Chapter 21
As dawn approached, Race peered at the structure silhouetted in the distance. The coal processing plant was located on the outskirts of the park and just as Hadji had surmised, was still standing, but not on any of the recent maps due to it being abandoned. Race hoped that the lack of information that prevented the traffickers' hideout from being discovered sooner did not prove disastrous for Jonny. He recalled to mind what the lunatic Douglas said to him in the woods, but Race refused to believe that Jonny was gone. After all the years he spent watching over that kid, protecting him and his father from every scoundrel, foreign agent or crazed madman that wanted to use Jonny as a means to get at Benton, Race refused to believe he was gone at the hands of nameless scum that sold their fellow humans for profit.
Even as his thoughts scrambled at a hundred miles an hour inside his head, Race's ears were attuned to his surroundings and he heard Phil's light footfalls as he approached. Even weighted down with his equipment, Phil moved lightly on his feet through the wood line and most men wouldn't have heard the Director's approach until it was too late. But Race was not like most men and he was about to prove that once again.
"All teams are in position." Phil confirmed as he knelt down next to Bannon. Three assault teams, in addition to Race and Phil, were standing by for the signal to move in on the plant. Approximately a quarter mile down the road was the rest of Phil's Agents waiting in reserve if needed, along with Doctor Quest, Hadji, Estella and Jessie. Race had not agreed with both his ex-wife and his daughter being at the scene, but once again, he knew there was zero chance of them staying behind. He had to remind himself that he'd be doing same thing if he was in their position and in reality it was Estella's persistent stubbornness that had enabled them to find Jessie. He had at least gotten them to agree to stay back with Roberts, away from the actual assault.
"UAV infrared feed not showing any targets outside or near the perimeter of the building." Roberts' voice reported through their earpieces. "You should have a clear path to the structure. Be careful. Protocol dictates bounding movement."
Phil pushed the small mic attached to the top of his tactical plate carrier vest. "Teams Two and Three, hold your positions and provide covering fire if necessary until the rest of us are in position at the building."
"Roger." Team Two's leader, Agent Dugger, confirmed.
Agent Massey from Team Three replied, "Affirmative, Sir."
Race turned his head slightly and smiled, "I think Roberts is ready to go back to pouring through regulations and decoding intercepted communiqués. He's never seen this much action has he?"
"Terry's a commo guy, he doesn't like field work." Phil replied, running his hand through his dark hair as he did.
"He's great at reciting regulation and spouting off protocol just like you, man."
"Eat a dick, Bannon." Phil said, slapping his friend's shoulder. "You miss us and you fucking know it."
"I've already said it, but you know I really appreciate you coming out here, putting your neck on the line for us again. You didn't have to do this, you know?"
"We came out here for Jessie and Jonny. I'd never balk at dropping everything to help them and neither would my people. You know that. And I kind of miss working with you, Bannon." Phil replied. "If nothing else, it's never dull when you're around."
"Likewise, brother. But I bet your Agents hate it when you come out and get to have all the fun, leaving them in reserve." Race joked. "Stephens never did this kind of stuff."
"My prerogative." Phil smirked. "When they become Director they can do whatever the hell they want. And Stephens was a stuffy suit more concerned with pleasing the Hill than the mission or taking care of his people."
"I didn't know you felt that way about him." Race stated, killing a few minutes with small talk while the UAV made its final confirmation run.
Phil huffed, showing his distaste for his predecessor. "You probably don't know this, but it was Stephens' piss poor planning that got Rachel Quest killed. He fucked up bad and I wanted to see him not only lose his pension, but also do time for the complete mission failure he orchestrated. But he was allowed to retire quietly before they gave me the job. He got an innocent woman killed and smeared Intelligence One's name in the process. It took me years to rebuild our reputation within the International Intelligence Community while at the same time helping Benton with his grief and feelings of betrayal, feelings he was right to have. Stephens can rot in hell."
"Damn, man." Race wheezed.
"I knew Rachel," Phil said, his lips curled in an irritated scowl. "She didn't deserve to die the way she did. So until I'm dead I'll always do anything within my power; physically, mentally, and professionally to help Benton. After our mission in Prague I knew you were one of the best Agents the Agency had on its rolls. After Rachel was killed and Benton needed an Agent to protect his young son, I made sure your dossier was on the top of the pile that went to Benton for him to select a bodyguard."
Race paused, soaking in the words of his companion; he understood Phil's deep-seated devotion to his job and Race felt a minute sense of pride swell up for a moment. Phil didn't select his closest allies or best Agent's lightly. He always knew that he was closer to Corbin than most other I-1 Agents, but the validation from Phil felt good.
"Phil, speaking of Prague, you know I was there not that long ago with Benton and the boys, right?"
"Yes," Phil replied. "You may not be required to submit field reports anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't know what you're doing. Especially since Vostok reared his ugly head again."
"So you know that we were invited there by Alena." Race grinned. "She asked about you."
"That was a long time ago, Race." Phil said, but Race saw the faint smile on the man's face as he remembered his old flame.
"Yeah, but you must have left an impression." Race elbowed his friend in the ribs.
