twisting around, shaking his head sideways, struggling against the commandos, a muffled, high-pitched wail coming from behind the tape.
A loud siren started blaring inside Reilly’s head.
Then his gaze dropped to the thin windbreaker Simmons was wearing, how it was zipped all the way up, how it seemed much puffier than he’d have expected it would be on that ripped kitesurfer’s torso.
A rush of blood flooded his brain and he bolted up, waving wildly, shouting out at the top of his lungs, “No, get away from hi—”
And Simmons blew up.
Chapter 31
The night went bright with a flash of searing light that obliterated everything from view a nanosecond before the blast wave hit Reilly. It punched the wind out of him and wrenched him off his feet, flinging him back into the gravel-strewn ground. In the blink of an eye, all of his sensory inputs were shut down and he was plunged into a dark and silent bubble.
It wasn’t the small belt charge.
That one would have only killed Simmons and wouldn’t have hurt anyone else unless they happened to be lying on top of him.
No, this was entirely different.
This was thirty-odd pounds of plastic explosive strapped around the archaeologist’s waist. A proper, full-bore suicide bomber’s rig. And the effect was devastating.
As he stirred to consciousness, Reilly felt as if his ears had been turned inside out. He couldn’t hear anything apart from his own ragged breathing, and he felt heavy-headed and unbalanced, as if he were lost deep underwater and couldn’t tell which way was up. His eyes were having trouble focusing, but from the vague shapes drifting into view, he figured that he was on his back. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they wouldn’t respond at first. He gritted his teeth and found the strength to roll slowly onto his right side, wanting to check and make sure none of his limbs were missing, but not wanting to discover that wasn’t the case. He lifted his hands and saw that at least they were both still there. His hand settled on the handgun in his holster for a split second before he realized the weapon was burning hot and quickly pulled it back.
He propped himself up on one elbow and looked out.
The mountain had turned into a vision of Hell.
The trees around him were ablaze, spewing acrid black smoke, which stuck uncomfortably in his throat. Screams and moans reverberated around him. Through the haze, he glimpsed strewn body parts littering the scree—an arm, a leg sticking out of a stray boot. Injured commandos were sprawled on the ground, cradling their wounds, calling out for help. The explosion had shredded Simmons’s body to bits before ripping through the commandos who were escorting him back to safety. Every bone in his body, even his wristwatch and his belt buckle—it had all been smashed into superheated shrapnel that burst out and sliced through any flesh that stood in its way.
Reilly’s eyes roamed around the carnage and the chaos, then fell on a couple of bodies on fire by the trees, the air thickening with the sickly smell of their burning flesh. One of them was still alive, moving slowly in a flaming death-crawl. Then he spotted Ertugrul, closer to him, a dozen yards or so to his left. He was on the ground, sitting up, motionless and soundless, looking over at Reilly with a shocked, confused stare, his right hand on his cheek, his fingers inching their way up toward a big hole in his skull, a shrapnel wound that was spewing blood.
“
First, more explosions went off nearby, smaller detonations, but still loud and potent enough to send him reeling backward. He realized they were grenades that the commandos had on them, blowing up as the flames licked them.
Then he heard the distant wail of a car engine. Coming straight at him.
He stumbled forward and turned, his mind still frazzled, not sure what to make of the noise, feeling a trickle of blood now oozing from his left ear and down the side of his neck. Through the smoke, he glimpsed the grille of the Discovery, glinting from the flames, hurtling down the mule path, its engine screaming. He saw a lone commando rush toward the SUV from the driver’s side, his weapon raised, unleashing a torrent of bullets on the Discovery—then he saw an arm gripping a handgun dart out of the car’s window and heard a trio of sharp gunshots slice the air just as the commando faltered and crashed to the ground, face-first.
The Discovery was bearing down on him, now so close his eyes could fill out the Iranian’s features through the dark windshield. Reilly shook his head and tried to breathe in some air, focusing on what he was doing there, on who was in that car, on how much he wanted him dead. He was reaching for his gun when a figure burst out in front of him, the Ozel Tim commander, Keskin. The man was covered in blood and limping, with a telltale crater in his thigh and another in his shoulder, but he seemed impervious to the pain, like he was on crack. He had a haunted look in his eye and an automatic in his hand and was lurching right into the path of the onrushing SUV.
Keskin stopped and raised his weapon, adjusting his aim—
Reilly stared in dazed disbelief as the arm darted out again from the car’s side window, only this time it was aimed forward—
“No,” Reilly yelled out—
—and bolted toward Keskin, feeling the big man’s body shudder from the impact of the bullets just as he tackled him from the side and shoved him out of the Discovery’s path. The two of them hit the ground hard just as the black SUV plowed through the very spot they’d been standing in and thundered down the mule track and out of view.
Reilly was winded and felt himself teetering on the edge of consciousness. Through foggy eyes, he glanced at Keskin. The man was staring back, his eyes wide open, blood gurgling out of his mouth. Reilly felt an impotence and a primal rage he’d never experienced before, a cauldron of hate roiling deep within him. He felt any strength remaining inside him drain away, and the thought of passing out and falling into a dark sleep seemed like an attractive one until one word burst through his daze and his fury and reminded him of who was in the bomber’s path.
TESS HEARD THE EXOLOSION and jumped.
This wasn’t part of the game plan. Worse—it was too big, far bigger than anything she imagined the weaponry she’d seen Reilly and the commandos take up with them could sound like. Which meant that it was someone else’s doing. And that didn’t sound good at all. Not when you considered how handy the man they were chasing was with explosives.
She switched off the flashlight she was using to study the map of the area that she’d brought with her and looked up the mountain. Seconds stretched out torturously, then more explosions followed. Smaller ones, different, more muffled, like thuds—but explosions nonetheless, echoing across the hills. Then came some scattered gunfire, and by now Tess was crippled with fear. It sounded like Iwo Jima up there.
The commandos around her were as startled as she was. They exchanged nervous words in Turkish that she couldn’t understand, though their body language said plenty. They didn’t know what was going on either. One of them reached for his walkie-talkie and, in a controlled tone, radioed the others. No reply came back. He tried again, this time with more alarm in his voice. Still nothing.
Then came the distant groan of a diesel engine, straining as it fought to slow the heavy SUV down the steep incline. Tess couldn’t see any lights coming down the mountain—then in the faint glimmer of moonlight, she saw a dark, boxy shape swerve down a hairpin before disappearing from view. The commandos saw it too and went into action mode, readying their weapons and flipping down the lenses of their night vision goggles as they shouted out
