He realized it was a male when he saw a densely bearded face. Then he felt the man’s hot breath and fingernails digging into his neck. Crocker couldn’t reach his pistol, which had dislodged from his holster during the fall and landed somewhere in the high grass. Nor could he think clearly, because the abrupt landing had winded him.
His instincts took over, and his body carried out the unarmed defensive tactics drilled into his head fifteen years ago by an overweight, badass instructor named Al Morrel, who had been Elvis Presley’s personal bodyguard.
“At any point or any situation, there will be some vulnerable point of your enemy’s body open to attack,” Morrel had said. “Attack this point with all your strength—while screaming, if the situation allows. Screaming serves two purposes. One, it frightens and confuses your enemy. And two, screaming allows you to take a deep breath, which will put more oxygen in your bloodstream.”
It was hard to scream with the savage’s dirty hands around his neck, but still Crocker drew air through his nasal passages and tried. At the same time he drove the heel of his right hand into his enemy’s nose with a tremendous upward motion, shoving the nasal bone into the man’s brain. Crocker’s attacker groaned his final breath and loosened his grip, which allowed Crocker to bellow.
His roar echoed as the man’s body twitched. Crocker took a deep breath, shoved him off, then tried to move his own body to assess the damage he’d sustained.
Luckily, he hadn’t suffered an injury to his spinal column or broken any bones—just scratches, abrasions, a severely bruised left forearm, and a sore ass and lower back. Searching the dead man’s body, in the inside pocket of his gray plastic rain poncho he found a plastic pouch containing a Venezuelan passport and other documents. According to the passport, the man’s name was Octavo Alvarez.
Something about his thick black eyebrows and the shade of his skin caused Crocker to doubt he was an Alvarez, or even Venezuelan. The little gold pendant the man wore around his neck confirmed Crocker’s suspicions when Crocker ripped it off and examined it closely with the night-vision goggles he found nearby in the grass. It was stamped with the image of a hand raising an AK-47 with a globe in the background—the logo of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.
Known as Sepah or IRGC, members of this militant Shiite Muslim group took their orders from the Iranian mullahs, whose authority they believed superseded those of the elected government. Contained under the umbrella of the IRGC was the Quds Force, a special forces element tasked with unconventional warfare (i.e., terrorism). Unit 5000 was the aggressive new Quds Force element run by Colonel Farhed Alizadeh—the Falcon.
“Makes sense…” Crocker said, looking down at the grimace on the dead man’s face, which was being pelted with rain. He stuck the plastic sleeve with the man’s passport and other documents in the front waistband of his pants and felt in the wet grass for his weapon.
Locating it, he wiped the action dry with his shirttail, and clicked off the safety so it was ready to use. Hearing people above, he crawled up the embankment and hid by the lip.
He recognized Akil’s voice whispering, “Let’s look down here.”
“Akil?” he whispered back.
“Boss?”
Akil slid down with Ritchie behind him, both clutching MP5s.
“Who the fuck is he?” Akil asked, pointing at the dead man.
“Some guy who called himself Alvarez but is really IRGC.”
“You get his Iranian name?”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Crocker whispered, grimacing.
“You hurt?”
“A couple bumps and bruises, but I’m fine.”
They reached the top, where Neto informed them that the Venezuelan police would probably be arriving soon.
“Let’s go then,” Crocker said. “Get in the trucks.”
At 0705 the next morning, the six members of Black Cell were back at the hotel packing their bags when Crocker got a call from Neto.
“What’s up?” he asked, swallowing two Advils with a glass of water to help ease the pain in his lower back.
“The chief wants to see you.”
“The station chief? When?”
“Now.”
“We’re in the process of moving to another hotel,” Crocker said, assuming this summons had something to do with the previous night’s raid. He’d handed the documents he had taken from the terrorist over to Neto. Maybe the Agency had gleaned some important info from them.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Neto said.
Plans always changed. Crocker was okay with that. “No problem, Neto. Just tell me what you want me to do.”