"Well, we did stop a madman from murdering her and thousands of her fellow countrymen."
"That's not what I meant."
Phil shot Race a sideways glance as he smiled. "I know."
Race shook his head as Roberts cut in, "UAV pass complete. Again, no targets identified. Advise movement in one mike. UAV circling on station per directive, Over."
"Roger, Out." Phil relayed back to the Agent in the rear, happy to have attention focused back on the task at hand and not himself.
Looking towards the building for a moment, Race admitted, "At times, I do miss this."
"Well, let's get to it then."
Cradling his compact HK 416, equipped with angled foregrip and sound suppressor, Race extended the butt stock for the comfort position he preferred. Raising it into the pocket of his shoulder, he nestled the weapon in place and looked at his friend. Phil's body style and language mirrored that of Race's. Each member of the assault team was similarly armed with suppressed rifle, standard issued sidearm, basic ammunition loads for both weapons, grenades and a combat knife. They wore dark tactical gear that included black cargo pants with built in knee protection, leather combat boots, dark shirts and gloves. Each man also wore a tactical plate carrier vest that held their ammo, grenades, knife, handcuffs and flex-cuffs, communications devices and medical kits. Race also had a breach kit strapped to the back of his vest. Affixed to the back of their vests a black patch with bold white block letters identified each man as an Intelligence One Agent.
"I'm ready." Race set his jaw and focused his mind, purging his mind of any thoughts that were not about the mission or Jonny.
"This is your show." Phil said. "You give the signal."
Race nodded as he gave Phil a thankful nod. He knew the plan, had coordinated the details, yet he had been surprised when Phil handed over command of the mission to him. Race figured Phil was giving him a chance to redeem himself, even though from what Race could tell from the other Agents, the need for redemption was only in Race's head. These men, including Phil, respected Race, regardless of the past or present. Race may have been blacklisted because of Estella's action two years ago, but the men that stood by his side now, the men that would willingly follow him into the unknown to save Jonny didn't care about any of that. Not even Corbin seemed to be bothered by the past any more. All that mattered was the current mission, the mission to breach the building and rescue Jonny Quest.
Each of the three fire teams consisted of two agents in order to facilitate bounding movements to reach the building; once they breached the building each team was assigned a specific floor to clear. Race and Phil were the lead element for the assault and would clear the basement.
From Jessie's description of her confinement, they concluded that the holding cells were underground. Knowing that was the most likely spot to locate and secure Jonny, Race had insisted that he sweep and clear that area. He also knew that if it was where the traffickers were holding the kidnapped kids, it would be the most heavily guarded and therefore the most dangerous place in the entire building; exactly where Race wanted to be.
"Team One, move out in thirty seconds on my mark. Stay on internal comms channel till you reach your sector. How copy, over?" Race keyed into his mic.
"Tracking." Agent Johnson replied.
Looking at Phil, Race asked, "You ready?"
"As ever." Phil grinned and saddled into a crouch, waiting for Race's direction. Phil would move first, then once in position, Race would follow, allowing each man to cover the other.
Nodding once, Race keyed the mic again. "Team One, mark."
Race watched as the Agent on Team One emerged from the wood line off to his left. Team One was the second furthest team from Race. With a tap to Phil's shoulder, Race pointed. Phil rose, hoisted his weapon into his shoulder and ran for the first marker. Race observed Phil sprint, hit the ground just behind the pile of rubble and concrete, then take up a prone position, aiming his rifle in the general location of a row of busted out windows on the building. A moment later, he relayed back to Race, "In position."
Race was on his feet the moment Phil signaled. "Moving." He reported then ran.
Seconds later he dropped to his stomach next to Phil. Patting the Director on the head, he pointed where he wanted to him move to next; an old rusted, graffiti covered dumpster. With a grunt, Phil was on his feet and moving again, heading for the spot Race had indicated. Less than five seconds later, he bumped into the filthy bin, went to one knee and took up a position aiming around the edge. He repeated, "In position." the moment he was steady.
Race knew Team One was conducting a similar movement technique to reach the building. Even though they had advanced almost half way without being engaged, Race had to move the teams on the assumption that the building was occupied and they could take fire at any moment. Bounding was somewhat slow, slower than just running balls to the wall across the open space, but it was safer.
"Moving." Race bounced up to his feet and was sprinting as he finished saying the word.
Reaching the dumpster, he and Phil continued to mirror their previous movements of silent taps, location indications, and movement. Over the course of the next few minutes, they had reached the decrepit wall of the structure. Shooting a quick glance into the closest window, Phil didn't see any movement. The glass was dirty and covered in a streaky film, so he watched for a few extra moments just to be sure. When he still didn't see any movement he shook his head at Race and held up his left hand, making a "zero" symbol. Motioning to move forward along the wall, Race jerked his chin upward and got behind Phil, keeping one hand on the man's back as they moved silently but quickly along the wall to the closest door. Again, arriving unchallenged, Phil maintained his stance while Race radioed the other teams, "Lead Team in position."
Seconds later, "Team One in Position."
Race smiled at the professionalism of his former colleagues; he did miss working with these guys. "Teams Two and Three, move up."
