there with you. See how deep that tunnel runs. Make sure it's empty.'

'We could use the PackBot,' Shuster suggested.

Crawford wasn't hearing it. 'No time for robots, Corporal. Don't think. Just do.'

Shuster was amazed by Crawford's stubborn fixation with this tunnel, particularly in light of the devastating ambush that the platoon had marginally endured (thanks to Crawford's refusal to radio for backup). With the medic having been killed by Al-Zahrani's abductors, the wounded were left to tend to one another. Every remaining able-bodied marine had been ordered back to the tunnel to finish the debris removal. No one could yet confirm if Crawford had radioed for reinforcements. That had the platoon grumbling about the colonel's motive. With Staff Sergeant Richards unaccounted for, discontent was fast brewing throughout the ranks.

Crawford turned to the six men tightly congregated in the pa.s.sage behind him. 'Ramirez ... Holt. You two get in there with Corporal Shuster and see what we've got.' The marines looked at one another in a way that clearly suggested latent dissension. More reason for swift action. 'This isn't a democracy, gentlemen. Get your lights and your weapons and get in there! And your radios won't be any good under this mountain, so leave them behind.'

The reluctant designatees took up their M-16s and light gear packs, filed past Crawford and clambered up the rocks.

'And where's that d.a.m.n Kurd?' Crawford blasted.

'Here, sir,' a quiet voice called from the rear.

The four marines made room for Hazo to shuffle through.

Crawford squared up with the interpreter. He had to make a conscious effort not to react to the Kurd's appearance. The man looked haggard and feverish, his eyes bloodshot. The striking similarity to Al-Zahrani's early symptoms was alarming. Since the onset of Operation Genesis, Stokes had been forthright about the wide reach of a custom virus that would target Arab males. 'It won't be only the terrorists who fall. Know that the innocent fathers of our future enemies, too, will be sacrificed along the way,' Stokes had told him. 'If we have any survivors in there,' Crawford briefed the Kurd, 'I'll need you to talk some sense into them. Tell them to be smart and surrender. Can I count on you to do this?'

'Jesus, Colonel,' Shuster said defiantly. 'Clearly he's in no condition to-'

Crawford's chest puffed out like a rooster. He stepped up to Shuster and put his face so close, the two men touched noses. 'Corporal, you are way out of line.'

'Please,' Hazo said, putting an appeasing hand on Shuster's arm. 'I will help you.'

'I hope you're right about all this, Colonel,' Shuster warned.

Thick veins webbed out over Crawford's red face.

Shuster unstrapped the M9 pistol from his side holster and proffered it to Hazo. 'If you're going in there, take this.'

Hazo nodded and accepted the gun, though no matter what might happen, he vowed not to go against his beliefs.

Shuster gave Hazo a quick tutorial on how to flip off the safety and fire the weapon. 'And stay behind us,' he added.

'I will,' Hazo said, clumsily holding the gun away from his body.

Shuster climbed up and disappeared through the hole.

'Good luck,' Crawford said to Hazo.

Hazo offered no reply and began his climb towards the hole.

63.