Heart At Risk

Suddenly the blackness was breached by a dim light filtered through the shutters of a window on the upper floor of a two-story stone building that stood like a monolith amid the scattered wooden shacks that surrounded it.

They had reached their target.

They’d been told that the local residents rarely ventured out at night, and despite the heat, kept their doors locked and shutters closed. Kurt could only hope tonight was no exception.

The strident bark of a dog split the stillness. Cassidy raised his hand, halting the squad. The barking ceased as quickly as it had begun and was too distant for their presence to have alerted the animal, so they moved on.

As they neared their objective, the squad pulled on their thermo night-vision goggles, casting the darkness into a surrealistic green that enabled them to read the H sign hung above the front entrance of the building. To Kurt, a hospital meant sanctuary, a place of healing.

So how come I have a knot in my gut and goose bumps on my arms?

A door slammed and the men froze. The faint glow of a cigarette indicated the presence of a man, an automatic weapon hung from a strap on his shoulder.

“Make him?” Cassidy whispered. Kurt nodded. “Take him out.”

Kurt raised the scoped sniper rifle and lined up the target. As soon as they heard the faint pop of the silencer, the squad moved quickly and entered the building.

Despite the wooden floor, the six men stole up the stairway without a sound and proceeded toward a lit room at the end of the hallway, halting to make sure each room they passed was deserted.

The final room had double doors that swung inward. Cassidy shoved up his goggles. The rest of the team did likewise, then waited as he peered cautiously through the glass in one of the doors. The wait seemed endless. He glanced at Don Larson beside him. Larson nodded, and tightened his hold on the weapon he carried. Cassidy and Larson would be the first two through the doors. The whole squad was tensed and wired. Ready to go. It was always like this right before the action.

Cassidy turned his head and mouthed the word eight, indicating there were eight armed men inside. The squad was outnumbered, but had the element of surprise—if not, all hell would have broken out by now.

He mouthed the word nine and made a slashing motion across his right arm to indicate there were nine unarmed people on the right side of the room.

They most likely were the six American hostages the squad had come to rescue, and probably three local medical people. Kurt could only hope that none of them would get hit when the gunfire started.

Cassidy stepped back, nodded then pushed open the doors.

Within seconds the shooting, shouting and cries of alarm had ended, and the fight was over. None of the team or hostages had been wounded and as the squad checked the bodies on the floor Cassidy announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to get you out. Please do exactly as told.” He repeated the same message in Spanish.

A slim, middle-aged man stepped forward. “I am Dr. Fernando Escobar, head of this hospital,” he said in accented but proper English. “We are grateful to you and your men, but I must offer medical assistance to any of those wounded men who require it.”

Kurt shook his head when Cassidy glanced at him.

“None require it,” Cassidy said succinctly.

“Then I must check my patients.” The doctor went over to two hospital beds that had been shoved against a wall in the corner of the room. One of the women, obviously a nurse, joined him.

Cassidy turned back to the hostages. “Who’s in charge among you?”

“I’m Dr. Eric Danvers,” one of the men said. “We’re a volunteer medical group. We come down here for a month each year to offer medical assistance.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. And we’re here to take you home. Dr. Escobar, what about your staff and patients? Do you wish to be evacuated?”

“No, these patients are local villagers, the victims of for-profiting organ harvesting,” Dr. Escobar replied. “It is a very common practice among the poor in this area. The harvesters come into a village, pay the locals a meager amount of money, extract the organs in a makeshift operating room and then dump the victims on our doorstep, not really caring if they live or die. None of us are in danger now. The terrorists were after the Americans.”

“As you wish, sir,” Cassidy said. “Did any of these men mention what terrorist group they belonged to?”

“No,” Escobar replied. “But I am sure you know or you wouldn’t be here.” He turned back to his patients.

Kurt felt relieved when he heard the sudden tell-tale whir of a helicopter; their taxi had arrived—and punctual as usual.

With a wordless command Cassidy nodded to Rick Williams and Pete Bledsoe. They knew what was expected of them and led out.

Once they were airborne, the rescued hostages settled down and talked in low tones among themselves.

