embankment, soft-soled boots muting their approach. Slipping over the wall, they entered the ruins, clearing each section in a grid. It would be messy if they found lovers hiding in here. None spoke. A whispered voice carried; the erratic noises coming from the target were not enough to cover anything more than muffled footsteps. Twenty yards covered, ten yards, twenty feet. Mike stopped at the southwest corner, beyond the suspicion of light and fusing with the fathomless black of the landscape. They didn’t have time to plan this assault; intel confirmation was slow while terrorists moved fast. The analysis was, these guys would be bugging out on the boat tonight. His team was here to stop that little trip.
I’m getting damn tired of capturing these guys only to do it again a couple months later.
Krane rushed to disable the vehicles lining the street front, DiFazio watching for stray traffic as Mike slipped around what was left of a wall and kept moving in toward the target, a rectangular building with a glass storefront. The satellite image he’d had only minutes to memorize was accurate: one rear door, and only one side window. From his position, Mike could see the lights of traffic about a quarter mile up the road. He flipped the night-vision visor to thermal and found four heat signatures, all about the same size. Military trained, two of them were the masterminds behind the attack on the USS Cole. Mike was alive only because he’d gone topside for some air ten minutes before. The impact had sent him over the side of the ship.
Mike slid around the edge of the ruin wall, and moved in as the rear door opened. A man appeared, a small flame brightening his features as he lit a smoke. He dragged hard, unaware that Mike stood within five feet of him. Carefully, Mike holstered his sidearm and drew his knife. They couldn’t afford gunfire this early. Mike slipped up behind him, his hand closing over the man’s mouth as he drove the blade into his kidney. The pain was beyond a scream and he held him silent till his muscles went slack. He lowered the body to the ground and continued, Krane falling in behind him.
DiFazio was near the storefront to ensure no one escaped and ready to cut the electricity.
With Krane on the opposite side of the door, Mike opened it. Soft light spilled onto the sandy ground, wind off the sea swirling violently and kicking up fine grains. From inside someone barked to shut the door.
Gannon touched his throat mike and whispered, “Kill the lights.”
The area went instantly black. The inhabitants scrambled, falling over furniture in the dark as Mike and Krane slipped inside, heat signatures showing locations. Four shots and the men were on the floor. Four more to ensure that they didn’t get back up.
“Clear.” Mike advanced, securing the front of the store. Empty.
He inspected boxes from the front to the back, found a wild assortment of snacks and trinkets, keenly searching for—bingo. He located stolen C-4 and detonators that still had the Moroccan Army insignia on it. One was ready to go and he carefully eased the detonator wires from the pliable explosive, then lifted the box, handing it to Krane for transport. He pocketed the detonators, gathered the weapons, cell phones, a laptop, then scooped up paperwork and anything else strewn over the tables. He stuffed it all in a watertight sack. Let intel sort it out later.
“Bug out,” he said, moving around bodies to the exit. Within moments, the team was down the jetty to their dive gear, suiting up. As quietly as they’d arrived, his teammates slid into the cold Mediterranean Sea, releasing the anchored propulsion torpedoes. Mike was last, bringing up the rear, strapping on his rebreather as he moved to the water.
He never saw it coming.
Bullets had a strange sound when they impacted flesh. Like a fistful of mud thrown against a stone wall. The splat was soft, the pain excruciating as it ripped through his deltoid, just past his Kevlar.
Mike stumbled to one knee, refusing to go face first in the sand.
“Tango One is down,” Mike heard in his comms.
“The hell I am. Get your asses underwater,” he ordered, and spun with his weapons drawn. Another shot came, missing him, the muzzle flash giving a location as at that moment a car passed, headlights spreading a glow over the area—and silhouetted a child.
Dark-haired and wafer thin, a boy of no more than ten aimed a pistol.
Mike didn’t hesitate and fired, hitting the kid’s weapon. Ignoring the infantile scream, he hurriedly yanked up his hood, put the regulator into his mouth, and fell into the sea. He put on his fins and Krane was there, the propulsion launch already churning. He grabbed Mike’s wrist and put the handles in his grip.
Salt water stung his wound. It just pissed him off.
Shot by a goddamn kid, and attracting sharks with his blood trail.
As he finned toward the approaching ship to finish the job, he decided if anyone were going to be shark food, it would be the enemy. Ooh-rah.
Loma Negra Dig
North Peru, Same day
Dr. Eduardo Valez pulled off his straw hat and swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead. The effort was a failure against the cloying heat. He’d grown up here; he should be used to it. Years in the city had apparently softened his mettle. He pushed off the tree stump and moved into the excavation, carefully stepping beyond the string grids and farther into the newly unearthed site.
He looked down at the shards of pottery, the explicit sex scenes depicted in the fine painting still clear after centuries. He didn’t see the value on the market or to a museum, but the value to his people. His culture. The world. For years, scholars thought the Incas were the first to build a society here. But the Moche tribe had existed long before.
Slipping out his brush, he wisped at the shard, flushing a little at the position of the lovers. Inventive, he thought, smiling.
“Senor Valez, sections four and five have been cataloged.”
“Then package for transport, Gil.”
“Me, sir?”
He looked up at the young archaeologist. The man had done everything he could to get on this dig. American born and raised, Gilberto had Peruvian blood and his ancestors, the youth believed, lay in these ruins.
“You are well trained.” Eduardo smiled. He’d done the training. “Consider it another trial by fire.”
The young man stood a bit straighter and nodded. The gift of confidence was such a little thing to offer, Eduardo thought, turning back to the shard as the young man moved beyond the site to the tents and many crates waiting to be filled. Eduardo inched forward like a duck, accustomed to the position as he reached to brush away more of the land and reveal the history.
His breath caught when he realized he’d found an unbroken urn beneath a stone table. The stone slab was at an angle, half buried from a previous cave-in and before he dug farther, his gaze rose upward to the uneven ceiling of rock as he tried to judge its stability. Removing the slab chiseled by hand was impossible without excavation equipment, and that would destroy the site. If he removed the earth below, perhaps the pot would slide free. He worked slowly, and beneath the bowl of the pot he found bone and a tooth. It galvanized him to keep going. Then he realized the stone slab was not long enough for a table but more of a box. He lost his balance, pain shooting up his kneecap before he braced himself and studied the find.
The ground was usually softer here, and backing up, he brushed at the rock and uncovered sharp
