Marked Man Read Free Page B

torrential downpour had started since he broke into the compound. Only it was not rain, but bullets. Bullets were falling from the sky, of every make and caliber on the planet. They rang when they hit the corrugated tin roof then bounced off or rolled down into the rain gutters, which were sagging. Below the terrace floor was covered in bullets. The fountain was overflowing with them. Slowly the reality of the situation dawned on Corporal Ross.
    “I have to be dreaming.”
    Dreaming or not, he wanted to complete the assignment. Al-Shahari was not going to escape the green berets, not in his subconscious, not anywhere.
    Corporal Ross left the window and strode over to the final doorway at the end of the hall. The door opened of its own accord. Suddenly anxious, Ross stepped inside and su rveyed the scene. At the end of a long table an enormous white goat was seated in a luxurious looking sofa chair. It was wearing a military uniform, decorated with medals, insignias and honors. The goat’s horns stretched in a crooked spiral four feet over its head and its hoofs were drawn together like they were hands collected in prayer. Outside the torrential rain of bullets echoing off every surface was growing louder, almost deafening. The goat’s eyes were yellow with burning red irises, and they were gazing at Corporal Ross closely, with an alien intensity that made him shiver. The goat raised its left hoof in salute.
    Jordan Ross gasped and woke up.
    He was still upside down and still in considerable pain, but at least the giant goat and the terrorist snipers were gone. He was back in Brooklyn in an overturned station wagon. Through the spider-web cracked windshield, Jordan eyes were drawn to a glowing headlight across the street. A black sports utility vehicle was idling on the curb. It looked like it might be a Cadillac Escalade but it was impossible to tell with the front grill and the logo crushed in so badly. One of the headlights was busted, and the mirror on the right side was hanging by a cord.
    From the driver’s side a door opened and a bulky man wearing a black leather jacket emerged. Moving gingerly, he slid out of the seat and stood on the pavement. He had long gray hair tied back in a ponytail and his gut sagged over his belt. A glittering gold chain hung from around his neck. The man reached into his jacket and produced a flip phone. As he approached the station wagon, Jordan thought that he looked how Kenny Rogers might look if he permanently relocated to Las Vegas, shaved his beard clean off and completely let himself go.
    “ Vladimir, allez-vous ?”
    The fat man was speaking French into the cell phone. Jordan spoke several languages fluently as part of his qualification for the Special Forces, but unfortunately French was not one of them. The Escalade driver didn’t look French though. Even two hundred years after Napoleon, many Russians and Slavs still spoke the emperor’s language.
    Fat Slavic Kenny Rogers continued talking, waddling over to Jordan, who tried to call for help but nothing came out of his mouth. Jordan wanted to swing his arm up and get the guy’s attention but his arm refused to obey. It was drooping limp, the hand resting awkwardly on the overturned roof. Jordan listened close but he could only make out words here and there, not enough to understand the conversation, at least not with only half of it to go on.
    Bending over and wheezing, the big man looked into the station wagon. Jordan had no other way to communicate, so he blinked twice so that the stranger on the cell phone could see that he was still alive and conscious. He instantly regretted that decision.
    Big Slavic Kenny pulled a nine millimeter out of a shoulder holster and pointed the weapon at Jordan’s face.
    “ Un seul le male.”
    Jordan’s instincts were to grab for his old service sidearm in the glove compartment but he could not move, could not speak and could not protest in any way. The best defense Jordan could muster