Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (27 page)

Gold braced herself for what she had to do.

The corner of the Nissan's front bumper smashed into the Jeep door with a crunch of metal. She drove the door—and the man
behind it—against the side of the Jeep. The Jeep's window shattered with such force that the exploded granules looked like splashing water. Scraping steel joined the sounds of rifle fire and screams.

The bearded face flashed by in an openmouthed grimace. Blood and viscera smeared across the sides of both the Jeep and the Nissan. Specks of red appeared on Gold's side window.

The Nissan tore free of the trap, pieces of its side mirror bouncing in the roadway. In the rearview mirror, Gold saw the Jeep's door—torn from its hinges—roll across the ground and come to rest in a ditch. The terrorist's body collapsed beside the Jeep, white
gandoura
soaked crimson. Gold noticed something unnatural about the way he fell. The scraping motion of the door had torn the body in two.

Gold raced back toward Illizi, tried to come up with a plan. She could think of nothing better than to put as much distance as possible between her and the attackers. Maybe they wouldn't try to strike again in town with witnesses all around.

Or maybe they wouldn't care where they struck.

Either way, Gold saw no option except to head back through Illizi and find another route to the airport.

The Tuaregs shouted in Tamahaq. Gold glanced behind her and saw blood all over one of the windows. The Tuareg man moaned and held on to his bleeding right wrist. A bullet—or maybe a couple of bullets—had pierced it. Blood dripped from the torn muscle tissue, ran down the arm and into the man's sleeve. Blood spattered onto his lap, spilled across the seats.

Gold steered around a child driving a little herd of four gray-and-black goats. The animals bleated as the Nissan charged past.

“He needs a bandage,” Ongondo said. Then Ongondo spoke in the language of the Tuaregs. The older boy—the one who'd been in the fight at the camp—unwrapped his headdress and gave it to Ongondo. The younger boy—the Tuareg man's son—looked on in wide-eyed fear.

“I want to take him to the clinic, but they might spot this vehicle and hit us again,” Gold said.

She checked her mirror. Nothing behind her at the moment. But the gunmen could have gone anywhere.

“We should get to the airport,” Ongondo said. “Get all of us out of here and back to Mitiga. I am sure the American medical people can treat him there.”

“Let's do that,” Gold said.

The Nissan rocked through potholed streets as it returned to Illizi. Inside the town, more traffic sputtered along the roadways. Gold asked Ongondo to check the map for another route to Takhamalt airport. As she drove, she scanned for triangular road signs bearing the silhouette of an airliner. She also kept glancing in her mirror, looking for a Toyota, a taxi, or a Land Rover. So far, none of them appeared.

Even if they never did, Gold still had a problem. She'd have to talk her way through whatever gate security existed at Takhamalt—in a half-wrecked, shot-up SUV with a wounded man inside.

W
ith the agility of a big panther, Blount came to his feet in a fighting stance. He glanced at the doorway, saw no more enemy. Lunged for the AK-47 Rat Face had carried. Pulled back the bolt just enough to see that a round was chambered. Clicked the fire selector to the semi position. Posted himself by the door frame to check the next room, chains dragging from his arms.

From that position he caught a glimpse of another Marine, Corporal Mark Grayson. Grayson saw Blount, too, and yelled, “Clear! It's clear in here, Gunny.”

Blount's heart swelled. Hot damn, he thought, these men are acting like Marines.

“Clear!” Blount yelled. He entered the room to see Grayson chained next to a Legionnaire. Both men looked up at Blount with expressions of pure wonderment. A pair of slack chains lay next to the Legionnaire. Must have been where they'd held that poor boy Farmer.

Another doorway opened into a third room. Blount posted by that entrance, saw no one in there. Only a pool of black blood in the middle of the floor. A green flag with squiggly writing on it hung from the wall. Two blood-soaked towels in a corner. Bloody drag marks. To Blount's mind, a scene of such evil that it almost surprised him not to see Satan himself standing there smirking.

“Clear,” Blount said.

He peered through the windows, checked outside. The desert extended to infinity. No sign of any people.

Blount had never expected to live this long. To kill a bad guy, two at the most, was the best he'd dared to expect. But now the mission changed: Get out of here and get moving. Find a safe spot and call for help.

