Nick saw it as clearly as he could see the malice on the Al-Majid’s face. “I am not as young as you suppose,” he answered in Arabic, “but I am here to kill you.”
“You speak the Iraqi dialect, do you? So you are an assassin—trained by the CIA, I hope. Otherwise, I would feel sorely undervalued.”
Nick did his best not to smile at the terrorist’s imagination. The hokey action flick, the opulence of his tent, the threats to the luxury car dealer—Al-Majid was living in a fantastical world of spooks and intrigue of his own making.
“You Americans are so arrogant,” the terrorist continued. “You say you are here to kill me. Yet it is I who hold the gun, while yours is tucked safely in its holster. In your clumsiness, you have provided me with an opportunity to teach my soldiers a valuable lesson. I will use you as an example to show them why Allah has made me their master. However, since I do not want to spill your blood on my carpets, I will have to ask you to step outside.”
Nick did not comply. His next move was a gamble, pressing a hot button in the psyche of a man holding a gun to his head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said in an even tone. “And I assure you it is not my blood but yours that will stain these rugs. My government provided the means, but it was God himself who sent me to kill you. God demands that you stand before him in judgment for your many crimes.”
Al-Majid’s eyes flared. “Fool!” He dug the gun into Nick’s forehead. “Do not dare to assume what Allah desires. He spared me from one of your American smart bombs. He will spare me from your feeble attempt at—”
When he mentioned the bomb, Al-Majid tilted his head back ever so slightly, shifting his gaze toward the sky. It was all that Nick needed. The shift in the Arab’s gaze allowed him to thrust his left hand upward, unseen, windmilling it from his chest to smash at the gun. At the same time, he jerked his head down and to the right. The impact of his hand against the weapon caused Al-Majid to pull the trigger, but the combination of hitting the weapon and tilting his head took Nick out of the line of fire.
With the gun thrust aside, Al-Majid’s chest and neck were unprotected. Nick brought his right hand up, striking at his opponent’s chin with his knuckles and cutting a deep gash in his throat with the knife. Simultaneously, he closed the open palm of his left hand over the hot barrel of Al-Majid’s pistol and twisted it out of his grasp. Then his right hand reached the apex of its swing and he brought it back down, burying the blade in the terrorist’s throat at a forty-five-degree angle. He felt the jarring impact of metal against bone.
Al-Majid dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to speak but could only produce sickening gurgles as the blood poured from his neck. Nick let the terrorist’s gun fall from his hand and looked down at him, allowing the hardness of his expression to soften. “The blood of too many souls cries out for yours. Tonight, justice has claimed your life.”
Chapter 55
Nick stared into the terrorist’s eyes and watched the shock and hatred ebb away, replaced by pure emptiness. Then he noticed for the first time that Al-Majid had been gripping something black in his left fist. As the last remnants of life drained from his body, his fist loosened and the black object dropped onto the floor, rolling in a lazy half circle until it settled to a stop at Nick’s feet. At the same moment, two more terrorists burst into the tent, alerted by the gunshot.
Nick made a break for the side of the tent as gunfire cracked at his heels. He took two long strides and dove over the concrete wall through the flap that he had loosened when he came in. He rolled on the sand outside and his momentum carried him under the wall of the neighboring tent, where he came to an abrupt and painful stop against the legs of an aluminum cot.
The cot was occupied.
The terrorist jumped to his feet in shock, his boots half tied as if he had been hurriedly dressing to respond to the commotion next door. Three other faces stared down at Nick as well, backlit by a few low-wattage bulbs. Instead of standing to fight, Nick threw his hands over his head and flattened out his body. The terrorists had only a fraction of a second to stare at him in confusion.
Al-Majid’s postmortem grenade exploded with such ferocity that Nick was not sure he had escaped injury. It sent a painful shock wave through his body, but the low concrete wall of Al-Majid’s tent shielded him from the metal fragments. The men standing over him had no such protection. The shrapnel shredded the sides of both tents and knocked all who were still standing to the ground.