Scanning the surroundings, including occasionally glancing above, Race breathed evenly as the last two teams traversed the land between the trees and the building. No gunfire erupted, no shouts of alarm, or klaxons. So far, the I-1 teams had remained undetected.
Less than five minutes later, "In position." Each team leader, to include Team One again, reported in turn.
"Understood. Remember guys, we go in silent. Check entry points now, over." Race ordered.
Phil reached forward with his non-dominant hand and checked the door handle; it was locked. Holding up two fingers he let go of his rifle, but the quick release strap kept it tucked next to his body and firing arm, able to be secured and aimed in a moment's notice. Kneeling in front of the door, Phil reached into a pouch on his vest and withdrew a set of lock-picking tools.
Selecting the appropriate picks Phil went to work on the lock, less than a minute later he heard a distinct click. Quickly tucking his tools away he stood and swept his free hand along the door frame. Securing his rifle in the low ready position he leaned back to Race and whispered into his ear. "Unlocked and frame appears clear of any booby traps."
Race whispered back approvingly, "Good work. Jade would be proud of you."
Phil snorted and turned back into position. Rifle raised, he grasped the door handle and waited for Race's signal.
"Report." Race keyed.
"Team One ready."
"Team Two ready."
"Team Three ready."
"Good. Breach silent. Maintain radio silence from here on out. Hand and arm signals. Only break silence if you need immediate backup or once your floor is cleared. Team Leaders, take charge. Understood?"
"Roger."
"Affirmative."
"Roger."
Inhaling, Race welcomed the rush of adrenaline that surged through his veins as he readied himself to follow behind Corbin. He'd selected this door because based on the intel it was the closest to the stairwell that led to the basement.
Sucking in a deep breath, Race raised his rifle and extended his other arm completely, his hand placed firmly on Phil's upper back. Knees bent, slightly crouched, Phil waited until he felt Race tap him three times on the top of the head. Twisting his wrist, Phil pushed the door open, moved and aimed low. Race was right behind him, only an arm's length away, and sweeping high.
The door opened into a large open room that may have at one time served as a warehouse or storage area. A number of bare bulbs not yet burnt out years prior, still glowed along the ceiling, casting eerie shadows that heightened Race's anxiety. Treading lightly, the two men attempted to make as little noise as possible, but as they moved along the interior wall, their boots crunched over broken glass and rotted wood. In some areas they splashed through shallow puddles of stagnant rain water that had penetrated through the decaying structure's supports; Race tried not to think what caused the occasional wet, sucking squishiness under their feet. A foul stench rose as they moved deeper into the room away from the already poorly ventilated areas to an even stuffier environment.
Heading for the wooden door they believed led to the captives, the two men continued to scan the room, ready to react in a heartbeat. Race was approximately ten paces from the door when he heard a loud mechanical whirring. Eyes darting about, Race saw the open style elevator shaft. It was tucked back into the far corner of the room to the point that both men wouldn't have even seen it; they had not known there was a working elevator.
Signaling Phil through a series of hand and arm signals, Race indicated to his partner what he wanted. Phil nodded and quickly moved off into the shadows on the far side of the elevator; Race did the same on the near side. He could no longer see Phil, but he knew the other man's general whereabouts as the Director cloaked himself in the shadows.
Listening, Race could hear two voices over the drone of the mechanics and the squealing of the cables. Setting his jaw, he prepared himself in the same manner he had ordered Corbin to do. Securing his rifle, he slid his combat knife from its sheath. Gripping it firmly in his hand, he waited.
As the elevator approached, the voices grew louder; two men speaking English.
"This latest group frightens so easily. They make it almost too easy, but the smell of their fear is intoxicating. I love it." One man joked.
"You keep messing around with the goods, the boss is going to cut your balls off, dumbass." The other man replied. Race heard the distinct metallic clink of a Zippo, one of the men was lighting a cigarette.
"Fuck that," The first thug retorted. "These new clients never want the girls anyway. Fucking freaks if you ask me."
"They pay well and that's all that matters. So you need to stop snatching the girls. We're losing money."
Race sneered as he listened to the two men's chitchat. The elevator slowed, then stopped with a loud bang.
"This thing always gives me the creeps." Thug One grumbled. Race heard him take a long drag from his smoke.
"Next time take the stairs." Thug Two shot back as he inhaled on his own cigarette.
Opening the protective doors, the two men exited. Race saw they were armed, but both had their weapon slung over their shoulders, barrels pointed skyward and only cigarettes in their hands. 'Amateurs.' Race thought.
As the two men cleared the lift, Race let them take three steps forward. Stepping out from the shadows, he came up behind the first thug, happy it was him he was able to grab. Clamping his hand over the man's mouth, Race pulled backwards, exposing his throat.
The thug's startled cry was muffled by Race's gloved hand just before he slid his sharpened blade across the man's neck. Body jerking as he died, Race snarled and held on to the man as he bled out, unfazed by the bubbling gurgles as the thug's blood poured painfully out of his throat. Within seconds the man stiffened one final time then went limp. The same muted cry and struggle of the other goon filtered quietly off to Race's right and he knew the second man had met the same fate from Phil's blade.
