One for One (John Flynn Thrillers Book 3) Page 2

  “You think they come back?”

  Flynn paused. “Don’t they?”

  “Sometimes. What do you want?”

  “Will you be here, if I bring them back?”

  He seemed to think about this. “You will cause trouble for my family.”

  “Will you be here?” Flynn said, firmly.

  The man nodded.

  The girls were driven into the compound and taken to a wet room and hosed off, and then they were scrubbed down with soap and hosed off again. They were given towels to dry off and clothes to wear. A blouse and a skirt each. No shoes, no socks, no underwear. Then they were taken to a room upstairs. There was a fan and a sofa and bottled water. The sergent told them to remain in the room and remain quiet. They needed no convincing.

  Flynn took his forward position on top of the store opposite the general’s house. The last of the daylight colored the walls a Tuscan hue. Despite the recent terrorist activity, the streets buzzed with motorcycles and people and vans. Flynn counted off the security. It was as expected. Nothing special. The general was not worried about anything. He was the king of all he surveyed. Flynn knew a word for such thoughts.

  Hubris.

  He had suffered from it himself and lost a friend and brother as a result. That was why he took his time, why he spent days that others might have deemed unnecessary lying on a hot rooftop. He couldn’t be too prepared. But he could be properly prepared. And he was.

  A guard on the fence leaned in the corner and lit a cigarette. He had his back to the street, watching the driver of the van with windows wipe bugs off the windshield. He was preparing to go and collect the next shift from the barracks. Flynn wanted to move before the van left, while the current shift was winding down, thinking about dinner, but before the fresh guards arrived.

  With no rifle he couldn’t take the long shot at the smoking guard. The time to get from position to the wall would have been long. Alarms would have been raised. So he went the other way. He slipped down the back of the the building and tapped his waist to confirm the pouch containing his documents was strapped firmly to his body. He settled the daypack on his pack, and then he strode out onto the street.

  He looked like one of the cowboys from the old west that he had read about in classrooms in Europe as a child. A gun on either hip. The two-way radio in his hand incongruous with the rest of the picture. He marched out into the traffic, dodging vans and bikes. As he moved he hit the push-to-talk button on the radio.

  The signal took but a fraction of a second to reach another radio. Flynn had used the second radio to build an improvised explosive device. His unit had spent years hunting terrorists for the French government so Flynn had seen more than his share of IEDs. This one was a basic unit. The push-to-talk lit up the circuits in the second radio with a small electronic pulse, enough to trigger the detonator, which exploded the main charge. The initial explosion was small. It didn’t need to be anything more. Partly because bigger explosives entailed more risk, but also because his intention was not to kill anyone, or even do significant damage.

  He had tucked the IED in behind the drum from which the men at the barracks sourced their kerosene, so it was the secondary explosion of the kerosene that created the impact. The drum shot into the sky like a malfunctioning rocket and landed fifty meters away against the side of a latrine building in a ball of flames.

  The men in the barracks came running out to see two sources of fire, to which a third was added when the rear of the barracks themselves erupted in a smaller explosion where Flynn had laid his third radio IED.

  To the untrained eye it looked like a war zone, and Flynn was banking on the eyes being untrained. What he knew was this: Burkina Faso was a majority Muslim country, with roughly sixty percent of the population proclaiming to follow some form of Islam, and a further twenty percent proclaiming to be Christian. Flynn knew both numbers were fuzzy at best, because many people practiced forms of modern religion in tandem with older, traditional African religion. But it mattered not. Because the attacks on French property had been claimed by Muslim terror groups, so Flynn knew that General Thoreaux would only hire Christian men for his private protection. And those men would have been further drilled on the sins of the terrorists, and by default, Islam.

  The men scattered. There were no vehicles at the barracks, so they ran in all directions for the cover of the townships around them. One of the men had been tasked the de facto leader of the unit and had been issued with a two-way radio. As he ran he radioed his compatriot back at the general’s compound to get help. They were under attack.

  The man who took the call was scraping dead bugs off the van with the windows. He heard the panic in the voice and called out to his brothers inside the compound. Men ran from all corners toward the van. The man with the radio jumped in and turned the key and the van spluttered to life. The side door slid open and men leaped into the van as it sped toward the gate.

  Flynn stood at the base of the wall below the guard smoking the cigarette. From that distance he could have taken him out with a pistol, and then could have used a grappling hook to climb over the wall. But he didn’t. He waited. He saw the man push off from the wall and stand straight, his back to Flynn’s position. Perhaps he had heard the distant sound of shouting, although it was hard to hear much over the traffic noise. Then the guard disappeared.

  Flynn moved. He walked fast, holding back from running, around onto the main street and along the front wall. Before him the gate opened. The van with the windows drove out, full of men. The driver cut hard into the traffic to the sounds of horns and abuse, toward the barracks. Flynn kept moving. To the now open gate. He glanced inside the courtyard and changed his line only slightly, so he went from moving along the outside of the wall to moving along the inside.