The two men in Al-Majid’s tent fared the worst. They took the blast at close range and were cut down in an instant, followed shortly by a third man standing just outside the entrance. Two of the men in Nick’s tent were fatally wounded as well—one with a single hit to the middle of his forehead and the other with multiple wounds to the midsection and neck. The others skated through with lesser injuries, but they were dazed, uncertain of the source of the attack.
Despite the fog in his head and the pain in his body, Nick struggled to his feet, knowing that his life depended on being the first to overcome the grenade’s effects. He picked up his bloody knife and leapt over the cot, making for first terrorist to rise. The man saw the attack coming and attempted to stop Nick’s advance with a left hook.
Nick tossed the knife across to his left hand, spinning the blade outward as he did. With the knife still in midflight, he blocked the incoming punch with his right forearm. Then he caught the knife in his left hand and shoved it into his opponent’s heart. He gave it a twist, just for good measure, and then let go, leaving it protruding from the man’s chest as he spun him around to use as a shield.
The other terrorist had managed to grab his rifle and point it at Nick, but he hesitated, unsure of his ability to shoot past his comrade and stunned by the sight of the knife still firmly embedded in the man’s chest.
Nick reached behind his back and drew his Beretta, and for just a fraction of a second the two men stared at each other through their gun sights. Then Nick fired three shots into his opponent’s chest.
A fusillade of bullets ejected from the stricken man’s rifle. A few embedded themselves in Nick’s human shield, but the rest flew wide.
When the violence of the moment ended, Nick thought he might get a rest, but then he heard more voices from the parking area. The fight was not over. He quickly surveyed the wreckage of the tent for any signs of keys. Seeing none, he yanked his knife out of the dead terrorist, tossed a cot aside, and rolled under the fabric, jumping to his feet behind the encampment.
Nick’s skill in evading death so far surprised him, but he had to admit that the grenade had done much to even the odds and he couldn’t count on similar help in the future. An assault on the second wave of terrorists seemed like a bad idea. He chose misdirection instead. He shouted in Arabic at the top of his lungs, “Help! Help! They’re back here! Help!” Then he dashed into the hills and began to work his way toward the front and the vehicles.
The sound of voices and the crunch of boots on gravel told him that the ruse had worked. While the terrorists searched, Nick ran crouching to the front of the vehicles and started stabbing tires. He got the front two tires of the sedan and the first truck before a bullet kicked up the dirt at his feet. The jig was up. There was no more reason for silence. He stood up and ran, shooting out the front tires of the remaining truck before hopping into the open side of the nearest Jeep.
He dropped his weapons onto the passenger seat, put it in gear, and mashed down on the gas, racing out of the parking lot and sending a hail of gravel at his attackers. Bullets whizzed by his head. He ducked, barely able to see over the steering wheel.
Dawn rapidly brought light to the desert, and Nick could see well enough to find the road out of the camp. In a few quick movements he had the Jeep up to third gear. Then he let the engine scream while he felt for his nine-millimeter, fearing that his serpentine driving might throw it from the vehicle. When he finally found his gun, he holstered
it, leaving the safety off so that it would be ready when needed, and recommitted his hands to the task of driving.
Just as Nick thought he had made his escape, more bullets pinged off the Jeep’s armor, forcing him to shrink deeper into the cockpit. Seconds later his windshield shattered. He managed an angry glance over his shoulder and saw that there were three men in fatigues pursuing him in the other Jeep. The driver had no weapon and was completely focused on catching up while the other two were firing at him with assault rifles, one man in the passenger seat and one standing in the back.
Only the twists and turns and the uneven surface of the road saved Nick from a few extra holes in his flesh, and he knew that he could not maintain the status quo much longer. When they reached the asphalt, the balance of power would turn dramatically in the terrorists’ favor; they had positional advantage and superior firepower. He had to end the pursuit now.
