SEAL Team Six Hunt the Scorpion(83)

Crocker had asked her to be patient and understanding. She accused him of being selfish and self-involved.

Sitting up, he grabbed the MP5. The clock read 1:44, which meant he’d slept almost four hours.

Holy shit! Why didn’t someone wake me?

He hurried into the kitchen, where Mancini was adding sliced red onions to a big batch of tuna-fish salad.

“Where is everyone? What the fuck’s going on?”

“Akil and Davis went with Volman. He’s trying to pry some intel out of one of the officers at the CIA station.”

“When are they expected back?”

“Soon. I’m preparing lunch.”

“What happened to Volman’s friend?”

“He was delayed but is on his way.”

Pushing back a feeling of panic, he stood under the shower with the cast on his left wrist covered with a plastic bag, and let the warm water loosen the muscles in his shoulders and back. He regretted that he’d argued with Holly. Sometimes he forgot how much the team dominated his life. Other men had time to coach their kids’ sports team, go on family vacations, do home improvement projects.

He dressed and debated going out and searching the city by himself but instead went out onto the porch and did forty minutes of sit-ups and crunches, despite his aches and pains. He had to find some way to burn off the anxiety and relentless energy that were driving him nuts.

Another half hour dragged by. He picked at the tuna on his plate, feeling he was about to burst out of his skin.

He searched his mind for options but found none, which only added to his frustration. Frustration increased his sense of desperation, which fueled his rage. A vicious circle that made it impossible to think.

“See you later, Manny. I’m going out!” he said, grabbing his MP5 and starting for the door.

“Where?” Mancini shouted.

“To look for Holly!”

“Boss, you don’t know the country, don’t speak the language.”

“So what?”

“Don’t you always tell us that undirected aggression is self-destructive? Don’t you tell us to think first, be smart?”

He set down the MP5 and took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll call Davis.”

He did, on the sat-phone. Davis said he and Akil were sitting in the Suburban outside a café near the embassy. Volman was inside talking to another American—a CIA officer, he thought.

“How fucking long is he gonna be?”

“Don’t know. We’ll be there soon as we can.”

He wished he could turn back the clock. Wished he’d talked Holly out of going to North Africa in the first place. Wished he’d never accepted the assignment to Libya, even though he really didn’t have a choice. Started questioning other decisions he had made in his life, then realized it was a pointless exercise. All he was doing was beating himself up.

He felt an urge to call Jenny. But what would he say? I’m sitting here with my thumb up my ass while your stepmother is about to be executed by a bunch of fucking terrorists?

He tried to imagine what Holly was going through, but that only made him more anxious, so he stopped that, too.

Davis, Akil, and Volman returned at four. All of them sat down at the kitchen table. Volman, out of breath, said, “I learned two things. One, the kidnappers are sticking to their demands—release of the three Tuareg prisoners.”

Crocker: “We knew that already.”

“The second thing is, there were two cell phone calls from the kidnappers. They’ve been traced already and turned up nothing, but it might be a place to start.”

“Where?”

“You have a map of the city?”

Akil retrieved one from his room and spread it out on the table. “The first,” Volman said, pointing to a spot on the map, “comes from a place east of here, between Mitiga Airport and the Belal Ibn Ribah Mosque. The second is a location about four miles southwest of there near the police academy on Al Hadhbah Road.”

Davis: “They’re relatively close to each other.”

Crocker: “Let’s go!”

Volman: “We should wait for my friend. He’s a Libyan militia leader—very knowledgeable and savvy. Knows his way around.”

“What’s his name?”

“Farouk Shakir al-Sayed. His friends call him Farag.”

Crocker: “Is he a little guy, young, with big amber-colored eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I know him. Dark-skinned, curly black hair that sticks straight up. Weighs no more than a hundred pounds. We fought together at the Sheraton.”

“That’s him.”

“Good.”

Crocker felt a little better. Farag was a tough kid, but the optimism his name inspired quickly vanished as they waited longer. Another excruciating hour dragged by, each tick of the clock like a punch to the head.