Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) by Brad Magnarella (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

shared the lead through the acrid smoke. We were eight strong now, two members remaining behind to secure the outer courtyard.

The main building rose ahead. Light slivered around the seams of a covered window on the third floor. I was cycling through the building’s layout in my mind when the front door opened.

Segundo and I greeted the armed guard with a single shot apiece to his chest.

We stepped over his prone body and into the first floor. The rooftop generator that shuddered through the concrete building encased us in a wall of pounding, disguising the noise of our entry and movement. We had cut power to the sector an hour earlier for just that purpose.

I spotted the staircase to the second floor at the far end of a corridor, doorways opening off it. I circled a pair of fingers to remind my team of the two guards still on the floor. They appeared from a back room a moment later, armed but unaware the building had been breached. We dropped them and cleared the remaining rooms. One man remained behind while the rest of us filed up the stairs.

Two guards saw us coming onto the second floor. Our suppressed gunfire cut their alarmed cries short. A third guard poked his head from a doorway. I squeezed my trigger before he could duck back to safety. Through my night-vision, the corridor glowed green with spattered blood.

All twelve guards were now accounted for. But had their shouts penetrated the din of the generator? Only one way to find out. I signaled for two of my men to stay behind to check the rest of the floor while I led Segundo and Parker to the top level.

From the shadow of the stairwell we peered onto a narrow corridor with two closed doors. Light glowed beneath the one on the right. Beyond, I could hear the shouts of men arguing. Segundo grinned broadly. They had no idea an American Special Ops unit was at their doorstep.

After clearing the other room, we stacked on the door. I signaled for Segundo and Parker to cover my breach. Flipping the night-vision goggles from my eyes, I seized the handle and threw the door open.

For a moment, the six men sitting around the lamp-lit room on rugs didn’t notice me. Several were arguing, the sleeves of their loose shirts and gowns shaking as they pointed accusing fingers at one another, eyes blazing above their shouting mouths. I recognized all of the men, but at the moment, I only cared about the one I had singled out with a red laser dot on his chest.

Plump with a purple vest and trim gray goatee, Zarbat was trying to restore order. He glanced up at me distractedly, then away. I could almost see the image of a massive armed man registering in his brain. His eyes worked their way back to me. One by one, the other men followed the aim of his ashen face. The shouting fell to murmurs, then died.

Zarbat peered past me, as though expecting his guards to come to his defense. Instead, he saw Segundo and Parker, the three of us holding enough firepower to liquefy the room. The men understood this. They cast nervous glances around, none of them moving or saying a word. Glass tea cups rattled on saucers, and the plywood over the window shook as the generator hammered on.

At last Zarbat licked his thick lips and tried to smile. “Jason Wolfe,” he called in his refined voice. “I didn’t realize you were coming. Have a seat. Here is the tea you like.” He reached for a pot in the middle of the gathering.

“It’s not that kind of visit,” I grunted.

“Oh?” He withdrew his hand and swallowed dryly. “Well, then. What brings you here?”

Six months before, when my team had been assigned to work with him, Zarbat had been one man. No army, no weapons, and little to no credibility with the ethnic tribe of his birth. Now he had all three—in spades. The last because we’d credited him with the overthrow of the Mujahideen in southern Waristan when, in fact, he had been safe at our base in nearby Afghanistan. We’d flown him in at the tail end of the battle to pose with an assault rifle and the militia we had trained. Zarbat never fired a shot nor was he ever shot at. His U.S. education and influence among a handful of Washington decision-makers had served him well. Until he got greedy.

“The gentleman to your left brings us,” I said.

I knew from our intelligence that Elam, one of the leaders of the Mujahideen insurgency, didn’t understand English.

“Ah, yes,” Zarbat replied. “We were just discussing the terms of his surrender.”

I shook my head. “You and the representatives of the other four tribes were to meet in the capital this weekend to elect a government. Instead, you and Elam have been plotting their assassinations so the country would descend into chaos and you could present yourself as the only stabilizing figure. With the grand council off the table, the U.S. would have no choice but to name you interim leader. Your first move would be to grant amnesty to the Mujahideen fighters, more than tripling the size of your armed forces. From there, you would assume complete power, all while assuring the U.S. you remained a loyal ally.”

Some U.S. leaders would have been willing to live with that, if only to see a conclusion to the war. In the end, more hawkish voices had prevailed.

Zarbat’s face flushed. “That’s preposterous.”

“We’ve been monitoring your communications for the last month.”

Zarbat peered past me, as though looking once more for his guards.

“We also know you doubled your security for tonight’s meeting, instructing them to kill anyone who tried to enter. ‘Even the Americans?’ they asked. ‘Even the Americans,’ you answered.”

“Jason,” he said, tilting his head companionably. “I do not doubt the power of your intelligence services, but you were my advisor. You know me. Does that sound at