Counterplay

on each side of the gate. In the small gun towers.”
“Roger,” said Richard. He looked at Zak. “Why don’t we fire RPGs into each tower? That will take all four out.”
“It will, so long as we keep all the other guards frozen where they are,” Zak replied. “Can we do that?” he asked over the comm-link.
“Their control system is completely frozen,” Turbee replied. “And all the doors are locked. No one is going to bother you for the next few minutes.”
“Good,” said Zak. “You take the left, Rich. I’ll take the right.”
Within seconds the top of each guard tower was lit up by two grenades, shattering the calm night air. Zak missed with one; he was not yet fully comfortable with his prosthetic forearm. The missed grenade zipped past the tower and entered one of the upper windows of the grim fortress. Lights came on and shouting pierced the echoing thunder of the five grenades. At the sound of the explosions, Fazal looked up and saw all the screens in front of him frozen. He desperately entered commands into the system, but was unable to unlock any door or unfreeze any camera. Everything was now controlled by Turbee, some 8,000 miles away.
“Open the front doors, Turbee,” Richard said.
“Be careful,” said Turbee. “There are four armed soldiers on the other side of that door. I am opening those doors now.”
The two huge steel doors behind the arched stone entrance slowly swung open. The lights of the foyer were on and illuminated the area, providing a broadening rectangle of light that was impossible to miss. The doors were only two feet apart when Richard and Zak each shot two small grenades that exploded in the cavernous room behind.
Death was instantaneous. There were no screams, just the crackling of flames licking walls. The foyer was full of smoke and body parts.
Turbee was able to direct Zak and Richard through a maze of doors, hallways, and stairs until they reached the lowest level. Although it still resembled a dungeon in some respects, the area was nothing like the cells in which Zak was imprisoned for a fortnight. There were bright lights on the ceiling and the cell doors were equipped with electronic locks, controlled by the unhackable servers. There were a total of ten cells, nine of which were occupied by prisoners in various stages of mutilation.
Hamani was standing at the far end of the cellblock, attempting through streams of curses to open a door along the back wall. He heard the two descending the stairs. He lunged for a gun that was resting on a small metal desk, but Zak and Richard were on him before he could use it. Zak punched him hard, twice, knocking out several of his teeth.
“That was for my toes, you bastard,” he snarled.
With the tables turned, the butcher of Inzar Ghar displayed a different streak in his personality. “I was just following orders,” he wailed in Pashto. “I did what I did because Yousseff ordered it.”
“Richard, why don’t you whack him a couple of times? Just for fun. Let’s see where Kumar is.”
Richard delivered a savage uppercut, knocking out more teeth. “Wanna go square dancing, you creep? You know, allemande left and all that? Do you remember that from last time?”
Hamani had held Richard in custody only for a few moments almost eight months earlier, but he recognized him.
“You crazy fucking American,” he moaned.
“Yeah, you bastard,” Richard replied. “I’m the crazy fucking American that you were going to torture to death.”
Zak spotted Kumar in one of the cells. “Turbee, he’s in cell nine. Open it up.”
Turbee remotely opened the cell door with a bewildered Kumar confronting his wounded tormentor and Zak Goldberg.
“Shayam?” he asked, using the name Zak had used when he traveled undercover with Yousseff. “I thought you were dead. Is it you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Shayam was a cover name. My name is Zak Goldberg. I am an American agent. We’re going to take you out of here.”
Richard and Zak were about to hustle Kumar out the door when Zak paused and raced back toward Hamani’s metal desk, rummaged through the drawers, and picked up a number of Hamani’s favorite tools—a corkscrew, a small hammer, and a rusty knife with a dull serrated blade. He tossed them on the dungeon floor and addressed the other prisoners in Pashtu: “Have at him,” he snarled, pointing at Hamani. “Entertain yourselves.”
Richard yelled over the comm-link, “Open up the hallway door, Turbee. Then open every cell door. All of them. Then close and lock the hallway door behind us. It would be nice for the other prisoners to have a few words with Hamani.”
Turbee looked perplexed but complied. Zak, Richard, and Kumar ran up the stairs with the sounds of Hamani’s screams cutting through the air behind them.
“That was easy,” Richard said as doors opened and closed behind them. “Rich, we’re not out of here yet. I rode with Yousseff and his crew for three years. He has hundreds of millions of dollars stashed in this place. Drugs, cash, weapons, you name it.”
They reached the foyer, which still smelled of bitumen and charred flesh, and rushed toward the destroyed outer gates. There to greet them were several jeeps mounted with heavy machine guns and a good twenty-five battlehardened foot soldiers. The top floor of Inzar Ghar had not been upgraded by Yousseff. That floor housed the garrison that defended the fortress.

3
As the Inzar Ghar rescue mission was unfolding, a battle of a different sort was developing in Courtroom 401 in Vancouver, British Columbia. It was day one of the trial and things were not going well for young Dana Wittenberg.
“You want a what?” Judge Shawn Mordecai scowled. “A WHAT?”
Dana was so paralyzed by fear and adrenalin that she could barely speak. Her lips were parched and white, and her tongue was sandpaper, stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her hands shook with anxiety.
“An adjournment,” she croaked.
Dalton McSheffrey, Queen’s Counsel, the senior prosecutor, was instantly on his feet. “My lord,”