The Last Good Man

One Chance

Miles isn’t surprised when gunfire erupts downstairs. He’s been expecting some kind of operation ever since he saw the mosquito drone, but, “Shit,” he whispers to himself. “Why did they wait until Noël was dead?”

Then he’s up, military training taking over. There isn’t enough light in the stinking little room to see, but he’s memorized the place, the positions of his companions. “Ryan, you up?”

“Right next to you.”

Miles feels a hand on his shoulder. Ryan is alert and ready to act; he saw the mosquito drone too.

“Get in the corner,” Miles says, giving him a gentle shove. “Face the wall. Cover your head.”

“What the hell is going on?” Dano demands in his thick Brazilian accent.

“We’re hoping it’s a rescue.”

“What rescue? What do you mean? How do you know it’s a rescue?”

Miles hears doors open. Shouts, footsteps. Decides against debate. Groping in the dark, he finds Dano, grabs the front of his shirt—“Get over here”—hauls him into the corner. “Get down. Cover your head. Protect your eyes.”

He huddles with Ryan and Dano. Flinches as a flurry of shots erupts. A loud bang. Running footsteps. New voices. American voices.

Dano tries to get up. Miles won’t let him.

“Stay back from the door!” someone shouts. A woman’s practiced command voice. “We’re getting you out of here but we have to blow the lock. In five!”

“We’re ready!” Miles shouts.

“Might want to cover your ears,” the woman suggests.

The gunfire downstairs has ceased. Distant shouts and a car alarm’s faraway bleat mingle with the heartbeat thump of her retreating footsteps.

Boom!

Miles winces, feeling like he’s been punched in both ears. Then he’s up again, hauling Dano with him, knowing Ryan will follow. He still can’t see a damn thing. He gropes for the door anyway, finds it ajar, pulls it wider. A tiny red light flicks on in the hall outside. It casts shape into the world, defines the hallway, but it does no more than suggest the presence of a camouflaged figure behind the light. She is a conception, a sketch of a soldier drawn to confuse the eye. Definition exists only in her gloved hands, the screen of her MARC visor, and in the solid mass of the Kieffer-Obermark resting in the crook of her arm.

True, looking back at him, finds herself caught in a moment of weird dissociation. Her visor shows her a light-amplified view of this stranger, Miles Dushane. He’s dressed in a shapeless tunic and stained trousers, face gaunt, beard tangled, his hair dirty and disheveled. She does not know him, has never met him before. And yet between one heartbeat and the next it feels to her as if both time and space are folding around him, bringing forward a more familiar presence.

Haven’t I dreamed this? she asks herself. Of opening this locked door?

Yes. And though it is Miles Dushane who looks back at her from beyond the doorway, she sees through him into a parallel past, to another prisoner, a young man not so different from him, also slated for brutal execution.

Her heart beats again. Time restarts. The past falls away. It is forever beyond reach, and still, a connection remains. It leaves a pressure behind her eyes, a tightness in her chest as she resolves that what happened before will not happen again. Not this time. Miles is not her son, but he is someone’s child, a good man from all that she’s heard, and it consoles her to be here tonight, to ensure that he, at least, survives.

She speaks in a voice purposely brusque, businesslike, no reflection at all of that space between heartbeats. “What’s your condition?” she asks. “Any significant injuries? Broken bones? Anything that will prevent you from getting down the stairs?”

Miles too uses brusque words, but his voice is husky with emotion. “No,” he tells her. “We’re all ambulatory.” He watches the red light move closer. It takes him a few seconds to realize she is holding it out to him. He accepts it by instinct.

“Step out here,” she instructs him. “You first. The others to follow one at a time. I need to pat you down.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He does as she says, stepping into the hall. Only then does he notice a second soldier, a big man waiting halfway down the hall, keeping close watch on the proceedings, ready to bring his weapon into play. Beyond him, four men are on the floor, bound and therefore presumably alive. Miles holds his arms out. The woman runs her hands over him, quickly, professionally, stooping to check his legs and crotch.

Behind him, in the stinking cell, Dano protests. “I don’t understand. Who is this woman? How do we know we can trust her?”

Miles answers with an impatience verging on anger. “I know she’s not fucking Hussam and that’s good enough for me.”

“You’re clear,” the soldier tells him. “Who’s next? Let’s move.”

“Go on, Dano,” Ryan growls from the dark. “Or get the fuck out of my way.”

Dano stumbles into sight, off balance like he’s been pushed. Miles catches his arm, pulls him into the hallway, and tells him, “Stand still.”

He stands frozen, staring at the men on the floor while the soldier pats him down. She finds nothing, turns to Ryan, and repeats the procedure.