  The sergent heard the commotion. He always suspected these men were unreliable. Natives always were. There was no loyalty. Something had gotten their attention and they were like mad dogs at a bone. He strode to the balcony and looked down into the courtyard. Men were jumping in the van and the gates were opening.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled. He knew all these men spoke French. He didn’t hire anyone who couldn’t. But the van kept moving. Men had left their positions on the wall, and in the house. Suddenly the thought occurred that perhaps they were terrorist infiltrators after all. As the van reached the gate he saw some men had come from the rear of the property and would not make it to the van. He put his hand on his sidearm and yelled again.

  “You there! What is happening?”

  A lanky man in an olive shirt that passed for a uniform looked up at him.

  “The barracks! Terrorists have bombed the barracks!”

  The sergent thought for moment. There were many reasons for an explosion in the townships. All that kerosene. There were cooking stations jury-rigged with propane. Open fires. All kinds of explanations. But the sergent was only worried about one. A terrorist attack. He watched the van pull out of the compound.

  “Close that gate!” he yelled at the man below.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sergent watched the man run for the gate, and then turned into the house. He had to secure the general.

  The man jogged toward the steel gate. He was worried about his brothers in the barracks, but he knew the men in the van would look after that. The more immediate concern was an attack on the compound. He was not armed. Only the men on the walls were allowed weapons. No one in the house. He had no idea how he was supposed to protect himself, let alone the general, from terrorists. But his first task was to get the gate closed.

  It was heavy steel and he pushed it but moved it only a fraction. It was really a two-man job. As he strained at it another man approached from the side yard near the house. He didn’t recognize the man, but he was white and in a French military uniform. Clearly one of the general’s men.

  “Let’s get this closed,” said the soldier.

  Together they strained hard and pushed th
e gate across the opening in the wall. Then the solider took a large steel rod and rammed it through the latch, locking it closed.

  “Check the back,” said the solider.

  The man nodded and took off toward the rear of the property.

  Flynn watched the man run away. He knew that people usually saw what they expected to see. An evolutionary quirk. And a lack of familiarity. So his French army surplus shirt might fool the local men, but it wouldn’t fool anyone inside the house. He slipped back along the wall and made his way in through the back door. A scent of lavender hung on the air, an oddly feminine fragrance given the environment. There were no women here. Except two, he reminded himself.

  He pulled the sidearm out from the right hand holster and placed his left hand on the grip of the other pistol. He slipped through a deserted kitchen and into a long breezeway that ran the length of the house. Brown tile covered the floor and prints of French countryside covered the walls. He expected little resistance downstairs and that was what he found. He edged behind a grandfather clock that stood near the base of the stairs and listened. Beyond the heavy tick-tock of the clock he heard nothing.

  It was the air pressure that gave it away. Flynn felt the slightest change, a tiny breeze as if a window had been opened in a distance part of the house. He recognized it as a human body pushing the air before it. A body moving down the stairs. He couldn’t hear the boots on the tile, but he readied himself. Both hands.

  The PAMAS G1 sidearm was the first thing he saw, pointed out and ready. He knew the weapon well, having carried one for many years. He watched the weapon sweep one way and then the other, checking the breezeway for what his father had called bogies. As the pistol angled away from him he moved.

  Right hand sweeping up and aiming, but left hand ready. It was a solider. As expected, French. The general might use local men as perimeter guards, but his close guard would always be his own men. The soldier was in battle fatigues that didn’t really match the dusty terrain outside. But he wasn’t out in the terrain. If he were, he would have worn kevlar. Inside the house, he deemed it unnecessary.

  Flynn shot him. One near-silent shot. Nothing more than the pfft of a head hitting a pillow. The soldier fell back on the steps and his eyes lolled back in his head. Flynn glanced up to check for more men but found none coming, so he took the chance to reload his gun. It was a special weapon, a one-shot deal. He took the solider’s handgun and stuffed it into his trousers below his daypack. Then he started up the stairs.

  The stairs turned around on themselves halfway up, and Flynn backed up so he could see anyone coming from above. He saw no one. The tiled steps meant he moved in silence, and he slowed at he reached the top, where he lay down, angled up the stairs. In some respects it was risky. His movement was severely limited, so anyone coming up the stairs would have an easy target, but it also presented any enemy above with a target at floor level. It was human instinct to target a prey’s eye level. For a human, that was a good meter higher than where Flynn appeared around the top of the stairs.

  He saw the guards immediately. A tiled corridor, a heavy armoire and a table burning more fragrant oils. The two men stood either side of a door. Good positions for a protective duty, not so good if you wanted to hide the location of your protectee from an invading force. But the two soldiers presented a challenge for a man with a single shot weapon. Flynn had already considered the possibility and the alternative courses of action. One was the easy way, and one was the hard way, depending on the outcome for the soldiers. Flynn slid back from the corner and stood, and then moved halfway back down the stairs.

  Then he ran up, letting his boots slap into the hard tile. He leapt up onto the landing with one quick step and yelled “Allez!” Both guards were looking his direction, hands on sidearms. Then he turned on his toe and waved his hand in the air as if to direct them to come with him, and he disappeared back down the stairs. He ran halfway down again and then turned back.

