Team Three would then head back to set up another ambush along M-139 in case Liam or Perez were pursued.
As Hayes engaged the General’s forces outside the city, Liam’s team would eliminate a significant portion of the General’s transports and fuel while Perez’s team targeted the ammo dump site.
Anxiety crackled through him. No plan survived first contact with the enemy. There were a hundred ways this could go sideways, though he’d analyzed each one a dozen times. The stress points and weaknesses.
He’d planned for contingencies. Had back-ups to his back-up plan. Multiple exit strategies.
It still might not be enough.
Liam settled down to wait, the only sound his own shallow breathing. Constantly scanning all sides of their position, checking windows, doors, and rooflines, attuned to the slightest sound, the most imperceptible movement. The telltale glint of a scope.
A minute later, the growl of several engines shattered the still air—the General’s quick reaction force.
Seven Humvees roared north toward Hayes’ team. Thirty seconds later, four more Humvees roared past, loaded with men, weapons, and ammo.
Liam, Bishop, and Reynoso exchanged tense glances.
Liam’s heart rate slowed; his breathing steadied. He was in the zone. This was it. They would only get this one chance to strike first.
They’d better make it count.
Five minutes later, it was go time.
35
Liam
Day One Hundred and Eleven
Using hand motions, Liam directed Reynoso and Bishop to head right to flank their targets and put them in an L-ambush.
They backtracked the way they’d come and circled the targets, coming out to the west of the parking garage.
A second later came the whomp, whomp, whomp of the General’s Black Hawk taking flight in the distance. It was headed north to assist the soldiers Team Three had pinned down.
Hayes would break contact and disappear before the air asset reached them. The Black Hawk would return soon—Liam’s assault teams needed to be long gone by then.
Pressed against the side of a small art museum, Liam tensed, adrenaline spiking. He pulled a flashbang from his chest rig. Removing the safety tape from the pull ring, he gripped the spoon between his right-hand thumb and pointer finger.
The rat-a-tat of gunfire sounded. Simultaneously, a distant explosion shattered the air. Several blocks away, to the northeast. That would be Perez and her team.
The soldiers went rigid. Before they could react, Liam leapt into action.
He yanked the pull ring clear of the device. In one fluid movement, he swung around the corner and tossed the M84 stun grenade toward the first cluster of sentries.
From their opposite flank, Bishop did the same.
Liam turned away, covering his eyes and opening his mouth.
Both flashbangs detonated. The explosive bang slammed into his eardrums. Harsh white light flashed bright against his eyelids.
The soldiers stumbled back, momentarily blinded and disoriented. One screamed, dropping his rifle as he clutched at his face.
They’d come to in ten to fifteen seconds, likely faster.
Sprinting toward the garage, Liam fired once at each soldier’s ceramic-plated body armor. He made certain he didn’t miss.
A round to the chest would drop the guards to the ground and incapacitate them momentarily. It shouldn’t be fatal or cause permanent injury.
He faltered as an electric shock of pain spasmed in his spinal cord, seizing his back. Fear knotted in his chest as he limped through it, forcing his body to its limit and past it.
“Alpha Team One, this is Team Three,” Perez said over Liam’s radio. “We nailed the ammo dump. Blew it sky-high! We even got a few party favors. I’m bringing them to you now. We’re in a five-ton truck filled with ordnance—whatever you do, don’t shoot us!”
Bishop and Reynoso ran in, disarmed the fallen soldiers, and zip-tied their hands and feet before relieving them of their weapons and ammo.
One of the guardsmen was still on his feet. The soldier whipped around. Liam lunged. Before he could get his gun swung around and aimed, Liam reached him.
He glimpsed tufts of brown hair sticking out beneath his helmet. Uneven mustache. Wide, frightened eyes in an oval face. Mid-twenties, if that.
Liam spun the kid around and gripped his neck with his forearm in a chokehold.
The kid’s arms flailed, dropping the carbine, fumbling for a knife at his belt. Liam half turned him and smacked his shoulder against the exterior cement wall of the parking garage.
The soldier lost his grip on the blade. It clattered to the pavement. He tried to claw at Liam’s face. His strength faded fast. In seconds, he was unconscious.