Nick accelerated, pushing the Jeep and his own limits, until he could barely keep it on the road. It worked. The pursuing driver could not maintain the pace for fear of throwing the rear man out of the Jeep. The distance between them opened.
Around the next bend and with the other Jeep out of sight, Nick saw the opportunity he was hoping for. He wrenched the steering wheel to the right and shoved both the clutch and the brake to the floor. If it hadn’t been for a berm at the next curve, the Jeep would have surely rolled, but the rising terrain countered his momentum nicely and he skidded to a stop halfway up the embankment. He dove out of the cockpit and scrambled to the top of the hill, drawing his Beretta.
A fraction of a second later, the other Jeep careened around the corner, but the occupants didn’t see Nick. They poured their bullets into the empty Jeep. Nick took careful aim at the driver and fired off four rounds. The Jeep lurched left, throwing the rear man out before falling on its side and sliding to a stop a few feet away.
The ejected man picked himself up and ran with a slight limp toward his rifle, which lay several yards away. Nick raced forward, firing three rounds. Two of the bullets flew wide, but the last found its mark and the terrorist fell to the ground next to his weapon. Nick slowed, approaching cautiously. The man grabbed his rifle and started to turn, but Nick’s next two rounds caught him in the neck and head. The rifle fell from his hands.
The sound of heavy footfalls on the gravel behind him warned Nick of another threat. He turned and saw another terrorist running at him, holding a bayonet over his head, ready to bring it slashing down. The old quip about bringing a knife to a gunfight passed through Nick’s mind as he raised his weapon to fire, but he pulled the trigger too quickly and the shot missed wide. He pulled twice more with the weapon centered, but the Beretta just answered with harmless clicks—empty.
In a flash the Arab was upon him, the bayonet swinging down from above. Nick dropped the gun and stopped the man’s wrist with crossed arms, shifting his right hand to control the wrist and using his left to guide the terrorist’s arm, tucking it under his own. Then he spun, so that his back was to the man’s shoulder and Nick sat backward, forcing his opponent to the ground. The terrorist hit the gravel hard. The knife fell from his grasp and he cried out in pain. The reversal of momentum had torn his shoulder from its socket.
Nick let go of his attacker to go for the bayonet. Despite the terrorist’s painful injury, he took advantage of the momentary freedom and tackled Nick from behind, wrapping his good arm around the pilot’s throat. Nick grabbed the arm with both hands and rolled forward, carrying his attacker with him. The terrorist hit the gravel again, this time taking the full impact on the side of his face. He lost his grip and rolled flat on his back.
Nick leapt to his feet and stepped on the Iraqi’s good wrist. Then he dropped his knee to the man’s chest, letting the full weight of his 180-pound frame propel him downward. He felt a sickening crack as a pair of his opponent’s ribs broke under the force of the impact. With his left hand, he grabbed the man’s throat and pushed his fingers deep into the neck so that he could squeeze the esophagus. The terrorist’s eyes bulged and he let out a rasp, barely able to breathe.
“Is that uncomfortable?” Nick asked in Arabic.
He received a short nod and another rasp in response.
“Good. From this position it will take less force for me to crush your throat than it would to crush an empty soda can.” He paused to let the implication sink in before continuing, still speaking Arabic. “I’m going to let go now, but if you move—if you even twitch—you’ll never breathe again. Do you understand?”
There was another rasping affirmative. Nick cautiously let go of the man’s throat and relaxed some of the pressure on the chest. He could see immediate relief in the terrorist’s face.
The man coughed out a threat in English. “You think you’ve won, but you’re still going to die.”
His English took Nick by surprise. It was impeccable—unusual for rank and file jihadist fighters. For the first time, Nick took stock of his opponent’s clothes. They were fatigues. He wore green epaulettes at the shoulders, embroidered with gold birds. This man wasn’t one of Al-Majid’s. He was a major in the Republican Guard.
“What did you mean by that?” Nick asked. “Did you radio for backup?”
The Iraqi said nothing, choosing to spit at Nick instead.
