Armed Resistance

Jodi Leighton had been in places like this, mostly during his early training at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, as a U.S. Marine recruit, again during his urban terrain training facility prior to his assignment to Khartoum and then later at Langley during his tenure as a CIA operative trainee. But that had only been training; this was real life and he doubted he’d be going home alive at the end of the day.

Leighton had known the risks. Hell, he’d known the risk he was taking just agreeing to this assignment. It’s not as if he’d ever intended this to happen; neither had he expected to fall in love with British agent Kendra Hansom. A long-legged brunette and simply beautiful, she’d stolen his heart the first time he’d met her in that skanky little bar near Khartoum’s city buildings. Leighton wasn’t sure what had become of his British Secret Intelligence Service companion but he tried to keep his thoughts confined to their little trysts and secret meetings.

Of course, it hadn’t been easy to keep the affair a secret. He’d told his case superior, who chose to look the other way and declared plausible deniability if word got out. Leighton wondered if Kendra had spoken to any of her own SIS superiors about it. She’d always seemed like the straitlaced kind who followed orders, for the service of Her Majesty, and all that other patriotic rot for which some Britons were known. But there was also something entirely seductive about Kendra, something forbidden—in legal jargon he might have called his affair with her fruit of the poisonous tree. Such relationships were strictly forbidden, something Leighton’s supervisor had reminded him about when advising he’d completely deny knowledge if the affair came to light with his superiors.

Not that any of this mattered.

Leighton had accepted he was going to die and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it. The mess he’d made getting involved with Kendra didn’t even come close to the one he’d made allowing Lester Bukatem to capture him. They had already tortured him, in a manner of speaking, although Bukatem hadn’t personally participated in the torture, nor had they asked him any questions. Not yet, anyway. Leighton suspected before long that they would and that’s when the real suffering would begin. It was times like these Leighton wondered why they didn’t issue an agent some kind of suicide remedy, like the old cyanide capsules, and he knew his ordeal had started to take its toll because he chuckled out loud at the cliché of this thinking.

It was nice to hope that someone might actually come after him, but Leighton knew there wouldn’t be any rescue this time. Bukatem had a base of operations in the middle of nowhere, which in this country was basically the equivalent of being in the middle of nowhere that was in the middle of nowhere…and so forth. Sudan had turned out to be a very poor country with little to offer.

Still, Leighton had always done his job the best he knew how. He’d made connections in Khartoum with agents from other secret foreign services—British and Israeli and Russian were just a few—along with establishing ties to the local chieftains. While the government of North Sudan maintained that it was in control, the SPLA still acted as a major influence in the region and protected its citizens as best it could from the guerrilla unit led by Bukatem.

Leighton had first learned the SPLA called the Lord’s Resistance Army by the name Lakwena his first couple of days in country. It was one little-known piece of valuable information his predecessor had left him. That was just before he got piss-drunk and tossed out of the sixth-story window of a club in downtown Frankfurt while in transit to the States, where he was to be debriefed before retiring. Somebody had decided to “retire” him early and some insiders even speculated he’d met his demise by doing something in Khartoum that displeased the unknown third party.

Leighton’s heart and breathing quickened a moment when he thought he heard the approach of his captors, but after a minute he relaxed some when they didn’t show. Cripes, man, don’t get worked into a tizzy, he thought. They’ll get to you soon enough.

Leighton heard the whisking aside of a tent flap, sensed the entry of at least one person and possibly more. He tried to get a feel for how many were actually inside the tent—they had removed the blindfold at one point and punished him with bright lights pointing at him from every angle—but he couldn’t count the footfalls. His ears had started ringing from the long-term silence he’d experienced, washed out only by the steady drone of what could only be a distant generator.

Leighton felt the knot of the blindfold that had been digging into his head loosened and then someone ripped it away and lights replaced the darkness once again. Leighton squinted, attempted to discern the blurry silhouettes of two human figures in front of him, but the change from deep darkness to harsh light made it impossible, a matter that became worse as the strain caused his eyes to tear.

Then came the blow to his jaw, a blow hard enough to split his lip on incisors and rock his head in an awkward direction. A second blow followed, this time from the other side, and somewhere over the thud of leather against bare skin. His. Nausea rolled straight to his gut, and Leighton thought he felt a tooth loosen up. Probably his jaw had cracked under the impact of that last blow.

“Enough!” barked a voice with an Afrikaans accent. “I believe our guest is awake now.”

Leighton couldn’t see more than the darkened shape of the speaker but he didn’t really need to, to know he was dealing with Lester Bukatem. The LRA guerrilla leader had been well-educated, according to intelligence reports, and his cultured accent bore that out. Leighton could think of no other member of this LRA unit, and he was certain it was the LRA that had captured him, with a leader that well-spoken. Not to mention that the man had bothered to speak English at all; that meant he knew Leighton was an American. Only Bukatem would have that kind of information. The CIA guy had to wonder where Bukatem would have come into such information. Had his British counterpart betrayed him? Leighton didn’t want to think so but he also realized he had to consider the possibility. Maybe he’d fucked up after all.

