He understood now that it was insane to go in the way he had—no backup, no commo, completely solo.
Sharp pains issued from the back of his head. Blood dripped from his mouth. Figured he had a couple of broken or chipped teeth, maybe a broken rib. Later, he’d have Davis or Mancini tie his chest with binding wrap to immobilize his rib cage.
If I get out of here alive.
Through blurry eyes he saw the pockmarked thug lean down to pull him up, the gunmetal pistol clutched in his fist. The savage leer on his ravaged face told Crocker how much he was going to enjoy torturing an American and watching him die.
“Get up!”
The SEAL team leader flashed back to the video Akil had shown him on the first flight into Karachi.
No fucking way! he said to himself, aware of a thick triangle of glass near his right hand.
“Get up, dead man!”
Grabbing the glass so that it sliced into the edges of his palm, Crocker pushed off the floor and thrust it into the man’s neck with all the force he could muster—ripping through cartilage, skin, and bone. The man’s half-screams reverberated against the tile walls as he fell back against the sink and, twisting, fired wildly into the ceiling, walls, and floor.
Smoke and cordite hung in the air.
Before Crocker could scramble to his feet, the wrestler was on him, spitting curses and reaching for his throat. Crocker could feel the man’s sweat and smell the madness on his breath. His thick hands were strong, with nails that sunk into Crocker’s neck.
Doubting that he had the strength or leverage to pry them loose, the American reared his head back and smashed it into the wrestler’s nose. Then again, and two more times, until its bridge gave way and he felt the man’s warm blood on his face.
But when the American tried to get his feet under him, he slipped on the broken glass, blood, and sweat, and went down hard on his ass.
The wrestler roared and kicked Crocker in the stomach. Then the big man threw himself on him, and the two grappled on the shower floor. Body against body. Strength versus strength.
The physical dynamic of wrestling had never been Crocker’s strong suit. But here he was side by side with a beast who was using his powerful legs to push against the door opening and pin him against the wall.
Crushing him.
Each man had his arm around the other’s neck, but the wrestler had the advantage, because Crocker couldn’t move his legs or arms. The pressure against his ribs and chest was growing by the second, making it increasingly hard to breathe.
Trapped and losing ground, Crocker heard something move by the sink.
Peering past the wrestler’s thick head and chest, through the shower doorway he saw the pockmarked guy trying to push himself up on his elbow and steady the pistol as blood gushed from his neck. It was a desperate last effort. His hand shook badly. But he still had the determination to curl his finger around the trigger and squeeze.
Shit…
Crocker ducked behind the wrestler as the shots rang out.
Three bullets in succession glanced off the floor and struck the wrestler, who jerked and groaned.
The pistol clattered across the tile floor.
“In sha’Allah,” moaned the man by the sink. God willing.
The big wrestler was trembling and loosening his grip enough that Crocker could pull away and stand in a crouch.
On the floor by the sink, the pockmarked man lay still in a dark pool of his own blood, his mouth caught between a smile and grimace, a look of expectation in his eyes.
Crocker stepped quickly out of the shower and recovered the Makarov pistol. Then turned and pointed it at the wrestler’s head.
His big yellowish eyes pleaded up at him. “No.”
“Yes!”
Two quick rounds into his skull. Then silence.
Just the loud thumping of Crocker’s heart as he reached down and retrieved a hotel keycard and passport from the dead man’s pocket.
Chapter Sixteen
Without knowledge, skill cannot be focused. Without skill, strength cannot be brought to bear. Without strength, knowledge cannot be applied.
—Alexander the Great’s chief physician
USING A wet paper towel to wipe the blood from his face and neck, Crocker remembered his circumstances—the hotel, his men waiting near the garage, Sheik Rastani, Cyrus and, hopefully, Malie, in a suite not far away—and knew that more trouble was coming.
He strode down the hallway unaware that he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints.
He felt like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, walking straight into the face of evil. Determined to stop the wolves. But there was no Ennio Morricone music playing in the background. No two-note howl to let the bad guys know he was coming to kick their asses.
Just the pounding of his boots into the carpet.