  Flynn held his right hand by his side and kept his left hand ready. The soldier’s training should have had them both remain at station. But when the boots hit the ground, human instinct took over. And instinct demanded investigation. He expected one man to check things out and one man to remain guard. That would be the percentage play. If both came, then Flynn would draw two weapons.

  But only one came. He swept around the corner with his sidearm drawn and hesitated when he saw Flynn just standing there. Not a terrorist. A French solider. French repeated his call of allez and made to keep running down the stairs. The guard dropped his sights slightly and follow. He got halfway down when Flynn shot him. The soldier fell back onto the stairs with a muffled thud.

  “Joseph?” called the remaining guard. “Joseph?”

  Flynn quickly loaded his weapon again and then moved up to the top of the stairs.

  “D’accord,” he called. It’s okay.

  He stepped up onto the landing. The guard was facing him. He had flicked the clasp open on his holster but not removed his gun. Flynn questioned the value of the man’s training. Unless he was a quick draw artist, leaving his weapon holstered was a poor choice. Flynn’s weapon was in his hand, so he used it to shoot the guard where he stood.

  He collected the sidearms of the two soldiers and deposited them inside the armoire in the hallway. Then reloaded he holstered his weapon. From here it got difficult. The element of surprise wouldn’t work on the men closest to the general. Flynn had watched the sergent directing the men outside for a week. He was clearly the general’s right hand man. He was there when the general was there, and away with the general when he was not. He would have selected the men closest to the general and would know them well. He would know Flynn was not one of them.

  The door wasn’t locked. Flynn turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was an ante chamber, a small sitting room that preceded the bedroom. The layout was similar to a ship captain’s lodgings. Sitting room with a small table and chairs, a sofa and a writing desk, and then ahead a doorway that led into the bedroom chamber where Flynn suspected he would find another door to the ensuite bathroom. To Flynn’s left was another door that led to the balcony that ran around the house’s upper level. Flynn took a couple steps into the room.

  “Stop there,” said the sergent. Flynn glanced sideways to where the sergent pushed the balcony door fully open with his boot, his PAMAS G1 pointed at Flynn’s head.

  “Take out your sidearm. Two fingers.”

  Flynn used his forefinger and thumb to remove the Glock from its holster. He bent his knees slowly and dropped the weapon gently onto the floor. Then he stood.

  “Your other weapon,” said the sergent.

  Flynn removed the pistol from the back of his trousers, again using the two fingers, and he repeated the process to drop it onto the floor.

  The sergent stepped into the room. Flynn remained side-on, but it would not affect the sergent’s ability to hit his target. On average, the width of a human head from the front was two-thirds its height, while from back to front it was seven eighths, making it side-on the bigger target. Flynn kept his hands easy and his stance firm.

  “Who are you?” asked the sergent.

  “Special forces, sergent.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re blouse is an old pattern. You could buy one in the markets.”

  “Of course. That’s why we wear them.”

  “Why would you wear an old uniform?”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you, sergent.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There has been a terrorist attack. We need to secure the general. Now if you want me to stand here while they attack us, by all means continue. If you feel the need and would like to take your sweet time, sergent, call HQ. Confirm my identity.”

  The sergeant said nothing but didn’t drop his weapon.

  “Go on, sergent, call them.” Flynn nodded toward a landline that sat on its own teak table on the corner of the room. The sergeant glanced at the phone.
<
br />   It was a glance too many. Flynn slipped the gun from the holster on the sergeant’s blind side and fired across his body.

  The sergeant got a shot away. The bullet hit the rendered wall and sent chips of concrete flying. The chips settled on the floor at the same time as the sergeant. Flynn stepped over and kicked the sergeant’s gun away, sending it spinning under the desk. He picked up his own Glock and moved into the bedroom.

  The bed was undisturbed but Flynn felt the moisture in the air and glanced to the en suite bathroom. The door lay ajar.

  “General, quickly,” he said. “We must move you, now.”

  The general stepped from the bathroom. His hair was wet and he wore nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. Flynn lifted his Glock. First the general looked at the gun and frowned. It was not fear that Flynn saw, rather confusion, anger. That anyone could have the temerity to invade the general’s sacred space. Then Thoreaux’s eyes fell upon Flynn’s face. For a moment there was nothing, and then the look changed, the frown dropped. More confusion, but not anger. Surprise.

  “You,” said General Thoreaux.

  Flynn said nothing. He just stepped forward and smashed the butt of his Glock into the general’s face.

  When General Thoreaux woke he was being tied to a chair. Pain pulsed through his head and blood trickled from the cut on the bridge of his nose. His vision was blurred so he blinked hard. Gradually the room came into view. A man stepped in front of him. A face he recalled from a long time ago. Back when he was still in control of his destiny, when he could taste the next promotion, the homeland command. Before all he tasted was defeat and sand and the decay of the dark continent.

  “You,” he repeated.

  Flynn nodded.

  “I should have killed you.”

  “Your man tried, remember.”