Once dead, Race wrapped his arms under the man's armpits and dragged him into the blackened corner. Phil did the same, piling the two corpses on top of each other. Someone would have to deliberately come all the way to the corner and check the dark recess to discover the two corpses.
Both men wiped their blades clean before sheathing the silent weapons. Coming up next to Race, Phil leaned in close to his partner. Hand on his shoulder, Race whispered in Phil's ear and inclined his head towards the door once again. "That way."
With a nod, Phil raised his weapon once again. Two steps towards the door, the silent assault was suddenly destroyed by a burst of automatic gunfire from the floor above.
"What the?" Race grumbled as his gaze was drawn upward to a number of holes, created by years of abandonment and neglect. Race could just make out rebar jutting out from some of them. Looking around, Race motioned for Phil to move.
"Report." Race ordered as he keyed the mic. "What the hell is going on up there?"
"Ambushed, Sir. Carroll is hit." Agent Dugger reported.
"Crap." He grumbled. "So much for being undetected."
Turning to look for his partner, Race heard a door bang open and shouts fill the far end of the room. "There." A man shouted before raising his own weapon and firing.
Race dove for cover as bullets screamed through the open room, flying by just over head. Hitting the ground hard, he rolled to avoid the impact of the high velocity rounds and falling chunks of debris. Brushing a handful of concrete dust and debris from his hair, Race searched the room. The shouts of the assailants grew more demanding and courageous, believing they had taken out the infiltrators. Crawling across the dirty floor, he made his way to Corbin who was lying prone behind a steel support beam. Race was thankful it was still somewhat dark so they could conceal themselves as they prepared for the engagement. As he reached Phil's side, the Director, propped up on his elbows, took aim and opened fire on their assailants.
"Keep firing." Race yelled into Phil's ear as the other man concentrated on the unknown number of goons that fired back at them. At least with their suppressed rifles, it would take the enemy gunmen longer to pinpoint Race's and Phil's positions in the darkness.
With a grunt, Race rolled over onto his back and pulled a frag grenade from his vest. Flipping the safety clip off, he glanced at Phil and waited. Corbin continued to fire until his bolt locked back. With a calmness that Race found refreshing, Phil rolled onto his side, dropped his empty magazine, snagged another one from his vest, loaded it, and rolled back onto his stomach to keep firing. The man's entire movement had only taken seconds. Race grinned, happy that his friend had decided his tactical skills were just as important as his diplomatic ones.
With Phil providing the covering fire, Race pulled the pin on his grenade. Using a frag grenade in the confines of a deteriorating building wasn't ideal, but they couldn't see how many men they were facing and the longer they dealt with these goons, the longer any traffickers in the basement had to react.
As he counted to three, Race rolled back onto his stomach and popped up to his knees. Throwing the grenade as hard and as far as he could, his ears took in the distinct sound of the spoon popping free of the grenade and he hit the floor flat the moment the device left his hand. Turning his head to the side and protecting himself with one arm, he saw Phil stop shooting and do the same. Race grinned at his partner as the two men waited until the grenade exploded in the dark. Cries of pain and shouts of confusion drifted from the far end of the room as the gunfire momentarily ceased.
"Go." Phil said as he pushed himself up to his knees. "I'll take care of the rest of these guys."
Race nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Don't let anyone get past you."
"I'm not planning on it, Bannon." Phil replied then ducked as a frantic volley of bullets were lobbed in their direction. "Go."
Race was on his feet and moving towards the door. Without looking back he heard Phil heading to a different position, firing while he moved.
Reaching the door, Race didn't stop. 'If anyone's waiting on the other side, they're in for one hell of a surprise.' He thought. Ensuring his weapon was cradled snuggly in his arms, Race lowered his shoulder and slammed into the obstacle. Wood cracked and splintered as the force of his momentum and body weight blew the door inward.
Two men knelt just paces from the door, lying in wait to open fire on anyone that had walked through. Their startled shouts registered only briefly in Race's mind as he burst through the door and immediately lowered his body, tucking into a tight combat roll as he rushed onward.
His movement was fast and unexpected and before the two ambushers knew what was happening, Race was popping up directly between them. He slammed the butt of his rifle into one man's temple, the blow so deliberate and forceful that it snapped the man's head around, breaking his neck, killing him instantly. As the other man turned, Race swung his back arm up, over and down as he twisted his torso; the move brought his back arm, reinforced with the butt stock of his rifle, down hard onto the back of the second man's neck. He heard a sickening crunch as his attack crushed a number of vertebrae in his target's neck before the man collapsed in a crumbled heap.
Bouncing to his feet, he took in his new surroundings. He was in a short hallway that served as a makeshift landing. Another door was set into the far wall and Race assumed that beyond the door were the stairs that led down into basement. Listening he didn't hear any more gunfire from the main room and was about to radio for an update when Corbin's voice cracked in his ear, "I'm coming through. Don't shoot me."
Race grunted a laugh as Phil emerged through the shattered door.
"Holy shit, Bannon." He smiled at Race as he stepped over the broken wood and dead bodies.