“All right,” she says when she’s done. “My name is True Brighton. I’m here with an American PMC called Requisite Operations. If you cooperate and move fast, we will get you out of here. But it’s all or nothing. There won’t be a second chance. If you want to live, follow Jameson.” She gestures at the second soldier. “Move out.”

She doesn’t seek their agreement. She doesn’t need it. This is their one chance at freedom. Ryan understands that. When Jameson starts down the hall, Ryan totters after him, unsteady for lack of exercise but determined. Miles keeps his grip on Dano’s arm and follows.

But Dano still isn’t sure. Shock and confusion piled on top of months of stress have left him adrift, focused on the wrong things, on things he can’t control. After two steps he plants his feet and demands, “What about Fatima? Fatima Atwan? Dr. Atwan is my colleague. She is a prisoner too. We can’t leave her behind.”

Miles doesn’t have an answer. This isn’t his operation. For all he knows, Fatima is dead. “Right now, Dano, you need to shut up and do as you’re told. I swear if you slow me down I will leave you behind.”

“I just—”

“Dr. Atwan is downstairs,” True says, crowding behind them. “She’s coming with us. Now move.”

Dano gives in. He allows Miles to steer him. The little red light picks out the men on the floor, picks out the face of Abu Khamani glaring at them as they stumble past. Aloha, asshole, Miles thinks, but he’s too disciplined to say it aloud—or maybe he’s too superstitious. They’re not home yet.

His light finds the top of the stairs. He directs the beam down. The dim red glow wraps around an indistinct figure. “Ryan, is that you?”

Ryan confirms it. “Right here, pal.”

Miles follows with Dano, the red light revealing one step, then the next. He can’t see Jameson. Wrapped in darkness and camouflage, the soldier has become invisible.

But though Miles can’t see much, he hears things. Male voices. A hard percussion of footsteps. The throaty rush of wind.

He reaches a landing. From somewhere below comes a woman’s wailing wordless cry, one that shifts suddenly to a screaming protest in American-accented English. “No, no, you don’t understand. It won’t help. It’s too late.”

Dano is energized by that voice. “Fatima!” he yells in response. He picks up his pace, rushing Miles to the bottom of the stairs. “Fatima, where are you?”

Miles tightens his grip. “Leave it to the professionals,” he warns.

True peels off at the bottom of the stairs, leaving the three hostages to make their own way to the door.

“Lincoln.”

“Here.”

“Going to pick up a few souvenirs.”

“Do it. But be at the door in ninety seconds.”

“Roger that.”

She returns to the office that she and Jameson cleared on the way in. The door hangs open, its latch broken from when Jameson kicked it. She slips off her pack, digs out two radio-frequency shielded collection bags, and loads them with the obvious storage media: a laptop, a tablet, drives, sticks. That’s all she can take. She seals the bags.

“Lincoln.”

“Here.”

“I’m going to leave a kamikaze crab.”

He’s silent for almost five seconds. Then he says, “All right. Do it. The structure of the house should support it.”

She shrugs the pack back on, slings her KO over her shoulder, and with the two bags in hand, heads for the door. It’s been a few minutes since she checked in with Juliet, who was posted to the courtyard. Time to catch up.

“Juliet,” she says over comms. “What’s your status?”

“Prepped and ready. I’ve got the canopy sliced open and our bots collected.”

“You got all the mayflies?”

“Roger that. Recovered all four.”

Good. True is concerned about the legality of the mayflies. The neurotoxin they deliver might be considered chemical warfare. Best not to leave evidence behind.

Miles follows the beam of his red light around furnishings set up like obstacles in a large room. Ahead is an open doorway with a thin slice of dusty night sky visible beyond. Jameson waits there. Ryan heads for the door but the soldier says, “Hold up. Stand on the side. Keep the door clear. We exit last.”

Miles moves up, stands behind Jameson. From outside he hears the muted roar of powerful engines. A distant jet? And another aircraft, closer.

Boom!

He drops into a crouch, pulling Dano down with him as searing light flickers in the slice of night sky. A courtyard and two parked trucks are briefly revealed, along with a canopy, sliced open, loose edges rippling in the wind.

“That was us,” Jameson says. “Just clearing the skies of cameras.”

Miles stands up again, shaking. Ryan is right beside him, breathing in labored gasps. “Hey,” Miles says. “You okay?”

“Ask me in ten.”

“Right.”

A clatter of motion draws his attention back to the house’s interior. A shadowy tide of soldiers, more sensed than seen, flows from a hallway to the left of the stairs. As they reach the door, glints from their visors and red sparks reflected from his little light give them vague definition. Miles counts four of them and realizes they are carrying a body. He gets only a glimpse before they’re out the door, but that’s enough for a mental snapshot. The body is confined in a canvas bag zipped up to the chin; a black hood covers its head. The sight makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He is sure the body is Hussam’s.

