The Enemy Within

Great. This was going to be a bitch.

He pointed to the door and held up two fingers, signaling the type of breaching charge he wanted.

Staff Sergeant Callaway, the team’s demolitions expert, nodded sharply, eyes bright behind his thick goggles. The tall, broad-shouldered noncom laid his weapon aside, yanked open the Velcro tab on one of his assault vest’s gadget pouches, and carefully extracted a thin sheet of explosive rolled into a cylinder. Moving slowly and surely, he straightened up, unrolling the demo charge at the same time.

Thorn spoke softly into the radio mike taped to his throat. “Team Lead. Five seconds.” He tightened his grip on his MP5 and tugged a beer-can-shaped flash/bang grenade out of his left leg pouch. “Four. Three…”

Callaway slapped the paper-thin sheet of explosive onto the door, triggered the detonator, and whirled away.

“One.”

WHUMMP! The door blew inward and slammed down onto the floor. Special timers had detonated the top of the demo charge a split second ahead of the bottom, directing the blast downward.

Without waiting, Thorn rolled out, lobbed his grenade through the smoke, and rolled back against the wall. “Grenade! Go! Go!”

His number two man glided through the doorway and moved left just as the flash/bang went off in a rippling, blinding, deafening series of flashes and staccato explosions that would confuse and disorient anyone inside the room.

Thorn followed him into the smoke, sliding to the right with his submachine gun at shoulder level, ready to fire. He kept moving along the wall, his eyes scanning back and forth through the arc he’d assigned himself The adrenaline pouring into his system seemed to be stretching time itself. Every dazzling flash from the exploding grenade lit the room like a giant, slow-motion strobe light.

Motion tugged at the corner of his left eye. He spun in that direction, aiming, centering the target coming at him in his rear sights. A woman wearing a jacket and skirt loomed out of the smoke. His finger relaxed minutely on the trigger.

Her hands were full.

Thorn’s trained instincts took over. He squeezed off a three-round burst that knocked the halfseen figure backward to the floor. He spun right, still moving forward, hunting new enemies in the grey haze. Submachine guns stuttered briefly off to his left as other members of the team engaged targets of their own.

He edged past an overturned desk. There! More movement off to his right. He whirled that way, seeing a man rising to his knees. His MP5 came up and centered on the man’s chest.

Thorn fought off the urge to fire. The kneeling man was unarmed. He barked out a command. “You! Down! Now!” He emphasised the order with the muzzle of his submachine gun.

The man dropped facedown and lay still.

Thorn scanned through his arc again, searching for further signs of movement. Any movement. Nothing. He looked again, even harder this time. Still nothing. His pulse began slowing, falling toward normal. “Team Lead. Right side is clear.”

His backup man echoed his assessment. “Number Three. Confirmed. Right side is clear.”

More voices flooded through his earphones as the rest of the assault team checked in.

“This is Two. Left side is clear.”

“Number Four. Confirmed.”

Thorn waited for a final report from his snipers before allowing himself to relax. They had good news. None of the terrorists had escaped the room during the assault team’s attack. He spoke into his throat mike. “Control, this is Team Lead. Exercise complete.”

A laconic voice answered. “Roger, Lead. Exercise complete. Weapons safe.”

Thorn and the others snapped their safety catches on and stood easy.

Recessed overhead lights came on suddenly, illuminating the shooting room. High-speed fans kicked in with a low, vibrating hum, clearing the smoke still hanging in the air.

Thorn glanced around at the assault team’s handiwork. Mannequins and pop-up targets the hostages and terrorists were scattered through the make-believe office. Those shown carrying weapons were bullet-riddled. Those that were unarmed looked intact.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve survived another jaunt through the Delta Force House of Horrors. And better yet, you did it without killing any of the people you were trying to save. This time. By the grace of God.”

The familiar sarcastic voice from the open doorway brought Thorn around with a smile on his face.

Sergeant Major Roberto “TOW” Diaz strode into the room and stopped with his hands on his hips, surveying the situation before him with a mildly disgusted look. The short, muscular, dark-haired man, the senior NCO in Delta Force’s A Squadron, exuded raw energy and strength even at rest. Intensely competitive, he worked hard to stay in the kind of physical shape that routinely let him outmarch, outfight, and outlast men ten or fifteen years younger. No one who saw him in the field would have guessed that he was forty-five.