"Screw them." Race growled then nodded beyond the busted doorway. "Status?"
"Eight guys, ten if you count the two from the elevator. Armed with an assortment of rifles, but mostly AKs. One had a Dragunov, but the idiot probably had no idea how to properly use it. No one carries one of those as a CQB weapon. Your grenade killed or incapacitated at least five of those eight. But now, all scumbags are no longer breathing." Snapping his fingers with a smile he added, "I made sure of that."
Giving Phil a satisfactory nod, Race keyed his mic. "All Teams, Status Report in sequence."
"Team One, we're good to go. Clearing to your position now, Over."
"Team Two, Carroll was hit. Superficial. He'll be alright. Continuing to clear, Over."
"Team Three, Third floor clear. No engagement. Moving to roof, Over."
Assimilating the reports, Race nodded in turn as each team spoke. "Copy all. Good job, guys. Charlie mike and report once complete."
Giving Phil a thumbs up, the two men flanked the basement door on each side as Race remarked. "I'm first this time, pal. Flash bangs. They know we're here."
Removing one of the concussion grenades that Race mentioned, Phil primed the device as Race did the same. "Ready." Phil reported.
Pushing himself away from the wall, Race stood in front of the door, raised his leg and thrust a heavy booted kick to the handle and jam. As the lock and handle disintegrated from the force of Race's blow, the door flung inward and both men tossed the flash bangs down the poorly lit steps.
A few shouts rose up moments before the devices detonated. "Move!" Race ordered as he raised his weapon and headed down the steps, Corbin right on his heels.
The stone stairs were old and worn, craggy in some places, but slick in others. Race was glad they did not turn, instead leading straight down. Reaching the bottom, Race and Phil moved through the haze of smoke caused by the blasts. One man was on the ground, groaning as he crawled slowly for his dropped handgun. Race turned, aimed, and put two rounds into the man's back.
Two others staggered drunkenly before them. Seeing two armed adversaries materialize in the haze, one thug raised his rifle in their direction. Race and Phil both saw the man as they strode forward and fired at the exact same time, bombarding the gunman with a hail of bullets that ripped his body to shreds. With a grunt, the man fell.
The final gunman moved, using the haze as concealment. Race couldn't see him, but heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being racked.
"Corbin, get down!" He shouted while at the same time shouldering his partner out of the line of fire. Spinning, Race brought his weapon to bear in the direction of the sound and fired blindly into the haze just as the gunman did the same.
Ears ringing from the deafening blasts of multiple weapons, the gunman still registered the distinct grunt of his target taking a round of shot then crashing to the concrete floor with a thud. The trafficker's celebration was short lived, however, as Phil fired a burst of rounds into the crouching thug. Wavering on his knees the man lowered his arms as the shotgun slid from his grasp. Phil moved forward and kicked the gunman in the chest, sending him sprawling to his back, then coldly fired two rounds into the man's skull.
Turning back towards Race, Phil knelt beside him. "Race?"
Coughing, Race grunted painfully, "I'm alright."
"Shit," Phil grimaced. Most of the shot had been absorbed into Race's vest, but a few stray balls had peppered Race's lower torso, causing superficial wounds and some mild bleeding. "Can you stand?"
Gritting his teeth, Race pressed a hand against his wounds as Phil pulled him up into a sitting position. Closing his eyes and he biting down to combat the pain, Race growled. "I'll live." Grasping Phil's forearm, Phil pulled Race to his feet as Bannon's face contorted then flushed with anger. "Fuck!"
Pulling his hand away, his glove was sticky. Taking a cautious step, Race scowled, "That mother fucker got me pretty good."
"You're lucky the vest took most it." Phil stated. Then as if it would make Race feel better, he added with a grin, "At least he only got you there and didn't shoot your dick off."
"Yeah, then I'd really be mad." Race grunted a laugh.
"You going to be okay? You need a few to recover?"
Race waved him off and reloaded his rifle. "No time for that. We'll deal with it later."
With a shrug, Phil complied and reloaded his own weapon. "Come on then. We have to find Jonny."
Shaking his head to clear the rattles, Race nodded as they proceeded forward into the room. Feeling the cool dampness on his skin, he knew they had to be in the right place. Ten yards up ahead, they came upon a set of steel doors, but another door off to the right caught their attention.
Waving at it, Race signaled Phil to head in that direction and both men proceeded forward, weapons raised and ready. Reaching the door, Race leaned against it and heard muffled voices on the other side. Stepping back, he decided to try a different tactic. Communicating through hand signals, Race quickly told Phil what to do. With a nod, Corbin moved up, grasped the handle with one hand and heaved his shoulder against the door. Bursting inward, Phil used the momentum to enter and dropped into a crouch, his left hand quickly grasping the angled foregrip of his rifle. Race swung upward scanning the room just as quickly as Phil.
Two men froze. It was apparent by the look one of their faces they had expected the gunmen to have disposed of the Agents. A long folding table ran along an interior wall, just underneath a two-way mirror, a door set at the end of the interior wall. Atop the table was a number of laptop computers, cell phones, and other electronic devices. Both men were standing in front of one of the laptops, their hands hovering over the keyboard.
