John Ringo: Ghost

When he reached his firing position he saw one of the terrorists preparing to terminate the hostage and he put two bursts into the man’s chest, the blood flying out onto the already blood-soaked girl screaming into her gag. Since there was a significant threat to the hostage, Mike decided to go for a thunder run and see what he could get directed at himself. He moved to a different opening and then darted into the space in the middle of the room.

Abdul Mohiuddin had considered killing the whore on the floor but even if they moved she could still be smuggled out of the country. So he continued to wait in the concealment of the van, knowing that sooner or later the American would have to come into view. Suddenly a man in jeans and a shirt darted into the open area, moving fast.

Abdul had been waiting for that and opened up the back door of the van, dropping to the ground in a crouch and placing his AK against his hip, firing off the clip in long burst at the running figure.

As the door opened on the van to his left Mike turned, then rolled on his right shoulder, coming up in a kneeling position and targeting the muj as 7.62mm bullets cracked the air around him.

Abdul Mohiuddin felt the 9mm rounds thudding into him as so many punches to the chest and stumbled to his knees. He tried to lift the rifle again but it was far too heavy. He tried to mumble a prayer to Allah, but his lungs were full of liquid and he couldn’t get a breath. His vision darkened and all he could feel was fury at this one djinn American who seemed to be invincible. Allah had deserted them…

Mike didn’t even ensure the target was down, just sprung to his feet and sprinted across the area, bullets cracking around him, to dive behind the desk, reloading as he ran.

Sidi Al-Radi looked at his friend Khalil Medein in fear. Both were students from Pakistan at the University of Georgia. They had met at a student rally in support of the Palestinian cause and been recruited as warriors of the jihad that same day. At the time it had seemed a great cause and they had shouted with the others that they were willing to die for Allah.

However, now that they faced death, had seen the blood from their fellow warriors staining the floor, knew that death came for them on squeaking feet, all they could do was crouch behind the desk and hope that it would pass them by…

As he cleared the top of the desk in a one-handed lift, he discovered to his annoyance two of the terrorists crouching down behind it and not even looking for him. They were as surprised as he was, and far, far slower. In a second and a half, two more warriors of Allah had been sent to have a conversation with their God. He suspected that it was not going to be a good one.

His position, however, was very exposed and he lifted himself up again, sprinting forward. There was an open gap in view and he headed for it like a goal line, ricochets whining off the floor around him. Suddenly most of the shooting stopped and he heard a lot of reloading which caused him to grin even in the middle of the mess he’d started.

Terrorists, even trained terrorists, used the “spray and pray” technique of combat. Point the gun in the general direction of the enemy, generally held somewhere near the hip, close your eyes, pull the trigger and hope that you hit something. It wasn’t just terrorists, everyone in the region except the Israelis tended to use “spray and pray.” Which was why, besides body armor and superior training, Western militaries, including the Israelis, didn’t tend to take many casualties from rifle fire while, at the same time, racking up kills by direct fire. Westerners could, and would, target their shooting. Arabs didn’t. And, at the moment, it was saving his life. He just hoped like hell they wouldn’t accidentally, or intentionally, shoot the hostage.

He paused in the gap and counted on his fingers. Started with nine and the two sentries. Sentries down. One with a gun, one holding the hair. One in the back. One in the van. Two behind the desk. Three to go? No. Two. One trying to kill the hostage makes seven.

Rouhi Karim was one of the imported mujahideen, another member of Hezbollah. He had not fought as broadly or fiercely as Hazzah Bud, but he was an experienced street fighter and thought that surely he could kill one Allah-damned American. But twice he had seen the infidel djinn cross the open area in the middle of the room and twice tried to shoot him, emptying two full magazines in his anger to no avail. Now he decided that there was a better way. The infidel feared death and always negotiated for hostages. He reloaded again and left his cover, running into the open area and grabbing the blood-covered bitch by her hair to lift her from the floor. She screamed at the pain but he felt nothing but joy at the sound. Soon the American would be dead and he would give her far more pain…

“American! We will negotiate now!”

Mike peeked into the open area and shook his head at the sight. A teenage muj was holding the blonde by the hair, an AK pointed in the general direction of, well, the floor. Not at her. He shook his head, targeted the terrorist, who was looking in the wrong direction, and put three rounds through his head.

The blonde was in bad shape, covered in blood and apparently choking. He had a choice of helping her or taking down the last tango. Helping her meant exposing himself, and the hostage, to hostile fire. But… choking could kill just as sure as a bullet. The gag was a cloth band with, apparently, cloth in the mouth. He looked at it and clicked out his locking-blade knife. Taking it in his right hand he ran to the girl, slid the razor edge under the gag and cut it off. He hadn’t taken any fire so but he ghosted over between the coffins again.

Silence. The last target, if he was counting right, seemed to be playing the waiting game. Okay, time to see how stealthy “Ghost” could be. He started to move along the wall, heel rolling to side of the foot and then to the ball, one slow step at a time, checking the gaps between the boxes and occasionally getting a glimpse of the now crying, and still choking a bit, blonde. She at least was keeping quiet and down, other than the crying. She’d probably puked at all the blood and been choking on that, and that sort of choke could take your voice away pretty quick. Whatever the reason, he appreciated her not yelling for help or whatever. It would be distracting.

He smelled him before he saw him, the distinct smell of urine with a hint of shit. There was a fair bit of both in the room, the offal and sulfur smell of battle. But this was close and sharp. As he got closer he could hear the breathing, fast, high panting. Sworn to die or not, this was one muj who was scared as hell.

Karem Majali was an agronomy student who had been born in the mountains of Yemen where his father was a minor sheikh. He had been raised to do battle, showing no fear, a warrior for Allah. But while he had sometimes fired his weapon at other Yemeni, and even participated in one of the numerous kidnappings of foreigners in that land, he had never truly faced death. And he found that his belief in Allah was not as strong as he’d thought. All he could think was that this one American had killed, as far as he could tell, all of the other mujahideen, even Hazzah Bud and Abdul Mohiuddin, who were well known warriors of Allah. He seemed to not be human, but some desert formed shedim, an evil demon. Karem tried to lift himself from his hiding place, to rise up and charge forth, screaming God is Great as he should. But his knees would not support him and he realized that he had shit his pants. He could only crouch in his hole, shaking and crying faintly and wishing that he had never left Yemen, had never agreed to join the jihad, had stayed in his dorm instead of going to that Allah-Be-Damned rally. The hell with the Palestinians, anyway, they were filth unto Allah…