A 9-millimeter round didn’t have tremendous muzzle velocity. The silencer cut it further. Even so, the slug pierced the lieutenant’s skin, dug through his lats, broke two ribs as it spun sideways into the fat lower lobe of his left lung. It stopped there, not an immediately lethal wound but disabling and agonizing.
The lieutenant put his hands to his chest, scratching at the sudden fire inside him. He dropped to a knee and heaved for air in desperate shallow breaths. The three men beside him hadn’t heard the shot and didn’t realize the reason for his distress. They turned to him, leaned in, forming a nice tight target for Wells. One grabbed the lieutenant’s arm, tried to pull him up. “Talib—”
Wells stood and fired, moving the AK left to right across the men. No speeches, no warning, just cutting down unarmed men. Murder. He pulled the trigger six times, two shots on each man. The first two went down hard. The third dove away and ducked between the Suburbans and ran along the outside of the front one. He pulled open the driver’s door and flung himself into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. The wheels spun, then grabbed. The big truck surged forward.
Wells ran into the road and then stopped and raised his rifle as the Suburban accelerated at him, the guy not swerving, risking his own life to run Wells over.
Wells thought he’d missed. But he turned his head and, through the blood trickling into his eyes, watched the truck accelerate, its V-8 engine roaring, the man behind the wheel as insensate as the steel that cocooned him. The truck skidded off the road and crumpled sideways into the ravine.
Wells stood, mopped his forehead. Over the ridge to the south, he heard shooting and shouting. Both Gaffan and the jihadis had AKs, so he couldn’t guess who had the advantage. He ran for the second Suburban, to put it between him and the barracks. Then he heard footsteps pounding down the ridge—
The farmhouse; he’d forgotten the farmhouse—
He looked over his shoulder to see a man running down the hill, a rifle cradled in both hands. Wells spun, trying to get his own rifle up, but he was too late, the guy had him and was just waiting to get close enough to be sure—
Shots burst from the left. The man screamed and stumbled, dead before he hit the ground, the rifle sliding from his hands and clattering on the hill—
Wells looked left, saw Gaffan. Who said nothing, didn’t give Wells a wave or a salute or even a thumbs-up. Just the briefest nod. Which was enough. They both knew that Gaffan had saved his life.
IN FRONT OF WELLS, the lieutenant crawled toward the barracks, coughing wetly, the red-black stain on his gown spreading down his back. “Talib?” a man shouted from the barracks. A rifle poked out of the doorway and fired wildly, blindly into the night.
Gaffan angled down the hill, slid in beside Wells. “Thank you,” Wells murmured.
“You’re welcome. What happened?”
Wells wiped the blood off his forehead. “I tripped. Looks worse than it is. You got the other three?”
“Yeah.”
“Then let’s do the barracks. The guy in the gown, don’t shoot him. I think he’s in charge. I want to talk to him.”
“He keeps bleeding like that, gonna be a short conversation.” Gaffan nodded at a window at the far end of the barracks. “I’ll get them moving.”
Wells hid himself behind the high hood of the Suburban, twenty-five yards from the front of the barracks. He fired two shots in the air to distract whoever was inside as Gaffan ran for the barracks. Gaffan smashed the back window with his elbow, tossed in a grenade.
From behind the truck’s front tire, Wells waited. The grenade exploded, its blast echoing through the night, blowing out the square front windows of the barracks. Two men ran from the front door, AKs on full automatic, panicked, firing at everything and nothing. Rounds poured into the Suburban, tearing open its windows, splattering its doors with bullet holes.
When the jihadis ran out of ammo, Wells popped up and tore open their chests with twin three-shot bursts. One man died drowning in his own blood from a burst aorta. He frothed at the mouth and muttered incoherently before Wells put him out of his misery with two bullets in his brain. The other was fortunate enough to die immediately and in silence. Wells had no time to comfort them, apologize to them, or pray for their souls. Or his own.
THE LIEUTENANT HAD SLIPPED onto his chest, as though he could breathe through the hole in his back. Gaffan was right. He didn’t have long. His skin was ashen, his gown soaked with blood. Wells turned him on his side, pulled up his chin. He was still conscious, barely. Watery hate filled his eyes when he looked at Wells.
“Stay with me,” Wells said. “Stay awake. Where were you going?”
“Jerusalem.”
“You’re lying. Help us and we can help you. You need a doctor.”
The man spat weakly, drool settling on his chin. Wells tried again. “Twelve hundred kilometers. That’s a long way from here.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I heard you. I heard you say Riyadh. You’re going to Riyadh.”
The man smiled. Wells wasn’t sure if the reaction meant he’d guessed right or wrong.
“We’ll find out. We’ll stop you.”
Death clotted the man’s eyes but not his smile. Wells leaned close to hear his last words: “You won’t. It’s too late.”
CHAPTER 16
WELLS REACHED INTO THE POCKETS OF THE DEAD MAN’S GOWN, came out with sticky, bloody fingers and a ring that held two dull metal keys. A tap on his shoulder pulled him up. Gaffan pointed to the barracks, raised a finger:
Wells stepped to the left side of the open barracks doorway. He heard a nervous scuffling, the slow breathing of a man trying too hard to be quiet. Gaffan stood across the doorway. Wells tapped his chest, pointed inside, indicating he’d go in first. He lowered his AK, pulled his pistol and flashlight.
Gaffan nodded:
Dove sideways as a half-dozen rounds studded the concrete above him. He cut the flashlight, crawled beneath a cot, fired twice blindly into the corner. He didn’t have much chance, but with the silencer he didn’t have to worry about giving away his position. Gaffan tilted his rifle into the doorway and fired three shots.
“Surrender,” Wells said. The jihadi fired again, banging shots over Wells’s head. “Surrender. Save yourself.”
Wells wanted to keep at least one jihadi alive. With the lieutenant dying, this guy looked like their only chance. But they were short on time. The militia was probably already coming. “Grenade,” Wells called to Gaffan.
“Grenade?” the jihadi said. He sounded young. And spooked.
“Three seconds. One — two—”
“I surrender.” A man stood.
Wells caught him in the flashlight beam. He looked unhurt, aside from minor cuts on his legs. “Raise your hands.” Gaffan covered as the man came forward, hands high. Halfway to the door, the man reached up—
And turned on a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
The room was simple and spare, with thirty cots, fifteen against each long wall. Each cot had a wooden peg pounded into the wall above it. Most were empty, but AKs hung from four. Wooden shelves at the back held a mix of Western and Arab clothes, along with several pairs of the heavy leather sandals that Saudis favored. One shelf held a half-dozen copies of the Quran and other books that might have been infantry manuals in Arabic. Four photos