“Mr. Leighton, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Bukatem said. “You and your predecessor have proved somewhat meddlesome in the affairs of my people, if not worthy adversaries. For this reason I shall permit you to die quickly.”

Weak and in pain, Leighton still managed to find his voice. “That’s big of you.”

“A man in your position cannot afford to mock me, American,” Bukatem said. “Although it does mean you still have a bit of fight left in you. That’s good. It will make my next task more…shall we say, entertaining?”

Leighton smiled and ignored the pain that came with it. “Say what you want, asshole. But I don’t know anything and I’m not telling you anything.”

“Oh, if I’m certain of anything it’s that you’ll talk, Mr. Leighton. I’m a patient man. But I can assure you that the sooner you answer my questions, the faster I’ll kill you. Should you force me to prolong my inquiry, this will be a difficult engagement for you. I promise.”

“Promises, promises.”

Leighton couldn’t see much but he did make out what appeared to be a nod from Bukatem’s silhouette. A moment later someone raised his legs and he could feel the heat from the spotlights as they were placed much closer to him. Then his legs were forced into some kind of container filled with water; Leighton heard the slosh as his feet hit the surface and his shoes and socks were immediately saturated.

“You going to give me a bath?” Leighton snickered. “I’ve never been treated so well by the bad guys.”

“Your flippancy annoys me, Mr. Leighton,” Bukatem replied. “It’s little more than false bravado and something I can assure you’ll come to regret in a moment.”

“Oh yeah? Well—”

Leighton never finished the sentence as excruciating pain lanced from his groin, traveled up his chest and set the very tips of his hairs on fire. So it felt that way. Leighton couldn’t be sure but he thought he let out a scream and still it seemed like that would’ve been impossible because he vomited unproductively. Mostly the bile burned his throat in the aftermath of the shock and he experienced more cramps and dry heaves than anything else. The cycle was repeated a second time, then a third, and on the fourth Leighton thought he would pass out.

The CIA man realized they were applying some type of electric shock to his body—hence his feet in the water—but it was probably connected to an independent power source since he didn’t notice any flicker in the lights that practically seared his face. Their proximity, coupled with the electric shock, made it feel as if Bukatem’s men had set his body on fire.

“What?” Bukatem’s voice seemed to reverberate inside his head, as if listening to the man speak under water. “Nothing to say now? I’m disappointed, Mr. Leighton. I thought you would definitely conjure a response to this newest form of interrogation!”

Another series of two jolts, these more painful than the first, followed Bukatem’s taunting.

“What do you have to say to that?” Bukatem continued. “Do you understand now that I can generate this pain as long as I choose? You see, Mr. Leighton, I invented this technique. The food and water we gave you contains a special concoction of my own design. This prepares your body for what follows, and intensifies the pain. Oh, do not worry…there won’t be any permanent damage. But you can rest assured that within an hour you will beg me to kill you.”

Another jolt came and Leighton wasn’t prepared for it this time. He bit his tongue and immediately tasted the salty, coppery blood from it. To some degree he regretted being so cocky but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. Not that it would’ve mattered. Bukatem would have employed this torture no matter what Leighton told him or what questions he answered. He could have sold his mother, his whole damn country down the river, and Bukatem wouldn’t have faltered for a moment. This had been planned, coldly, calculatingly, decisively from the beginning.

“Now, American…let’s begin to discuss your recent activities in Khartoum,” Bukatem said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

An estimated fifty-two thousand people lived in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. The city bordered the northern edge of Camp Shelby and like any military town it provided adequate housing needs to officers and other select personnel who chose to live off post. U.S. military billets were great for single enlisted men, permanent party and the like, but they weren’t decent fare for a family man like Colonel Jordan Scott. The Scotts had acquired a split-level townhome in a peaceful neighborhood on the west side of Hattiesburg off I-59.

Sunset had passed by the time Able Team cruised through the neighborhood in their military sedan, a loaner from the HQ Company motor pool. Flashing a badge at a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit—the figure that filled it out could get a guy to thinking—bought Rosario Blancanales the information he needed regarding the Scotts. Lyons now watched the front door and windows of the house through binoculars as Blancanales picked his teeth with a pocketknife and stared down the street. Schwarz sat in back, snoring loud enough that it started to grind on the nerves of his two comrades.

Lyons lowered the binocs. “What do you think about that woman’s story regarding the van?”

“Sounds like pay dirt, you ask me,” Blancanales replied with a shrug.

Lyons shook his head. “A van matching the description of the one that hit us is parked out front of Scott’s house the day before yesterday, but she doesn’t remember seeing anybody inside? Something feels wrong about it.”

“What?”

“It’s too convenient,” Lyons replied as he lifted the binoculars to his eyes. “Good fortune rarely drops right into our lap. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe whoever’s behind this weapons smuggling doesn’t know anybody’s on to them.”