Too tired to follow the conversation, Kurt leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes and thought about the mission.

Once again the Dwarf Squad had made it through without anyone seriously wounded. He couldn’t help grinning when he thought how the Agency had tagged them the Dwarf Squad because they used the names of the seven dwarfs as code names. Then the grin slowly faded as he thought of Danny Sardino, code name Bashful, who had been killed in Beirut two years earlier. Danny had been the only squad member killed from the time they were formed.

These men were his brothers. His only family. Most had been SEALs when the CIA recruited them for RATCOM, the Agency’s Rescue and Antiterrorist command. Rick Williams and Pete Bledsoe were the only exceptions—the two Brits had served in England’s SAS. They’d been together for almost four years now. With the exception of Justin Anderson, who’d become a member of the squad six months before when Mike Bishop, the leader of the squad, had been pulled out and made deputy secretary of RATCOM. Dave Cassidy had moved up to squad leader.

And each man in the squad had an individual specialty—his was sharpshooter.

Together the six men were not only a family—they were a definitive weapon.

Chapter 1

Why in hell did I come back here? Kurt thought with disgust. I hated this damn town when I lived here.

In ten years the town hadn’t changed much—still only one main street with one stoplight and one service station. The steeple of the Catholic church was still the tallest structure in town, and the courthouse with its portico and creaking rocking chairs looked like it could use a coat of fresh paint.

Kurt glanced at the grain store as he drove past it. The sign now read Cletis Tyler, Owner. So old man Tyler must have either died or retired, and his piss-ass son—and fellow classmate—had taken over.

Jake’s Tap was still the only tavern in town, the Dew Drop Inn the only motel. The post office was in the same spot, and the bank had a new brick facade. From what he could see, the only thing new was a two-story department store in the strip mall, boasting everything from safety pins to television sets. A woman’s beauty salon called Curl Up with Shirley was a new addition also, and a pharmacy now occupied the space where Elsa’s Bakery had been.

He used to love going to that bakery when he was a kid. It always smelled of freshly baked bread. Elsa Guttman, the kind old lady who owned it, would always slip him a sugar cookie. Maybe he had a few good memories of the town after all.

He was surprised at the sight of a tearoom and bookstore standing next to the old Rivoli Theatre. Now closed and boarded up, the letters on the theatre’s once brightly lit canopy spelled out Building for Sale or Lease.

The balcony of the old theatre offered some fond teenage memories for Kurt as well…

If he kept it up, pretty soon he’d be blowing his nose and wiping the tears out of his eyes.

Yeah, right!

Kurt parked in front of Rosie’s Diner. Twenty-five years ago Rosie Callahan had been the town hooker and earned her money the hard way—on her back. Much to the chagrin of half the guys in town, five years later she’d saved up enough money to open the only diner in town. By the time Kurt left town Rosie had just been elected mayor and was back to her old tricks in order to pay off campaign promises.

He popped seventy-five cents into a newspaper box and grabbed the Vandergriff Sentinel. A quick glance revealed that Carson Meadows was still the editor in chief, reporter and chief cook and bottle washer for that matter. Nothing changed except the price. It had gone up twenty-five cents in the past ten years.

Upon entering the diner Kurt perused the place from habit—the same eight stools at the counter, two connecting rows of six booths each, and six tables in the front near the window. The only change in the place was the color of the walls, and a large poster of Brad Pitt with sword in hand now hung where an earlier one of John Wayne with rifle in hand had reigned for the eighteen years he’d lived in the town.

The changing of the guard.

The place smelled of boiled cabbage, so he didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out the daily special. Kurt had beaten the dinner rush by about a half hour and the place was almost empty except for a couple and their kids in one of the booths and an old guy sitting at the counter.

The blond waitress who’d been talking to the old man glanced up when he entered. He’d have recognized Gertie Karpinski anywhere. She may have lost her youthful teenage glow, but there was no mistaking “Bare It and Share It” Karpinski. While most girls carried around lipstick, Gertie carried condoms. And in their four years of high school Gertie had lived up to her motto and bedded every guy in the graduating class—even that uptight jerk Cletis Tyler.