“Fine, have it your way.” Nick shifted his weight back to the man’s chest. He saw an immediate response as the Iraqi’s face twisted in pain. He guessed that portions of the broken ribs were impinging on one or two vital organs.
“Enough,” the Iraqi grunted.
Nick relieved the pressure.
“A battalion of Republican Guard has already been dispatched. They know our exact position and they will descend on you like a swarm of bees. In a few hours, they’ll be dragging your body through the streets of Baghdad on Al Jazeera for all your countrymen to see.” The Iraqi smiled through his pain when he saw the shadow of concern on Nick’s face.
Nick let the revelation deter him for only a moment and then his expression hardened again. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said coldly.
“You and I are not so different,” the Iraqi rasped, “merely soldiers on two sides of a new war.”
“That uniform does not make you a soldier,” Nick said.
“And yours does not make you any less a terrorist,” the Iraqi responded. “I’ve grown tired of this conversation. Just kill me and get it over with.”
“That’s what makes us different. Because you are a terrorist, you would have killed me without pause. Because I am an American soldier, and because I have no need to kill you, I’m going to let you live.”
“That fascination with mercy just makes your people weak.”
“Maybe,” said Nick. “But my mercy is going to leave you with a monster headache. Nighty night.” He swung his left elbow down in an arc, adding power and support by grabbing his fist with his right hand. The heavy blow to the temple put the man to sleep.
After binding his captive with the Iraqi’s own bootlaces, Nick returned to the overturned Jeep to make sure the driver was dead. The man hung limp in his seat, having somehow managed to get his seat belt on during the pursuit.
“Safety first,” Nick muttered.
He bent down past the dead man, ripped out the radio, and tossed it over a hill into the desert sand. Then he walked over to the other Jeep and felt around for his knife. The Buck Special was still there. It had traveled from the passenger seat to the floorboard underneath the driver’s seat, but it had stayed with him through the chase. With no immediate danger Nick cleaned the blade for the first time since Baron had used his knife on another terrorist after using it on Al-Majid, wiping the crusted blood on the backseat of the Jeep.
The sight of the blood brought back the image of Al-Majid and the look in his eyes as his life faded. Nick felt a pang of sorrow, but not remorse—he felt no remorse at all. He understood now that
he had never hated the terrorists as he thought he did on September 11. He did not hate the human beings. He hated their actions.
Nick had killed Al-Majid to end his acts of terror—to protect those who would have surely died by his hand in the future. The others he’d killed for survival. They had chosen the wrong master and paid for it with their lives. The last man he had let live. Likely or not, the Iraqi major still had an opportunity to choose a different path.
Nick recovered his Beretta from the ground near to the unconscious Iraqi and exchanged the empty clip for the half-full one. A few minutes later, he turned the Jeep onto the asphalt road. He didn’t waste time consulting a map or getting a GPS fix on his exact position. He just headed south. He had to put some quick distance between himself and the promised horde.
Chapter 56
“Any radio, any radio, this is Wraith Zero One,” Nick called into his emergency radio, straining to hear any semblance of a response over the whip of the wind in his ears. There was nothing. He looked down at the small green box and decided he’d better unsnap the flexible antenna secured to the side. The thin plastic band fluttered and bent in the wind, occasionally smacking him in the back of the neck, but it would still improve his chances. He tried the secure frequency again. “Any radio, any radio, this is Wraith Zero One.”
There was a long pause and then the radio crackled. A faint voice replied, “Wraith One, this is Sandy One. I read you loud and clear. Authenticate blue, two six.”
Thank God. Nick had not realized how elated he would feel to hear the traditional A-10 search and rescue call sign. He fought through his emotion to remember the day’s authentication tables; the wrong code would end the rescue right here if the A-10 pilot suspected an enemy trap. “Wraith has gold, seven one. Come back with silver, niner seven,” he said, praying that he was correct.
The voice responded immediately. “Sandy has red, one zero. I show that you’re clean, Wraith.”
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