Mark Greaney - On target

No transmissions came through the headsets for several seconds. Finally Court responded. "Okay. Understand you have line of sight?"

Zack nodded in the darkened room. A dingy white curtain blew in the hot breeze in front of him, momentarily obscuring his view of his man. Zack knew what Court was asking. Court was a pro among pros. Of course he understood what must be done.

Hightower flipped the safety on his Tavor, rendering his weapon hot. "Affirmative, Six. I have line of sight. He's at the bus station just north of us."

Gentry's next transmission broke a short still. "I'll do it. I'll head down the hill and get eyes on. You just sit tight, and I'll take care of it."

The other three men in the room with Zack said nothing. Hightower knew that they all understood what was going to happen, but only Gentry offered to do it.

Court Gentry was one hell of a guy.

"Negative, kid. I appreciate it, but this is my job. It's what they pay me for, I guess."

"You sure?"

"Affirm. Just tell me you're ready to pick us up."

"I've got a diversion set up here. I'll need about thirty seconds to be under way, and another two mikes to be right on top of you guys."

"Roger that. Make ready. We go on my mark."

Dan was closest to Zack, just two feet off his left shoulder. He reached out and patted his boss on the arm, gave him a sympathetic squeeze.

Hightower shrugged off the hand.

Everyone on the team knew what was about to happen. They played by a set of rules that included this eventuality.

"Goddammit," said Zack softly. The men beating the shit out of Spencer now were blocking his shot; the aiming reticle on his Tavor was lined up on the tailbone of a secret policeman. Hightower wanted to squeeze the trigger, but killing one NSS officer was not worth exposing their position.

At this point, there was only one thing worth exposing their position: preventing Sierra Five from revealing his identity or mission to the Sudanese. He wouldn't do it willingly, but he would do it, and there was only one way to stop it.

Just then Hightower squinted into his scope. There was a ruckus of some sort on the other side of the secret policeman. Soldiers ran forward, one fell back in the dirt, another spun away down to his knees. The NSS officer blocking Sierra One's view was pushed aside, and then Sierra Five appeared, bloody and shirtless still, his hands shackled behind him.

"Six, execute in five seconds," said Zack.

"Go in five, roger," came the terse reply.

Spencer ran free of the scrum of men, showing incredible balance and fitness to do so. He head-butted another soldier and made it ten yards closer to Hightower's position, near the edge of the sandy depression.

"He's trying to get away," said Milo, watching without benefit of a rifle scope.

"No, he's not," said Zack softly. He blinked. "He's trying to help me get a better shot."

To the west, they heard handgun rounds and the boom of an explosion, Court's diversion, and in his scope Zack saw Spencer drop to his knees, saw his bloodied mouth move in a shout, and an instant later the distant sound made it to Hightower's position.

"Send it!"

"Sending." Sierra One pressed the trigger on the Tavor, sent a 5.56-mm round down the barrel, through the arched passageway, across the depression, and into the forehead of his man. Spencer's head snapped back, and he dropped still in the dirt, his body coming to rest on top of his restrained arms.

Within seconds, close gunfire began pocking the walls in the room, the white curtain whipped and tore and shredded, and dust from impacts between steel and clay bricks turned the air around the remaining members of Whiskey Sierra a smoky brown.

"Sierra Six is Oscar Mike! ETA four-five seconds!"

Zack acknowledged Court's transmission. "Six is on the move, roger."

Court drove out of the gas station in the open-topped jeep. Behind him flames rocked seventy feet into the air from a burning fuel line that spun and bounced across the concrete, swinging wildly in all directions from the gas pump.

Two of the soldiers were dead by Court's gunfire, and two more had been stabbed in the liver and lay facedown and injured in the street. Civilians ran for their lives, sprinting away from the flamethrower igniting everything in sight with a wild mind of its own. Minivans and buses slammed into one another in attempts to get clear of the station. Locals in the street, safe from the flames, now found themselves forced to dive out of the way of the military jeep that lurched in a wide arc to turn around, heading down the hill now and driven by the maniacal turbaned kawaga who had started this catastrophe.

Court headed east as fast as the jeep would go. The cover had popped free of the machine gun on the fixed base behind him; in his rearview he could see the weapon bouncing with the undulations of the uneven dirt track.

A pack of hobbled camels crossed in front of him, and he yanked the wheel to the right, crashed through a wooden stall selling fruit, sending a dozen bunches of bananas hanging from ropes flying into the air. He kept crashing through to the other side of the stall and found himself a block south of the road that would have led him to Whiskey Sierra's hide site. Just then, two military jeeps pulled up to the intersection in front of him.

Fuck!

Court whizzed past them, and they turned in behind and began giving chase.

"Tangos on my ass, Zack!"

"Copy that."

"Can you go one block south, or do I need to come to you guys?"

"We'll meet you in the alleyway, a left turn behind the hotel. When you pick us up, scoot over. Brad will drive." And then, "You never could drive for shit."

"Roger that." Court did not deny Hightower's charge.

The passages and alleyways were a thick congestion of man, animal, machine, and other impediments to an operator trying to make haste in a motor vehicle. Gentry leaned on the horn as he drove. A rickshaw and a donkey cart with a fifty-five-gallon water drum blocked the way just ahead of Court on his new route, so he jacked the wheel, went right one more block, and then took another hard left. Here he was forced to slam on the brakes to avoid a small crowd of children and sheep in the street, and he knew the two army jeeps pursuing him were right behind. Quickly he pulled the emergency brake, leapt up in the driver's seat and vaulted into the back, his shoulder injury protesting even through the painkilling effects of the massive amounts of adrenaline coursing through him. The two jeeps made the turn, and they, too, skidded and stopped, a huge lingering dust cloud formed by the act. Court spun the PKM machine gun back around at the vehicles, and pulled back the charging handle to rack a round. He was close enough to see the eyes of the driver of the closest jeep widen in surprise, and the black soldier ground his transmission, frantically yanking his gearshift into reverse. Court pointed right at the hood of the jeep and pulled the trigger of the big Russian weapon.

Click.

The weapon was unloaded.

Goddammit!

Court drew his Glock 19 and fired an entire magazine at the two jeeps as they backed around the corner, their green bodies slamming into one another more than once in a desperate attempt to flee the withering handgun fire. It was no belt-fed machine gun, but at the moment the nine-millimeter handgun was a hell of a lot more valuable.

As soon as they disappeared from view, he leapt back into the front seat, released the brake, and lurched forward.

He'd popped the clutch, stalling the jeep.

The windshield next to his head exploded in a spider-web of cracks as a rifle round struck it.

"Shit!" He refired the engine and launched forward again.

Thirty seconds later, he finally made it to the rally point, and he found the surviving four members of Whiskey Sierra engaged in a fierce firefight, their weapons cracking and snapping as they sent rounds towards a row of buildings at the end of the alleyway to the east. Enemy grenades exploded just short of their targets, and return fire whistled by. Court put the jeep in park and leapt into the back-again his left shoulder hated him for doing so-and he went to work immediately loading a can of ammunition to the machine gun. Sierra Two climbed into the driver's seat. Brad carried only a pistol now, which he fired over the front windshield.