Saunders was sitting nearer to the window. He said, “Don’t worry about him, Broz. The new bloke will come through when the fight is on.”

“Yeah? Sounds like he wants to do an interview with every son of a bitch in every firefight before deciding whether they get a bullet. Is this asshole going to have my back when he sees some lady pull out a pistol on my six? I don’t trust him.”

Court turned back to the Croatian. “So you don’t trust the guy who doesn’t shoot innocent kids? Are all you guys that twisted?”

Saunders gave Court an “eat shit” look, while some of the others mumbled curses Court’s way. But Broz was the one who stood up from his position. He left his M4 rifle on the floor where he’d been sitting, but he walked over to Court.

Court stood up and faced him.

Broz said, “You’re a little better than the rest of us, aren’t you, Wade?”

“I didn’t come here thinking that, but you guys aren’t impressing me much with your actions.”

Broz stuck a finger in Court’s face. “Bastards who look just like those three we shot downstairs wear S-vests all the time!”

“Which three? You mean the boy and the two ladies? I didn’t see any S-vests on them.”

“I’ve lost men to women and kids before. You might not have to worry about that in Toronto or wherever the fuck you come from, but you’re in the real world out here in the desert.”

“So . . . what? You just shoot everybody you see to be sure?”

Broz said, “That would suit me. God’ll sort ’em out. Seriously . . . why are you here?”

Court said, “Maybe God sent me to sort you out.”

Court and Broz went for each other simultaneously, locking up and falling to the floor. Court rolled on top of the bigger man, pinning him by his chest, but as Court brought his fist back to deliver a punch to the man’s face, the Croatian shifted his weight onto his right hip, shoved his right elbow inside Court’s knee, and bridged his body up, thrusting hard to the right.

Court knew judo, he knew the move Broz was trying to execute, and he knew how to counter it. He made to slide his left leg away from his body to stabilize himself so he couldn’t get thrown, but as he moved his foot he realized Broz had brought his own left leg over his own body, then hooked it down around Court’s foot, trapping his leg tight.

Court’s weight was on his knees, not back at his feet where he could fight Broz’s new leverage, so the Croatian easily flipped Court off to the side, and Court slammed down onto his back.

Broz didn’t hesitate to exploit his advantage; he rolled onto Court, pinning his shoulders to the dusty concrete floor. He head-butted Court, using his helmet in an attempt to break the pinned man’s nose, but Court’s helmet blocked the brunt of the strike, so the Croatian changed tactics, sitting up to get enough distance to rain punches down on Court’s face with his hard-knuckled combat gloves. But as Broz postured up, Court realized the danger he was in, so he moved with the man above him, shot his arms around Broz’s body armor, and grabbed his own wrists behind the man’s back. He pulled Broz back down close to him. Here Court used his right leg to trap Broz’s left, used his right arm to overhook Broz’s left shoulder, and clamped in tight, so when he pushed off the man wouldn’t be able to catch himself with his left hand on the floor. Court exploded hard up with his left foot and let go of his grip behind Broz’s back, sending the two-hundred-pound man and all his gear rolling to his left, where he slammed onto his back.

Court rolled on top of Broz’s torso, pancaking his shoulders to the floor.

He felt Broz reach for something with his left hand down at his waist, so Court himself used his left hand to reach for his own boot.

Broz brought a fixed-blade knife from its scabbard and pressed its tip under Court’s body armor at his right hip. Simultaneously, Court thumbed the button on his switchblade, springing the four-inch blade like a bullet.

Just as the Croatian began putting pressure on the knife at Court’s hip, Court brought the razor-sharp edge of his switchblade up and against Broz’s carotid artery.

Both men froze in this position.

“I’ll gut you!” Broz said.

“And then you’ll bleed out right where you lay!”