"Get your hands up!" Race yelled. "Now!"
"Do not shoot. I am not part of this." One of the men said, his accent was different than the gunmen they had encountered earlier.
"I said get your hands up!" Race said as he stepped all the way into the room. Phil was back on his feet, his weapon aimed at the two men.
"What the hell is this?" The other man sneered. His left hand twitched and his eyes flickered, drifting towards the table that was partially obscured by his body.
"Don't do it." Race ordered and tucked his rifle tighter in the pocket of his shoulder.
"Fuck you." The man growled as he made his decision.
Race fired; he felt the satisfying recoil push against his shoulder as the round burst from the end of the barrel and smacked into the trafficker with a satisfyingly wet thud. Blood splattered onto the two way mirror as the round tore through the man's upper torso and smacked into the thick glass beyond, creating a creepy spider web effect.
The man's eyes were wide with shock as he fell and clutched the wound. Groaning, blood poured between the man's fingers as he held his shoulder and moaned weakly, "You shot me. Fucking asshole."
Ignoring the perp's words, Race turned his weapon on the other man, who jerked his arms so quickly into the air Race was surprised he hadn't dislocated his shoulders.
"Do not shoot me!" He stammered, frozen in place.
Race nodded his head at Phil, who lowered his weapon and stepped forward. The look on Corbin's face made Race flinch. If he hadn't know better, it looked as if Corbin somehow recognized the man and that recognition angered the I-1 Director.
Letting his rifle hang at his side as he took two long strides, Phil grabbed the young man, who sported slicked back hair and perfect teeth. In one motion, Phil spun the suspect around like a ragdoll while kicking the back of his knees to force him to kneel. Once on the ground Phil stood behind him in a way that prevented him from moving; clenching the man's right wrist, Phil slammed the man's hand, palm side down, onto the table. With his other hand he unsheathed his knife and ran the tip of the blade along the man's fingers. He glanced back with a look that told Race this had to do with Jessie.
Lowering his voice to growl in the ear of his terrified prisoner, Phil asked, "Is this the hand?"
"What?" He stammered. "What are you talking about?"
"Is this the filthy hand that you touched the redheaded girl with?" Phil spat as he dug his knee into the curve of the man's spine.
"You have the wrong person. I don't know what you mean." The man squirmed in a futile attempt to escape Phil's hold.
"Don't lie to me, you son of a bitch. Now you know what fear tastes like, don't you? Now you know how you made her feel." Lifting his prisoner's hand up, Phil then slammed it back down onto the table. "Answer me!" He demanded.
Frightened beyond belief, the man began to cry as he lost control and wet himself. "I didn't mean to hurt her. I would have treated her well."
"Wrong answer." Phil huffed. He spun theknife in his hand to grasp it so the blade pointed skyward and the heavy metal ball on the bottom of the handle hovered over the molester's hand. Raising his arm, he brought the butt of the kabar down on with all his strength. Bones crushed instantly under the force of the blow as the man yowled in pain, his body jerking as a result.
Sheathing the knife, Phil released the sniveling coward and stepped back as he slid to the floor. He was shaking uncontrollably and crying as Phil knelt and rolled the wounded man onto his stomach and proceeded to handcuff him, taking no care at all to be gentle with the hand that he had just broken.
Looking up at Race, Phil simply stated, "For Jessie."
Race nodded, showing both his thanks and respect to his partner, then stepped over to the wounded trafficker. The man was flayed out on the ground, groaning, while rolling around in a pool of his own blood. Flipping him over, Race slipped a pair of flex-cuffs over the man's wrists; the satisfying sound that came from tightening the zip-ties down made Race forget his own injuries and smile with delight at the scumbag's misery.
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After securing the two prisoners and radioing to inform the other teams as well as the operations center, they cleared the empty room beyond the mirror then pushed onward through the steel double doors in the main chamber.
Mere steps inside, the two friends were assaulted by the overpowering stench of decay and human waste, combined with a lingering reek of animals. They'd just walked into a hellish chamber of death and the smell reminded Phil of the foul odor from the mixture that the brute, Douglas, was dumping on Jessie back in the house.
Coughing, he gagged. "What the fuck?"
Race grunted as his mind took in what they were seeing. The room was long, dark and damp. Fluorescent light sets ran along the length of the ceiling, but only a few were turned on and of those most flickered. Running lengthwise down each outer wall was rows of not cells, but cages; animal cages.
"Check the left. I'll take the right." Race ordered as he waved his arm in the direction he wanted Phil to move.
Stepping forward, Race moved with precision and care as he quickly made his way to the first chain linked cage. Moving in front of it, he leapt backwards as a dog launched itself at him, barking and snarling as it sprayed spittle and saliva from its bared fangs. Slamming against the interior of its cage, the mangy beast snapped its massive jaws at Race, but when it realized it could not reach its prey, it slowly ceased its impromptu attack, returning to its darkened corner, a low growl emanating from its maw as it went.
