John Porter Interim

Chapter IV

Thanks to Caty for Beta-ing.

I love a bit of proper soldiering.

No mystery. No grey areas. We are here to do bad things to a bad man.

Who put my little girl at risk.

Fuck 'em.

I'm still trying not to take my luck as a good omen. The Major filled me in on exactly who Baryktabasov has been making friendly with lately and sent out feelers to find where he might be hiding Arlington. In six hours I not only had a verified location, I had a schematic of the compound.

And a patrol.

Seems the Major is missing a bit of proper soldiering himself.

"Security gets a bit boring, but while I'm sure my client would not take it amiss if Baryktabasov were to end up collateral damage, I won't turn my company into a mercenary operation. Fortunately, he will be out of the country for the next couple days. I've pulled in two men I can trust from the field. That's all that can go missing for a night without raising any red flags. Now I was thinking Mac and Lister can take the south entrance..."

"Hold it. Are you sure about these numbers?" I ask. "Seems to me with the VIP they would have upped security."

It's a small compound around the mobster-with-aspiration's typically ostentatious house so it takes me and Mehrjui an hour to hammer out an assault plan with Sods Law contingencies. I am an unknown quantity Mehrjui doesn't trust, but he doesn't ride the issue and it's a nice surprise when he doesn't pull rank when it comes to tactics. We are able to come up with something we're both happy with. It's insane, but sane people don't do this job.

Still, it's nice to gear up in the black Nomex and greasepaint, carrying a small arsenal to make some proper mayhem to take out a proper bastard.

Now, waiting in the jeep in the dark on the edge of the property, I mentally run through the tactical plan as I check my gear; the fist-sized black canisters of flash bang grenades stowed on the opposite side from the standard L2A2 grenades, ka-bar knife, extra magazines for my HK MP5 rifle and the P-226 pistol, extra Hatton rounds for the sawed off Remington 870 shotgun strapped to my thigh. My PLCE webbing keeping everything exactly where it is supposed to be. Happy bunnies. I feel the beginnings of the adrenaline pumping through my blood as that odd calm washes over me.

The Major is quietly abusing the Americans while he uses night vision goggles to observe a canine unit passing along the perimeter of the chain link fence.

The evening breeze wafts the smell of lemon blossoms from the garden and there is a passing warm sensation on my back where the poem is tucked into my belt, but I swallow the sharp ache down and reply mildly, "Yanks aren't all bad."

"...Blonde or brunette?"

"Red head."

"Gingers aren't American or British," he lectures. "They're gingers. They need their own homeland."

I make of show of considering this. "I'd book my next leave there."

"You, me, and half the male population."

"Team two, in position," comes over our earphones and the Major gives the order to move up through the outer perimeter fence and the woods surrounding the house. We have a nine minute window to go over the fence and move through the woods to the inner wall. Plenty of time.

While team two moves to cover both entrances to the house, Mehrjui and I will go through the garden and around the garage to enter the house from the west side, working our way up the kitchen stairs and then back down to meet the second team for extraction.