12
Rankin managed to get Fouad out of the cab just as the flash-bang he’d thrown into the truck exploded. But before he could fire at Oda, the car that had followed the truck off the road pulled to a stop. Rankin sprayed the windshield with his Uzi, killing one of the two men inside. The other jumped out and began returning fire, hitting Rankin in the chest, where the bulletproof vest he wore beneath the coverall stopped the slug, leaving him with only a minor bruise. Rankin fired at the top of the gunman’s skull. The man’s head exploded like a pumpkin, gore spraying everywhere; even Rankin winced involuntarily at the sight.
Fouad lay on the ground nearby, trying to push himself toward some nearby bushes for cover while staying as flat as possible at the same time. He crawled forward, chin scraping the hard-packed dirt. He feared that the American would mistake him for one of the attackers or, worse, would throw a grenade or indiscriminately blanket the area with gunfire, not trying to kill him but not particularly caring one way or another.
Rankin hadn’t warned Thera before he tossed the grenade, and its explosion off the road surprised her. She hunkered low on the bike and passed the turnoff the others had taken. When she realized this she throttled down and braked until she could drop the bike. The motorcycle flew from her hands, but she managed not only to stay on her feet but also to pull her M4 carbine up and ready, crouching as automatic weapons fire erupted off the road.
A car approached from the north with its lights off. Thera hunkered on the shoulder. She had her night glasses on and could see all three of the men as they got out of the vehicle. She didn’t fire until she saw a weapon in one of the men’s hands. The delay allowed one man to dive to the ground and roll or crawl into the thicket; the others fell where they stood.
Thera crouched, looking for the man who’d gotten away. For a moment she thought he had run off, but a stream of bullets dancing on the nearby macadam told her that was wishful thinking. She jumped over to the side of the shoulder, looking for cover. As she did she saw another car coming from the north, also with its lights off. Thera drew her gun to take aim, but she came under fire again, bullets ricocheting less than a foot away. She squeezed right and got off a few rounds, sending the gunman farther into the weeds. By that time, the car had stopped. She turned to see someone running from it toward the turnoff.
Fifty yards away, Rankin moved warily toward the front of the truck, trying to see what had become of the man who’d been in the cab with Fouad.
Something moved on the other side of the truck. Rankin couldn’t get a target and held his fire.
“Rankin?” whispered Thera in the radio. “Where are you?”
“I’m near the truck.”
“Someone’s coming down from the north end of the road. I’m pinned down up here.”
“I’ll come for you when I take care of this.”
“I’m just warning you, asshole,” said Thera. “I’ll take care of this.”
Rankin continued around to the passenger side of the vehicle and eased toward the cab. When he saw that it was clear he swung up into the interior and was crossing over to the driver’s side when he snagged himself on the large shifter at the center of the cab. He forced a slow, deep breath from his lungs, twisting back and then spreading himself along the seat, moving forward again. When he reached the side he slid down into the well beneath the dashboard. He couldn’t quite see all the way down the side of the truck to the back. Pushing out to get a better angle, he spotted someone and goosed the Uzi, striking him in the head with the second burst.
Not sure now how many other gunmen there were nearby, Rankin leaned out from the side of the truck, hesitated a second, then dove forward about a half second before Oda began firing into the cab from the passenger side.
As Rankin rolled into the dirt, bullets followed him to the ground. Oda dropped to his knees and fired under the truck, his bullets spraying wildly. Several struck the oil pan and one the feed from the gas tank to the engine. Oil and diesel fuel began seeping and then pouring downward. Rankin, fearing that the liquid or at least its vapors would ignite, rolled backward and got into the brush.
Fouad in the brush smelled the diesel, too. He didn’t think the diesel was volatile enough to easily ignite, but the smell gave him an idea.
“Set the truck on fire,” he yelled aloud in Arabic, speaking quickly. This brought an immediate response from Oda who began firing in his direction. Rankin clambered to his feet and hunched by the wheel, waiting for a chance to fire.
Thera took out a pin grenade and threw it into the area between the two cars. As it exploded she ran along the road to her left, waiting until the gunman began firing again. When she saw that he was firing at her old position, she crossed to his side. She dove down as the bullets began firing in her direction. For ten or twenty seconds she didn’t breathe, her mouth in the dirt. Then she sidled to the left, down a slight incline that ran along this side of the road. She expected to find the gunman in the ditch but didn’t. Confused, she stared in the direction of the car, then glanced over her shoulder, worried that he had managed to outflank her after she crossed.
If that was the case, her best bet was to take his old position. She began working toward it. When she was about ten feet away, Thera finally saw the gunman up on the road, pressed against the side of the vehicle. She moved her M4 to the right and squeezed the trigger. The first two slugs caught her enemy in the ankle. He howled and fell backward, managing to roll away behind the car. Thera jumped to her feet, raising her weapon high and firing, more to keep him pinned down than in hopes of hitting him, since she was off balance and firing blind. She leapt up the embankment, spun left, and fired a long burst into the body sprawled on the ground. A tracer spit from her barrel, a cue that she was near the end of the box. She pulled her finger off the trigger, heart thumping, knowing that she had hit her target several times but not yet convinced he was dead.
Back by the truck, Fouad moved to his left, eyes scanning the darkness as he looked for Oda. The fuel continued to run from the truck; he could hear it splashing when the gunfire on the roadway faded away. Something moved before him and he fired, two, three, four shots, the bullets whizzing into the brush.
Rankin leapt up as Fouad began to fire, running to the back of the tanker. Oda, hiding behind the fender at the front, raised his gun to fire at Fouad, but Rankin pulled his trigger first. Oda curled backward, dead.
Rankin slid to one knee, scanning quickly to make sure there were no others.
“Thera. Hey!” he yelled.
“Hey, yourself,” said Thera over the radio. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You got the man who came down?”
“Yeah. I got ‘em all.”
“Where’s Fouad?” she asked.
“He’s over on the other side of the cab. Fouad!” Rankin yelled.
Fouad, arms trembling, lowered his weapon. “Rankin?”
“Stay where you are until we have this sorted out. I’m on the other side of the truck, opposite you.”
Rankin ran to Oda’s prostrate body. The bullets had caught him across the neck, nearly severing it. Blood gurgled down over his shirt, pooling around his shoulders.
“Thieves,” said Fouad, walking over.
Rankin looked up. “I told you to stay by the side of the road.”
The Iraqi stared at him, but he said nothing.
“They wanted the truck and figured we were easy pickings,” said Fouad. “Fortunately, they thought we were amateurs and didn’t take us seriously. We were lucky.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Rankin. “Let’s make sure they’re all dead, then let’s go see your Kurd.”