Moving forward again, Race left the dog behind. As he moved deeper into the room, the lighting grew dimmer, so Race activated the flashlight on his rifle's lower rail, through his peripheral vision he saw Phil do the same. The first three cages were empty, but Race saw telltale signs of recent occupancy; dirty, bug-infested blankets balled up on torn mattresses, dog bowls filled with scraps of food, empty water bottles, and buckets filled with waste.
The images made Race's blood simmer. He couldn't imagine his little Ponchita or Jonny having to suffer in such conditions. He stepped over a garden hose that snaked through the area. The slow, steady stream of water rinsing the floor of caked on grime and blood. Race saw a chunk of reddish, brown meat float through the tiny stream and stop just above the floor drain, too large to fit down the hole. Sneering at the sight, he didn't want to think about where the meat had originated; it looked disturbingly human.
"Those fuckers are lucky they just got shot." He grumbled in regards to the men that were responsible for the conditions he was seeing. "I'd enjoy making them pay for this."
"Help. Down here." A cry from a distance cage brought Race out of his thoughts. Running towards the voice, both men converged at the source of the cry.
"Help us. Please." A young girl pleaded as Race and Phil shone their lights into the cage. "Please."
Inside the cage three children huddled together in the far corner. They were dirty, covered in filth, barefoot and barely clothed. Their eyes were wide with fright and they shivered against one another from fear and cold.
Phil grasped the padlock and chain that secured the cage door. Aggravated he pulled on it, but it didn't budge. Scowling, his face revealing his own disgust and hatred at what he was seeing, but looking at the terrified occupants of the filthy cage, he changed his tone and attempted to sound reassuring. "You're safe now. It's okay."
Keying his mic, Race said, "Roberts, get your ass up here now. We need paramedics."
"We're moving, Race." Roberts replied immediately.
Examining the lock, Phil, removed his flashlight as Race turned his back, allowing Corbin to remove the small bolt cutters from the breaching kit on the back of Race's vest. Gripping the light in his teeth, Phil grunted as he cut the lock and pulled the chain free. "It's okay." He spoke as he put his tool and light down. Then he opened the cage and stepped inside. "You're safe now." He offered as he kept his hands raised, "We're not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you anymore."
"Please." The young girl continued to say.
Reaching out, Phil took the first girl into his arms and she immediately clung to him as if letting go would surely cause her more pain and death.
Race moved into the cage and reached for the second girl. Wrapping her up gently, Race fumed at how light the teen felt. The dirt and grime that streaked her tearful face and matted her hair to her head gave her a sullen and hollow look.
"Search the rest, look for Jonny." Phil said as Race knelt and gently set the young victim down.
Race nodded and saw the doors at the far end open as Agent Johnson entered; Race waved him over. Kneeling next to the two girls, he started checking their vital signs. Phil was on his feet and moving back into the vile and detestable cage to get the last child.
"He doesn't speak." The first girl said when she was her rescuer go back into the cage.
Phil nodded, "Michael?" He asked gently as he saw the young boy cowering in fear. "Michael, it's okay. You're safe now. I'm here to take you back to your mom and dad. Buck is waiting for you too." Phil reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a photo of the boy and his dog. He had taken it from the case file in order to use if he found the boy; he was glad he did.
Michael turned to look at the Director at the mention of his service dog's name. Scooting on his knees, the child moved forward cautiously, then reached out and took the photo from Phil who held it out to the boy. Michael looked at the photo for a few moments, then extended his arms towards Phil to allow the man to pick him up.
"It's okay now, Michael." Phil said, his voice choking as they left the cage together. Setting the boy down, he looked the child in the eyes and said, "These men are here to help you, they'll protect you till we get you back to your parents and Buck, okay."
Michael Goss made a squeaking sound and smiled at his saviors, while still clutching the photo of his dog.
The I-1 Agents went to work on comforting the teenagers and gently checking their vital signs, being cautious of their fragile physical and mental states. As the teens began to realize these men were there to help and not hurt them, they slowly began to relax, even the Goss boy seemed to understand that these men were different than his captors and would not hurt him.
Jaw set, Race moved to search the remaining cages. Sweeping his flashlight into each small enclosure, he saw the same evidence of suffering caused by the despicable scum; Race couldn't even bring himself to call them human beings.
As the number of cages dwindled, each as empty as the previous one, Race felt his heart and his hopes begin to sink, he heard his own conscience lambasting him for being too late, for not pushing harder, accusing him of only caring for Jessie and now because he was selfish Jonny was gone. As he reached the last cage, he swept the flashlight across the floor that was smeared with waste, the light illuminated a motionless lump.
Inhaling a sharp breath, Race wheezed and staggered, choking up as he battled to push away an instant swell of tears; he failed.
Lowering his rifle, he closed his eyes as the tears ran down his cheeks. He vaguely registered the voices of the I-1 men as more came to aid the rescued captives. He couldn't turn to face them. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the gruesome sight beyond the cage's chain linked door.
He had no idea how long he was standing there before he felt Corbin's presence at his side. His eyes registered movement as Phil's flashlight illuminated what Race had previously seen; he heard the other man sigh with remorse. Opening his eyes, he only had to look at him to know Phil felt the same as he did and that there was nothing to say. Phil glanced at the cage that they stood in front of, then back at Race.