Court turned his head to the sound of movement and saw Saunders leaping up to his feet from where he had been sitting and watching the fight. He charged over, reaching for his pistol on his leg as he moved. Court kept his left hand, and his knife’s blade, right where it was against Broz’s neck, but he untucked his right arm from its clutch around Broz’s head and fired it down to his right hip, over the knife jabbing into his lower back. In less time than Saunders could make two bounding steps towards the fight, Court drew his SIG pistol, whipped it around and over his body, and pointed it at Saunders at a range of ten feet.

The Englishman stopped, raised his hands, and froze in place.

And then Van Wyk stepped back into the room. “What the holy fuck is going on in here?”

Both Broz and Gentry breathed heavily, but neither man moved their edged weapons from their lethal positions. Van Wyk shouted, “Knock it off! Wade! Broz!”

Still neither man moved. Court thought Broz was a psychopathic murderer; he wasn’t about to relax his guard as long as the man had a knife pressing against him.

Van Wyk realized this was a tense situation that had to be untangled the right way. The team leader said, “All right. First . . . Saunders, turn away and walk back over to your kit. Do it slowly, and Wade won’t shoot you. That’s right, isn’t it, Kilo Nine?”

“That’s right,” Court said through labored breath, his pistol still aimed at the Brit’s face.

Saunders lowered his hands, turned slowly away, and returned to where he was sitting.

“Right. Pistol down, Wade. Slide it over to me.”

Court did as instructed but kept the switchblade tight against Broz’s neck.

Van Wyk next said, “Brunetti?”

The Argentine sat on his backpack near the window. “Yeah, boss?”

“You got a dog in this fight?”

“No, boss.”

“Good. Raise your weapon. Shoot the first man who doesn’t do as I tell them.”

The man with the broken nose reached for his AK leaning against the wall. He leveled it at the two men lying together on the floor across the room, then flipped off the safety lever. “Okay.”

Van Wyk said, “On three you will both lower your weapons, unravel, and go back to your kit. One . . . two . . . Brunetti, you good?”

“Yes, boss.”

“And three.”

Court retracted his switchblade with a snap, and Broz dropped his knife to the floor next to him with an audible clang. Both men climbed to their knees without looking at each other, and then stood.

Seconds later their knives were restowed, Van Wyk kicked Court’s pistol back to him, and the men sat down on opposite sides of the room.

The South African team leader said, “That doesn’t happen again or I start killing men for the good of the mission. Now, I came up here to give you a sit rep. Companies Bashar and Chadli are moving into the northern hills; they’ve broken up the opposition lines there. Battalion command can’t get any SAA air online to attack the FSA while they’re on the move, so they are trying to reach out to the Russians.

“Either way, we’ll be heading due east in fifteen mikes, bypassing the hills and staying on the highway. There is a town we have to take by dusk to get us into position for tonight.”

Saunders asked, “What’s tonight?”

Court noticed that Van Wyk glanced his way before saying, “Looks like a raid is in the works. That’s all I know.”

The team leader left the room, but Court climbed to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and followed along into the hall to the stairs there.

“Sir?”

The South African turned around at the top of the stairs. “Don’t call me sir. It’s boss, Van Wyk, or ‘hey, mate.’”

“Right, boss. Look, sorry about that back there.”

Van Wyk put a gloved finger in Court’s face. “I’ve got enough to deal with. Don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t.”

“Klossner told me you were good but didn’t have a lot of experience on the dark side. You’ll learn . . . not to love it, but you’ll learn to do it.”

This guy was as lost as the rest of these cutthroat killers, Court could see. He changed the subject. “You said they were trying to get Russian air to the hills?”

“That’s right.”

“I speak Russian, if they need someone in the operations center.”

Van Wyk seemed surprised by this but said, “SAA has Russians embedded with them, but the Hawks don’t. If the Hawks want Russian air, they’ve had to go through the army.”

“Maybe I can raise them on the radio directly.”

“Come with me,” Van Wyk ordered.

Court went back to collect his gear, then followed Van Wyk without a look or a word to the other men.

CHAPTER 60