“After the assault they launched against us this morning?” Lyons reminded his friend.

“Okay, you got me there.”

“What are you two grumbling about now?” Schwarz muttered from the back. “Can’t you see I’m trying to get my beauty rest?”

Blancanales tipped his head so he could make out Schwarz’s shadow in the rearview mirror. “A hundred years of uninterrupted slumber couldn’t help you, amigo.”

“Hold up,” Lyons cut in. “Vehicle coming. Looks like a van.”

The warriors were parked far enough away that the sweep of the vehicle’s lights didn’t illuminate their faces. They waited silent and unmoving, wondering if the van would continue past the Scott residence, but no such luck—the van turned sharply into the driveway and the headlights winked out.

“Now, this is interesting,” Blancanales said evenly. “Looks like some more of our friends.”

“What’s the play, Ironman?” Schwarz asked.

Lyons thought through it with a measure of debate.

“Should we take them?” Schwarz asked, wide-awake now.

“I don’t want to jump the gun,” Lyons replied. “If they risked coming back to Scott’s residence for a reason and we hit them early, we might not find out why. We should wait it out and see what they do.”

“What if Scott’s inside the residence?” Blancanales inquired. “Or his wife and kids?”

“We’ve been watching the place for the last two hours,” Lyons pointed out. “There hasn’t been any movement. I don’t think anybody’s there. The fact they’ve played their hand gives us all the more reason to wait.”

“Agreed.”

Blancanales followed that with a sigh, but Lyons didn’t try to question it. He understood they were anxious to get answers and he was, too. The irony was that his partners were usually the reserved ones and typically had to hold their leader back. But something in Lyons’s gut told him that if they engaged the enemy too soon, not only would they attract a lot of unwanted attention but it stood to reason a firefight would end in a bunch of dead terrorists; that wouldn’t put them any closer to finding out what had happened to Jordan Scott. It might also precipitate Scott’s death if he was operating as an unwilling accomplice or being coerced to cooperate.

For all Able Team knew, Scott and his family were now hostages. If whoever was behind this weapons-smuggling ring figured government agents were on to them, they might simply kill Scott and his family, cut their losses and flee. In that scenario, it would be damn near impossible to track them. Part of Phoenix Force’s success in Sudan depended on Able Team getting to the bottom of whatever the hell was happening at this end of the pipeline, and Carl Lyons had no intention of letting them down.

The shadowy figures silhouetted in the streetlamp, six in all, exited the van and moved up the drive in leapfrog formation. They traversed their course with the practiced efficiency of professionals. Lyons noted this and filed it away. The enemy had been trained well, something the Able Team warriors had agreed upon following their first encounter at Camp Shelby. The questions they’d directed to the one in custody had revealed nothing. Their prisoner had been resolute, silent, unwilling to share information of any kind. Lyons had proposed applying more direct methods of information extraction, but being he was under the protective custody of military police they didn’t think it wise to deviate from standard operating procedures.

Able Team had enough problems without adding “torture” to the equation.

Even a search by Stony Man hadn’t pulled anything up on their prisoner, and that had Lyons on edge. Obviously they were dealing with some sort of black-ops unit, which didn’t concern him nearly as much as the fact they had managed to implement such an operation inside the United States undetected. Since 9/11, the FBI, in concert with other units attached to Homeland Security, had done a crack job in detecting these types of threats and neutralizing them before they became a problem. They had apparently missed the boat this time. That was okay; a situation like this was exactly why the special operations group at Stony Man Farm existed. Lyons and the rest prided themselves on doing the job nobody else could do, faith that had been placed in them by Brognola and the rest, and Lyons had never questioned their reasons for existing. Of course, they had a consummate role model in the hardened and relentless personage of Mack Bolan.

Lyons scratched his chin and watched with interest as the enemy unit moved out of view. “Okay, we’ve waited long enough.” He turned to Blancanales. “You stay here and be ready if they try to bolt. Gadgets and I will take out the wheelman first. Let’s see what taking away their mobility will do.”

“Roger that,” Blancanales said.

“Here.” Schwarz passed an AA-12 shotgun to Lyons from the backseat as the Able Team leader double-checked his Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum revolver before holstering it in shoulder rigging.

Lyons took the weapon and quickly inspected it in the dim light, the weapon forestock gleaming with a light coat of fresh oil. Originally designed as the Atchisson Assault Shotgun, the manufacturing patent of this newer model had been turned over to Military Police Systems, Inc. It included an 8-shell box magazine—also capable of sporting a high-capacity drum magazine for vehicle mounting—with a cyclic rate of 300 rounds per minute. The model had been modified by Stony Man’s elite armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, with a 12.6-inch barrel, nearly a half inch shy of the military-grade version. The shells were a preferred mix of No. 12 lead and double-0. The weapon also sported antipersonnel capabilities by chambering a special Frag-12 round stabilized by a 19 mm fin that distributed fragmentation using a small charge of RDX explosive.

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