Race unclipped the quick release on his sling and dropped his rifle, letting it clatter to the floor. His legs gave out; he sank to his knees. Burying his head in his hands, Race cried even harder. He didn't want to, he tried to fight back the tears, but they overwhelmed him. He sobbed as Phil crouched next to him and wrapped an arm around Race's heaving shoulders. Race gulped for air as he continued to break down, his eyes stinging from the onslaught of the salty secretion. It hardly registered to him that he was a wet sobbing mess of tears and drool.
He felt Phil's comforting hand on the top of his head and his longtime friend silently consoled him.
"How do I tell him?" He finally managed to whisper through a series of hiccups and pauses.
Phil shook his head. "We'll tell him together."
"He can't take this. He won't be able to. First he loses Rachel, now Jonny is…" Race muttered.
Phil closed his eyes, unable to disagree with Race's assessment of the unnecessary pain that Benton had endured throughout most of his adult life and now this.
"And Hadji," Race continued. "His brother. And Jessie. My Ponchita and Jonny were planning their lives together."
"Sir, we're outside." Roberts' voice cracked in both men's ears. He must have been able to tell from Race's early reaction that something bad was going on inside and was preventing anyone from entering until given further instructions.
Phil motioned to the Agents to get the rescued kids up and moving. Pointing at one of his senior Agents he waved him over and as he approached Phil nodded his head in the direction of the cage. Glancing inside, Agent Johnson looked back at his superior and nodded that he'd take care of it.
Working quickly, Phil loosened the shoulder strap on Race's vest. Knowing what Corbin was doing, Race shifted to allow his friend to open the side the vest and examine Race's wounds. Race gently pulled his shirt up, the fabric attempting to stick to his bloody skin. Wincing, he held the garment in such a way that Phil was able to see the grouping on BB sized holes that pocked the side of Race's torso and his lower abdomen, upper hip region. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, Race suddenly felt the pain of his injuries as Phil used water from his own canteen to soak a large bandage and wipe away the excess blood.
Race hardly registered Phil's progress, all he could think about was how they had arrived too late. A few minutes later, when the damaged area was as free from dirt, sweat, and blood as it could be at the moment, Phil slapped a self-sealing bandage across Race's wounds and pressed his hand firmly against it, ensuring it sealed properly. Race inhaled sharply as the pain tore him back to his dismal reality.
"Thanks." Race mumble as he lowered his shirt once Phil let go of the bandage. Slipping his vest back on and tightening it down to add more pressure to the bandage, he looked at his friend once again, "Thank you, Phil. And not just for this." He said with a wave at the first aid Phil had just performed.
"Don't worry about it." Phil said as he glanced at their disgusting surroundings again. Looking back at Race he said, "I've seen a lot in my day, Race. So have you, but we've never seen anything like this."
"It just keeps getting worse, man." Race hiccupped as he spoke. "Just when you think it can't get any more depraved, you stumble on something like this."
Phil listened then keyed his mic and said, "We're on our way out now, Terry."
"Yes, Sir." Roberts replied. Even through the mic one could hear the subtle sorrow in the subordinate Agent's voice.
Phil stood and offered Race his hand. "Come on, Race."
Removing his gloves, Race vigorously rubbed his hands up and down his face, aiming to erase any evidence of his breakdown. He didn't care about Phil or the I-1 Agents seeing him in such a state, men like his former colleagues understood that being an uncaring hardass was just a cliché; and Race was confident they'd never tell anyone outside of this room about his breakdown. It was his family that he had to compose himself for; he had to remain strong for them.
Taking Phil's hand, Race grabbed his rifle with the other as Phil hauled the big man up to his feet. Reaching towards his back, Race snagged his canteen and poured some of the cool liquid over his head and face. Shaking the excess water away, he replaced the canteen, rubbed his eyes, inhaled deeply then exhaled loudly. "Let's go talk to Benton," He stated, "But let me tell him, Phil, okay? He should hear it from me."
"Alright." Phil nodded, but before they left he added, "Race, you know this isn't your fault, right?"
Frowning Race eyed his friend, contemplating the Director's statement. "If we'd gotten here sooner…"
Phil shook his head. "Don't. Don't do that. You know better than to do that."
"Phil, I…"
Corbin held up his hand. Race saw the anger in Phil's body language; he wasn't telling Race not to be angry, he was telling him to be angry at the right people. "This wasn't your fault. You didn't cause this. Look around you," He gestured at the cages. "Look inside those cages. The only people at fault here are the ones that did this to these kids. Not you, not me, not Benton, or Jonny or Jessie. Only the bad guys. Bad guys like Ralph Douglas, William Short, and those two assholes we got back in the other room. Bad guys like those punk ass college boys, the scumbags at the gas station and the thugs we took out here today. Remember that. Remember that when you face Jonny's father."
Blinking Race, pursed his lips, but slowly nodded. Phil was right, he had to channel his anger appropriately. He nodded slowly at first then more visibly as the acceptance of this situation worked to steady his shaky nerves. A moment later, he gave Phil one final, sharp nod and headed for the stairs.
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To Be Continued…