All or nothing, he thinks. Either they get out of here in the next few minutes or every one of them is dead. He grits his teeth and waits for the signal to move out.

Aircraft noise gets louder, deafening, as a helicopter comes in. No navigation lights. No spotlight. It hovers over the courtyard, rotor wash blasting dust in through the open doorway.

Miles leans over to get a better look at the operation, but it’s too dark to see what’s going on. All he can make out are shadows and glints. Then an oblong object rises into the slice of open sky, its shape silhouetted against charcoal clouds. Hussam’s corpse. It’s lifted over the wall as the unseen helicopter roars away.

With the engine noise in retreat, Miles hears something else, something closer: a woman breathing in tiny, high-pitched gasps. She sounds as if she’s just inches away. Cautiously, he raises his light.

Dano turns to look too. “Fatima,” he whispers.

She is dressed in a thin white shift. A broad Velcro restraining strap secures her arms against her body. A soldier stands behind her, gloved hands on her shoulders. Fatima wears no veil, no hijab. Her black hair hangs loose and wild, and in the red light her eyes have the appearance of unnatural black pits, haunted, in a face that is waxy and drawn.

“Dushane, are you ready?” True Brighton asks him.

He startles at the question, having lost track of her. He turns, finds her beside him, and answers, “Yes, ma’am. Are we getting the fuck out of here now, ma’am?”

“Roger that. We are crossing the courtyard and exiting through the gate, into the street. You will get your people into the back of the waiting truck. Understood?”

“Absolutely, ma’am.”

“Switch off your light.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s go.”

Miles can’t see a damn thing as they move out across the courtyard. All he can do is follow the sound of the soldiers ahead of him while keeping a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and a grip on Dano’s arm. Grit under his bare feet and the occasional thorn make him wince, but he doesn’t slow down. Ahead he hears shouts and the ripping thunder of over-accelerating gasoline engines racing toward their position. It sounds like this escape attempt is going to run straight into the enemy’s arms. But there’s no going back.

The shooting starts as they reach the gate. He sees distant muzzle flashes like sideways candles. Hears bullets buzzing down the street, tumbling against the walls. Answering fire erupts, deafening in its proximity. The attackers fall back.

There is no moon, and there are no houselights to be seen anywhere along the street. Blowing dust shrouds all but the brightest stars. He can see a waiting truck only by the dim red light that spills from its open doors. It’s a double-cab pickup with a high clearance and a rigid canopy enclosing the cargo bed. One of the soldiers opens the tailgate doors. “Get inside! Strap into a harness if you can. If not, fucking hold on.”

Ryan doesn’t hesitate; he scrambles right in. Miles pushes Dano after him and then crawls in behind.

It’s a good-sized space. There are side windows in the canopy and a skylight four and a half feet above the cargo bed. A thick mat covers the bed and the walls.

Ryan raps his knuckles against the canopy. “Solid,” he announces. “Fucker’s armored.”

Canvas seats and harnesses are anchored to the sidewalls. Nets stretched across the ceiling hold gear. Miles can see these details because red light from the cab wells through an intervening window, providing a baseline illumination. There’s not enough light for him to be sure, but it looks like one net holds spare magazines and another has packs of what could be C-4. One thing he is certain about is a collection of helmets. He pops that net and pulls them out.

Ryan has moved all the way in, taking a seat closest to the cab. He pulls on a harness. Dano straps in next to him.

“Put these on,” Miles says, handing them helmets. Then he straps in too, facing them, shoulder against the cab window.

Six soldiers climb in after them, vague shapes crowding in the near dark. The cargo bed fills with the heat of bodies and the smell of fresh sweat. The tailgate doors slam shut, muting the sound of gunfire. Facemasks come off, helmets go on.

In the cab, more soldiers. Miles watches them through the window. He recognizes Jameson riding shotgun. A leaner guy already strapped in behind the wheel. Two more in the backseat, wrestling with Fatima. She is struggling in her restraints, resisting their efforts to get her strapped safely in. Does she even understand this is a rescue? Or in her mind is she being kidnapped again?

Harnesses are secured. Doors close. The engine revs and the truck surges forward. Somewhere behind them, a muffled explosion. Outside, the shooting starts up again.

A side window close to Miles is shoved open. He ducks, not wanting to catch a stray bullet. Faint red highlights let him identify a KO in the hands of the soldier beside him. The weapon is aimed out the window, but the soldier isn’t shooting. No one in the truck is shooting. The gunfire outside fades into intermittent firecracker pops, barely audible over the rush of air past the open window.

The window gets slammed shut.

A hearty masculine voice rises above the road noise. “Listen up, friends. My name is Rohan and this is a Requisite Operations mission. Things are going to get ugly in the next few minutes, but don’t worry. The air force is looking out for us, and we will get you home. So hold on and don’t get in the way.”