SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(61)
His heart beating wildly, Crocker grabbed his pistol, a knife, another pistol, and a set of keys from the belt of the first man he had killed. Then he stripped off the guard’s olive uniform, and pulled it on. Still barefoot and with no time to button the uniform, he opened the door behind him, slipped out, limped down the hallway as fast as his bruised feet would take him, breathing hard, not knowing where he was going.
He came to the end and a bare cinder-block wall. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating another hallway. Crocker was disoriented, but thought the cell he wanted was located to the right. From the opposite direction came muffled voices shouting behind him. His head pounding, he checked to make sure the pistol in his hand was loaded, then shook the first metal door.
“It’s Crocker. Who’s in there?”
“Boss?” the weary voice responded.
“Yeah, it’s me. Hold on.”
Crocker’s hands were covered with blood and his head was messed up, but he kept it together long enough to try seven of the dozen keys until he found the one that fit. The cell was dark and emitted a horrible stench. He found Mancini huddled in the near corner and helped him up. His face was badly bruised and he had trouble standing.
Mancini mumbled something, then repeated it. “Sanchez is dead.”
“Lean on me. How do you know?”
“They shot him in front of me, then cut his dick off…”
Crocker shook him and whispered urgently, “Manny, listen. Listen. I need your help.”
“Yeah, boss. What?”
“I need you to stand on your own. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try. They killed Sanchez.”
“I know. You told me. Now, take this pistol, and lean on the wall if you have to. I need you to guard the entrance to the hallway while I get the other guys out.”
Mancini nodded, grabbed the pistol, stumbled naked to where the main hallway branched off, and waved. Crocker saw burn marks covering his torso. He waved back, then unlocked the next cell, where he found Davis lying on the ground unconscious. He dragged him over to the bucket and splashed dirty water on his face.
Davis struggled wildly to pull free. “Stop!” he growled. “Let go!”
Crocker slapped him. “Davis, it’s me!”
Everything happened fast. One moment he was holding Davis, the next the two of them had located Neto and Cal in another cell. Cal, who was slipping in and out of consciousness, had to be carried. They heard a pistol discharge behind them. Mancini fired back, then shouted, “They’re coming, boss! They’re here!”
Davis: “Oh, fuck!”
Neto peered down the murky passageway in front of them and pointed, saying, “I saw a stairway down this way.”
Davis, numbly: “A stairway?”
Crocker waved vigorously to Mancini and shouted, “Cover us, then run! Can you run?”
“I’ll try!”
Crocker slung Cal over his shoulder and they moved as fast as their broken, exhausted bodies could take them, down the hallway, to a door with safety glass that Crocker had to punch out with the butt of the pistol so he could reach through and undo the lock from the other side.
“Watch the glass! Feet! Watch your feet!”
None of them had shoes, and all were naked except Crocker. They stumbled up the concrete stairs, pushed open a metal hatch, and tasted fresh air.
Pain emanated from every part of Crocker’s body. He leaned against a metal lamppost for a few seconds. Neto, panting beside him, pointed at the sky and muttered, “Look.”
“Yeah, stars.”
“Where’s Mancini?”
Crocker considered going back for him, but seeing someone standing near a truck at ten o’clock, placed his hand over Cal’s mouth. He motioned to the other men to hide behind some plastic garbage bins to the right. The soldier was sixty feet away and had his back toward them. He turned and shone a light in their direction. Curious, he took several steps forward.
From behind one of the bins, Crocker watched him raise his rifle. He was aiming it at Mancini, whose big head had just emerged from the stairway. Before the soldier had a chance to pull the trigger, Crocker rose and shot him three times in the chest.
Turning to Davis, he said, “Grab his gun and his uniform, then meet us in the truck.”
“Okay.”
It was a two-ton military cargo truck with a winch in front. He and Mancini helped Cal into the bed and covered him with a tarp. “Stay with him,” Crocker instructed.
Then he hurried to the cab and found a single key in the ignition, but when he turned it and pushed down on the gas, the engine whined and died. He tried it a second time with the same result.
Crocker heard men behind them shouting in Spanish, pushed away rising panic, and noticed that the truck was parked on a slight incline. He told Neto and Davis to go to the back and push.