Free Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) by Mark Terry

escalate the encounter, Derek lifted his barrel bit by bit.
    Suddenly Hammond lurched forward, shouting. The Syrian shouted back.
    Hammond fired his AK . The Syrian fell backward, dead.
    “That went well,” Derek said.
    Hammond bent over, swayed, and fumbled a handgun from the man’s belt and tossed it to Derek, who caught it and tucked it in his own belt. How Hammond was managing to juggle the makeshift crutch, his AK and searching a corpse was beyond Derek. “He thought we were running away. He was going to force us back to the fighting.”
    “Seems like a recurring theme.”
    “I’d pretend to be a photographer if I had a frickin camera. Let’s go.”
    They moved on, trying to avoid the main fighting. It seemed to be shifting off to their west, but Derek was also afraid they were moving too far east of their target. Finally he started veering back the way they were headed. Their pace was glacial. Hammond, despite moments of adrenaline-inspired speed, would then drag as he wore out. He never asked for a rest, but it was clear to Derek that the man was on the edge of his reserves.
    Stopping to check the scrawled map, Derek nodded. “Almost there.” The Citadel loomed ahead of them. The café they were looking for was about two blocks ahead. The fighting was moving away from their location.
    They ran into a handful of people, mostly women, watching them suspiciously from doorways. Finally, ten minutes later, they found the café. Pushing through the door, they discovered about fifteen tables, a ceiling fan batting at the air.
    “Holy shit,” Hammond breathed, instantly shifting to the side and raising his rifle.
    Derek instinctively moved to the other side of the door.
    The café was filled with a dozen corpses. They appeared to have been gunned down. All men, most of them looking older with gray beards. There was food on the tables and glasses of tea. Playing cards scattered across tabletops and on the floor.
    Picking his way around the bodies, Derek peeked into the back. Two more bodies. One middle-aged, one younger.
    “Dear God,” Hammond said.
    Derek nodded. The older one appeared to have been crucified. He was roped to a support beam, spread against the wall with spikes driven through his wrists and ankles.
    Approaching the man, Derek pressed his fingers to his throat. He almost jumped out of his skin when the man lifted his head and moaned.
    “Help me with this,” Derek said. He tried to pull the spikes from the man’s wrist and arms, but they wouldn’t budge.
    “Nazif … ”
    The man opened his eyes a moment. He said something in Arabic. Glancing at Derek, Hammond translated, “He’s asking about his son. Can we get him down?”
    “I don’t know. If we just pull him down the trauma will probably kill him. But he’s in pretty bad shape as it is.”
    The man muttered something else. Hammond translated: “He said the Sheikh is hunting for us.”
    “Specifically us?”
    “The Americans.”
    “That probably means us. Let’s try to get him down. If you think you can support him, I’ll try to get his arms and legs loose.”
    Derek hunted around the kitchen and found a hammer, probably the one that had been used to nail in the spikes. It was spattered with blood. Derek’s stomach clenched as he thought about what he had to do. Hammond tried to get a grip around the man’s waist and lift him, but it was obvious the CIA agent was at the limits of his strength. With brutal efficiency and the screech of metal being torn from wood, Derek pulled the spikes from the man’s hands. The rope around his waist kept him from collapsing to the floor. He groaned once and sagged.
    Derek made a similar move on the spikes in the ankles. Blood soaked the man’s clothing. He edged Hammond aside and levered the man to the floor.
    The man muttered in Arabic. They leaned over him, Hammond listening. Derek found several towels in the kitchen and used them to wrap the wounds in the hands. He was working on the ankles