I jerked my head in surprise, jolted by the unexpected noise, dropping the keys to the van’s floorboards.
Carl’s beady eyes narrowed in momentary confusion, bushy brows scrunching together as he looked into the trunk. The first bullet had struck him square in the chest, leaving a red hole on his white dress shirt. The second concussion came a split second later. Blood spurted from Carl’s neck, his hands flying reflexively to his throat as he fell sprawling into the sand.
Time jerked to a screeching halt.
“
I was moving, the FNP coming out of my waistband.
The man twisted to the side, one foot hitting the ground, the other still bent in the trunk. He extended a small B&T machine pistol in one hand, seeking Reaper.
“Down! “Down!” I pushed around the van door, punching the FN out, the front sight moving into my field of vision, finger already pulling the trigger back.
The submachine gun bucked, brass flashing in the sunlight. Reaper jerked violently to the side, spinning, crashing into the limousine’s hood as the window beside him shattered. I fired, the 9mm in my hand recoiling, the front sight coming back on target, firing again.
The man dove from the trunk, rolling in the sand on the other side of the limo. I moved laterally, gun up, tracking, searching, looking for another shot. He opened up from under the car. Bullets stitched across the shack behind me, flinging splinters into the air. Metal screeched as something struck the van. I was running now, not even thinking about it, trying to flank around the side of the car.
He rose, looking for me, glaring over the top of the limo, stubby black muzzle swinging wide. He was a tiny, dark-skinned man, drenched in sweat. Still moving, I saw him first, centered the front sight and fired. His head snapped back violently, visible matter flying as I shot him in the face. I hammered him twice more before he disappeared.
I lowered the gun. Multiple dust plumes were closing in the distance. Reaper was dragging himself up the car hood. He screamed as the pain hit him. I grabbed him as he started to fall again. “Can you move?” I shouted.
He grimaced, biting his lip, tears running down his cheeks. “Yes.”
“Get in the van. Hurry!” Reaper lurched away. I ran for Carl.
My friend was gasping, shaking, blood streaming between his fingers as he kept pressure on his neck. He focused on me as I knelt beside him. “Get him?” he wheezed. There was a massive quantity of blood already spilled on the sand.
“Yeah, I got him. Hang on, man, I’m gonna get you out of here.”
Carl closed his eyes. He grabbed my hand and squeezed.
Then he was gone.
“Carl?”
The cars were closer now. I knelt by the body of my friend, pistol dangling from my numb fingertips. I wanted nothing more than to stay here and wait for them to arrive.
Then all of this would have been for nothing.
I stood, dragged Carl’s body to the limo, gently set him in the driver’s seat, then went to the trunk. Falah’s body was still cold. It was probably the only thing that had kept the assassin alive in the heat, lying on that ice block, waiting for his chance. He must have gotten in while we were at the palace. I retrieved the white phosphorus grenade from under Falah, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the Mercedes. It ignited behind me in a billowing wall of chemical flame.
Carl would have liked the Viking funeral.
Reaper was sobbing when I got into the van. “Dude, the fuckers killed him.” He was cringing from the pain, holding his hands tightly to his wounded side. “Eddie did this. Bastard’s gonna pay.”
I found the keys on the floorboard. The goons were inbound. It was going to be a race to the border now.
Chapter 24:
Welcome Back,
Mr. Nightcrawler
LORENZO
June 18
I was certain we had lost them after we had crossed the border. A gentle breeze had calmed the raging temperature. The sun was setting over the desert, and if it hadn’t been such a terrible day, I would have thought it was beautiful. I cradled the rifle in my arms and scanned the horizon.
Part of me was secretly praying for cars to appear on the road. Carl had been my best friend.
The village was small, consisting of a few small compounds and some outlying buildings. The van was well hidden. I sat in the shade beneath an awning, gun in hand, black and gold scarab in a pouch I’d tied around my neck. In the distance dogs barked and children laughed.
It had been my fault. I should have seen it coming. I should have done
There was movement in the doorway behind me. “Your friend will live. He was struck twice, but the wounds were superficial. Given time to heal, he should have no permanent disability.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I replied, never taking my eyes off the horizon.
“I’m afraid I’m no Doctor,” the Qatari answered. “I failed from an American veterinary school.”
“Good enough.” I lifted the rubber-banded stack of money above my head. He took it. This particular establishment had a reputation within the criminal element of the region. “When can I move him?”
“I would not move him until morning. You may sleep in the guest room. I shall have my servants prepare it.” He turned to leave.
“We were never here,” I stated.
“But of course.”
Carl’s duffel bag was open on the bed. I found the manila folder with the mission details and dialed the Fat Man’s number on my untraceable cell phone.
I had checked on Reaper before retiring to the guest room. He had been asleep, and had looked terrible, even paler than normal, with bandages all over his skinny chest, and buried beneath IV bags. A heart monitor kept a steady pace. He would be fine, but the sight of what was left of my crew filled me with rage.
