a frightened chameleon changes color to become invisible. A frightened prisoner makes noise anonymously because—”
A man in his sixties arose from a group that was sitting on the concrete near the shallow end of the upper pool. Tyler recognized his face, but he hadn’t met him. “That was me,” the man said. “I’m sorry if you thought I was hiding, because—”
A gunshot thumped the night and the man’s head erupted in a hideous spray. He dropped to the deck as if his central core had evaporated. An alphabet component who hadn’t yet made his letter clear lowered his rifle from his shoulder. A sixtysomething woman—presumably the dead man’s wife—pulled the man’s head into her lap and howled a sound that was pure grief.
“Ask yourselves if that was a worthy sacrifice!” Alpha yelled. “A wife lost her husband, children lost their father, and grandchildren lost their legacy. All because of a proud man’s need to look brave. Was that a worthwhile sacrifice?”
Alpha zoned in on the Turner couple, Zach and Becky. He was the one who’d left a leg in Afghanistan.
“You two,” Alpha drilled. “You’ve suffered the penalties of war and patriotism. Was that man’s sacrifice a noble one?”
Tyler watched as Zach’s face turned red from the neck up. Becky’s gentle touch on her husband’s arm looked like a well-practiced move. Zach’s shoulders relaxed a little.
“No,” Becky said. “The sacrifice was not worth the penalty.” She wiped a tear and blew a kiss to the sobbing woman. “I’m sorry.”
“I want to hear from the cripple,” Alpha said. “What say you, Mr. War Hero?”
Zach’s jaw tightened under the skin of his slender face. Even in the dim, deflected glow of the swimming lights, the throbbing muscles in front of his ears stood out in high relief. He said nothing.
“I expect an answer, War Hero.”
Becky cupped the line of his jaw with her hand. “Please,” she said.
Zach gently pushed her hand away. “I’m not a war hero,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Zach started to stand, but Becky pulled him back down into his chair. “Think of the kids,” she said. Tyler wasn’t sure that he’d actually heard the words, but he easily read her lips.
“I said I’m no war hero,” Zach repeated, this time loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “The heroes lost their whole souls over there. I’m just a guy who’s missing a leg.”
That didn’t exactly jibe with what he’d told Tyler at the pool, but under the circumstances, who couldn’t forgive being a little fast and loose with the facts?
“You haven’t answered my question,” Alpha pressed. “There’s a dead man bleeding into the pool. His wife is covered in his blood. Was his a worthy sacrifice?”
The redness intensified in Zach’s neck and cheeks. Becky clearly saw it and her posture telegraphed pure dread.
Zach stood, and weapons raised at every compass point. “I don’t know who that murdered man was,” he said, “but I know that he was killed for stating his mind.”
“Please, Zach,” Becky whined.
“Is stating an opinion ever worth summary execution?” Zach continued. “I would say, probably not.” He eyeballed the potential shooters one at a time. “Certainly, that is not a line that I would dare to cross.” He returned his glare to Alpha. “Is that enough?”
Tyler watched the assembled riflemen. They deeply wanted to shoot somebody.
Alpha smiled, but it was all mouth and cheeks. His eyes remained dead. “Your answer will keep you alive for tonight,” he said. “For now.”
The threat melted Becky, but seemed to bounce off Zach. Maybe it was absorbed by him. “I’ll take whatever mercies come my way,” he said, and he sat back down.
* * *
Anatoly Petrovich Ivanov thought there’d been far too much shooting this evening. Mercenaries the world over enjoyed violence far too much, and their thirst for it closed their minds to peaceful alternatives. He had seen it in career soldiers, as well, but that was back in the day when rank meant something, where disobedience was met with due process and prescribed punishment. Here, with this crew, his status as the leader was subject to the willingness of his men to grant him the title.
Tonight, and for the next two, maybe three days, he and his team of twenty-eight fighting specialists were no longer Russian. In fact, they had no citizenship at all. Moscow wanted it that way, so that if things did not go according to plan, his government could deny any knowledge of the operation. Unlike the clownish politicians of the United States, Russian politicians were very good at keeping secrets. In part because of honor, but also because, again unlike the Americans, betrayal carried real consequences.
The assault plan required swift, intense violence, but he had hoped for a loss of fewer lives among the hostages. With one or two, you got everyone’s attention and focused fear, but with too many, you instilled a sense of hopelessness—of inevitable death—that might encourage rebellion. And while people were sheep, even sheep will turn violent if they are pushed too far. Though Anatoly’s team numbered twenty-eight and they were armed, the hostages numbered as many as two hundred. If they found a strong leader who could motivate them, twenty-eight wouldn’t be nearly enough. That’s why Anatoly ordered the children to be sequestered from their parents. Nothing weakened even the toughest man quite like his love for his children.
As the prisoners settled into place—he couldn’t bring himself to think of them as hostages—Anatoly watched over Stepan Vasechkin’s shoulder as the other man sifted through stolen wallets in search of identification papers. One never knew who might be a guest of Baker Sinise. He owed it to his team and to Moscow to take a full accounting.
“This will take time,” Stepan said. Until this was over, his name was Lima.
“Something that I believe we have plenty of,” Anatoly replied. Only English would be spoken during their time at Crystal Sands, and most of them exhibited acceptable British pronunciation.
The radios near him all broke squelch. “Alpha, this is India,” a voice said. Anatoly knew India to be Gerasim Arturovich Kuznetsov, one of the few operators on this mission with whom Anatoly had served while in the Russian Army. He knew Gerasim to be a good soldier and a loyal comrade.
Anatoly leaned his jaw into the microphone at his shoulder. “This is Alpha.”
“Alpha, be advised that the prime package is not here.”
Anatoly’s stomach flipped. He met Stepan’s gaze and asked off the air, “Did he just say—”
“That the prime package is not here, yeah,” Stepan said.
Into the microphone: “Where is he?”
Hesitation. “Um, can you come up to his quarters?” India said. “Third floor of the main building.”
“Is it urgent?” he asked.
A pause.
