It stopped moving, but all kinds of alarms were screaming in his head because the second Doberman had its teeth deep into the flesh around his left ankle. He tried to pivot to his right, but the leash was wrapped around his right foot, which was partially pinned by the fallen man. Crocker lost his balance and fell, and the Doberman was immediately on top of him, lunging for his throat.
Teeth in his face, hot dog saliva dripping onto him, he grabbed its ear with his right hand and pulled back. The dog squealed and snapped its teeth at Crocker’s wrist.
He quickly pulled his hand away, then tried to get hold of the dog’s neck, but the dog sunk its incisors into his forearm and hit a nerve, causing massive pain that he felt all the way up his arm into his neck.
Crocker was losing the battle and trying to feel for his fallen pistol with his left hand. All he found on the floor was blood, teeth, a leash. Lunging, he grabbed hold of the dog’s right paw and yanked it back violently until he heard the bone snap. The Doberman yelped and bore down harder. Then two shots popped, and rounds passed through the dog’s chest with a spray of blood.
He pushed the muscular body to one side. Tré helped him up.
“Fuck.”
“Can you walk, chief?”
His hands were covered with blood and shaking. The back of both legs screamed in agony. “I’ll do my best.”
He hobbled over to the guard’s submachine gun and the Glock he’d lost, which were lying together on the floor. Cordite burned his nostrils. Blood dripped down the back of his leg into his sneakers. The pain was horrible, but he’d been through worse.
Tré ran ahead as he limped to keep up, past the guard’s body that still twitched on the floor, through the door, down four steps to a room with a cot in it. On the other side of the bed, near a door to a little bathroom, Crocker saw a square hole in the floor and a metal cover that was open and leaning against the wall.
“We need to find a light before we go down,” Tré said.
“No time!”
“Dark places freak me out.”
Crocker felt his way down the rough concrete steps that descended about twenty feet. He couldn’t see shit until he reached the bottom. Starting about six feet in front of him, he saw a string of bare bulbs that partially lit the tunnel. The bulbs were connected to an orange cord and spaced roughly ten feet apart.
“Ask and you shall receive,” he whispered to Tré.
“This is better.”
The tunnel was about five feet high and four feet wide, reinforced in some places with wooden planks and cinder blocks. Two steel rails had been spiked into the compressed dirt floor. The air was stale and smelled of salt and sulfur.
“You see anyone?” Tré whispered behind him.
“Not yet.”
He moved as fast as he could, given that he had to crouch and the muscles in his legs were knotted up and damaged. Seeing a dark shape ahead, he stopped and focused. The shape turned and moved closer. He saw the flash of a weapon discharging in the distance and hit the ground. Rounds sailed over their heads and embedded themselves in the dirt.
As both men readied their guns to return fire, the lights went out.
“Sorry, Tré,” Crocker whispered.
“Bum luck.”
The two SEALs felt along the side walls, being careful not to trip over the rails. Crocker pushed himself as hard as he could, despite the warnings in his head to slow down.
Dirt got into his eye, and he stopped. Wiping it away with his wrist, he saw a white light wash the tunnel ahead. Tré grabbed his shoulder. Kneeling on the dirt floor, Crocker aimed the Uzi and squeezed off a long salvo. A yelp of pain echoed back.
“I think you got one,” Tré whispered.
Crocker: “You run ahead. You’re faster!”
Tré bolted. Crocker used every ounce of energy and focus he had left in him to follow. More shots whizzed past. He stumbled, fell, got up, and resumed limping. Tré returned fire. He heard muffled shouting.
The light source was now only a few feet ahead, creating ghoulish shadows that shifted and danced against the walls. Men were grappling on the floor, and then a large shadow rose and hurried down the tunnel. Crocker pushed himself to catch up and saw a dead man lying on his side still holding a flashlight, his dark eyes staring into space.
Stepping over a pool of blood that was seeping into the earth, he felt his way along the wall. Each gunshot ahead produced another little rush of adrenaline. His hearing was hypersensitive and he was running on fumes, growing weaker from the pain and loss of blood.
He heard men grunting in English and Farsi, and recognized Tré’s voice exclaiming “Motherfucker!” Then came the sound of a knife slicing into flesh and cartilage. A groan. Someone rose slowly in the dark. He saw the glint of a knife in one hand, a pistol in the other. Stopping, he held his breath as his heart beat a tight pattern in his chest.