Edge of Battle

“Freeze, Colonel. Hands where I can see them.” The voice…had a Spanish accent, not a Russian one! He slowly lifted his hands and turned. He couldn’t see the face of the man in the open driver’s side window, but he could smell the cordite coming from the muzzle of the sound-suppressed pistol he aimed at him. “Both hands, out the window. Reach for the handle outside the vehicle and let yourself out.”

Zakharov complied. “Who are you?”

“A loyal employee of a friend of yours, Colonel,” the man said. Zakharov heard the van’s cargo doors open, and excited voices in Spanish reported that there were two warheads inside. “Congratulations, Colonel. There have been many security breaches at the Pantex Plant over the past fifty years, but I believe you are the first to actually steal a weapon from there, let alone two. The Comandante will be very pleased.”

“The Coman—” And then Zakharov understood everything. “You mean, this is…this is the work of Felix Diaz?”

“He surmised your objective and your plans and set up this ambush for you,” the man said. “Now we will take the warheads. Your body will be found here, along with the body of a local sheriff’s deputy—I would not be surprised if they deduce that it was a collaboration between you and yet another corrupt cop. Meanwhile the warheads will be on their way to Mexico.” Zakharov heard the rustle of leather as the man raised his pistol up to head level. “The legend of Yegor Zakharov will end right…”

Suddenly several shots rang out, and Diaz’s henchman fell over backward. Zakharov dropped to the ground and pulled his pistol. He saw a muzzle flash ahead of him on the other side of the fence, fired at it, then dodged around the front of the van to the passenger side. He opened the door and reached between the front seats, looking for his sniper rifle but only finally finding the last antitank missile launcher. He grabbed it and turned…

…and ran headlong into a fist aimed squarely at his one remaining eye. “Not so fast, Colonel,” he heard a familiar voice say. His pistol was pulled out of his hand.

“Richter!” Zakharov retorted. “Give me my gun back and help me get this vehicle away from here, or we are both dead!”

“I’m not helping you do shit, Colonel!” Jason said through clenched teeth, muting his voice. “Tell your men to drop their weapons or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

“They are not my men, you idiot!” Zakharov said. “Would my men blow up our only escape? They are Felix Diaz’s men!”

“Felix Diaz…the Minister of Internal Affairs of Mexico?”

“His men followed me here to steal these weapons.”

“You lying sack of shit…!”

“Call me names if you want to, Richter, but I am getting out of here!” The big Russian, sensing rather than seeing where Richter was, swung both arms as if he were chopping a tree, and his fists landed squarely in Jason’s gut. He stepped over the American Army officer and ran toward the runway.

Jason had to struggle for several long seconds before he could catch a full breath. Just as he was able to get up on one knee, he felt a man running past him, shouting something in Spanish. A burst of automatic gunfire opened up, aimed in the direction of where Zakharov had run off to. Jason raised the dead deputy’s Glock, aiming just past where he saw the muzzle flash, and fired. The Spanish gunman screamed in pain and fell.

“Zakharov, stop!” Jason yelled, and he took off after the Russian. He hadn’t run more than a few yards when he heard gunshots behind him and felt bullets whizzing past his head and snapping at his heels, so he ran faster and began dodging back and forth. He heard more voices in Spanish behind him—they were coming for him, and they were getting closer. Other Spanish voices seemed to be yelling in celebration…

…and he realized they were celebrating because they were about to get away with the warheads. Two nuclear warheads…in the hands of a crazed politician like Felix Diaz?

Just before he reached the edge of the runway, he heard a voice with a Russian accent yell, “Get down, Richter!” In the darkness he saw a man appear on the opposite edge of the runway, a weapon raised, aimed at him. He screamed something, then dove for the ground. Just as he hit the ground, a blinding flash of light erupted right over his head. A split-second later, there was an immense explosion. A balloon of fire roiled over him, briefly illuminating the entire airport grounds and the high plains of the panhandle of Texas for miles around.

“May I suggest, Major,” he heard Zakharov yell from the relatively dark side of the runway, “that you get your stupid ass up and run as far away from here as you can? There was at least thirty kilos of plutonium in those warheads.”

Jason turned. Zakharov had fired that antitank missile at the van and destroyed it, and the warheads along with it. Nuclear debris was going to be scattered around this area for miles…and he was right in the middle of it.

All thoughts of capturing Yegor Zakharov disappeared as Jason Richter got up and started to run. The fence on the eastern side of the airport property was no barrier at all—he had enough adrenaline coursing through his veins to practically clear the ten-foot fence without touching it. He didn’t stop running until he had crossed three roads and came upon a farmhouse. He had just enough energy left in him to pound on the front door with his fist, then tell the person who came to the door that they had to leave immediately, before collapsing from sheer exhaustion.

CHAPTER 11

HENDERSON, NEVADA

A FEW MORNINGS LATER

“Welcome back. I’m Bob O’Rourke, back behind the platinum microphone, here in the Bottom Line studios in east Sin City in the greatest state in the great United States of America, Nevada,” he began. “It has been one harrowing encounter after another since I was last on the air, not to mention all of the calamities that have occurred in that same time span, and I’ll bring all my loyal listeners up to speed:

“First of all, let me talk about the incident here at the studio a couple days ago. It is true: during the melee that ensued after I tried to go from my truck to the studio, caused solely by the illegal trespassing rioters and their irresponsible organizers, I pulled out my legal, licensed concealed weapon and fired it straight up into the air. No one was hurt by my action, a fact I am extremely proud of. I must tell you that my concealed weapons permit instructors tell us in the strictest terms never to fire a warning shot: they say never pull your weapon unless you intend to use it, but if you do pull it, use it, or you may lose it. I violated that instruction. This time, the shots scared the rioters enough to allow me to get away, and even encouraged the dangerous crowd to disperse, so more violence and injury was thankfully averted.

“It is also true that I was dog-piled, handcuffed, had a couple fingers broken, arrested, and held in custody by the Clark County Sheriff’s Department for most of that day. But as you can tell, I am today a free man. The District Attorney has said he is not sure if he intends to charge me with a misdemeanor for carrying a concealed weapon in a ‘cocked and locked’ condition, which is not permitted in Clark County. I cannot comment on that. The only thing I will say is I’m glad no one was hurt by my actions, I am thankful for the assistance and bravery of the Clark County Sheriff’s deputies who were on duty that morning, despite what they’ve done to my hand, and I will vigorously defend my rights under the Second Amendment to the Constitution and Nevada law if the District Attorney insists on pressing charges.

“But now let’s talk about the real issue of the day—the real meaning of the sudden upsurge in violence against America by the illegal immigrant community:

“The violence and chaos in the illegal immigrant population and border security realm is growing by the day. Two days ago, as you well know by now, nine Americans and three Mexicans were killed, thirty were injured, and the American embassy in Mexico City was severely damaged by an explosives-laden bus. The bus had been carrying members of the Federal District Police, who were there to escort the U.S. ambassador to Mexico, Leon Poindexter, to a meeting with Mexican president Carmen Maravilloso and Minister of Foreign Affairs Hector Sotelo in the