He handed the AK to Grayson.

“This weapon's in condition one,” Blount said. “Light up anybody who comes inside. I'll look for the keys to these shackles. Got a man in there shot real bad, too.”

“Aye, aye, Gunny,” Grayson said. He turned to the Legionnaire beside him and said, “On your feet, dude. Help me watch the doors and windows.”

The Legionnaire pushed himself up from the floor, chains dangling. “Watch window,” he said. Funny accent. Not French. Spanish, maybe?

Blount ran back into the room where he, Fender, and Ivan had been held. Fender stood, pistol gripped with both hands in the Weaver ready position. Scanned the windows as best he could at the limits of his chains. Tipped his chin toward Ivan.

“I think he's bleeding out, Gunny,” Fender said. “I can't reach him.”

Ivan lay against the wall. Eyes heavy-lidded, rifle across his blood-soaked lap. Left arm slack by his side, palm upturned. Right hand on the weapon, index finger across the trigger guard.

Blount kneeled beside Ivan, the Russian's blood sticky all around. He pulled the AK from Ivan's hand, set it down in the widening red puddle. A faint smile crossed Ivan's face.

“Magnificent,” the Russian whispered.

“That was a mighty good shot, bud,” Blount said.

As he spoke, he unbuckled his belt of black webbing, yanked it from the loops of his uniform trousers. Ivan needed a tourniquet. Right this instant. Two of them, in fact. Blood gushed from wounds in both thighs.

“Anybody got a CAT?” Blount shouted. Marines carried combat
application tourniquets, but with everyone's gear scattered or stolen, Blount had no idea where to find his.

“Negative, Gunny,” Grayson called.

“Afraid not,” Fender said.

“Gimme your belt,” Blount told Fender.

Fender grasped the pistol with one hand, stripped off his belt with the other. His belt was gray rather than black like Blount's, indicating a lower proficiency level in the martial arts program. Fender tossed the belt.

Blount caught it with his left hand, the loose chain swaying. As gently as he could, he raised Ivan's knees. Felt warm blood flowing through his fingers. Ivan's eyes were closed now. Blount looped the belts around the Russian's upper legs, pulled the belts tight, fastened the open-face clasps.

If the movement caused Ivan any pain, he did not show it. His head lolled back against the wall, a look on his face of . . . serenity. The bear tattooed on his arm still snarled and slashed at all enemies.

Blount put two fingers on the Russian's neck, searched for the carotid artery. Ivan's heart beat so rapidly it felt like the fluttering of a bird's pulse. Trying to pump up the blood pressure, Blount realized, without enough fluid to get the job done. He thought maybe he could use a pressure point to help slow down the bleeding. He placed the heel of his hand against the front right side of Ivan's pelvic bone. Tried to press down on the femoral artery. The effort seemed to have no effect.

Ivan wasn't going to make it. Blount had seen this before. Too much blood loss already.

“You done good, bud,” Blount said. “You can be one of my riflemen any day.”

“You can be . . .” Ivan breathed.

Blount tried to think of words to ease Ivan's passing. Nothing came to mind. A shame to watch a man go forth to his judgment and not have anything to say to him.

For Ivan's part, he seemed satisfied to see victory in his last moments, and to play a part in that victory. A man of action, he didn't need any words. Blount could relate.

He felt the carotid artery again:
Thump. Thump-thump-thump . . . Thump-thump. Thump . . . thump.

Blount shifted the position of his two fingers on Ivan's neck.

Nothing.

“He's gone, Fender,” Blount said.

“Tough son of a bitch.”

“You done good, too.”

“Thank you, Gunny.”

“You just cover me while I find some keys.”

After the tremendous spike of adrenaline, Blount suddenly felt exhausted. So very tired, like he'd primed tobacco all day. But he couldn't rest now. Time to take charge of this post, get these Marines moving.

So which one of the dirtbags would have had the keys? Five dead enemies lay across the floor, some of their clothing sodden with blood. The room smelled a lot like when you open up a deer to gut it. He stepped over to Rat Face, left three bloody tracks. The crushed trachea gave Rat Face's throat an unnatural contour; the steel links had torn away enough skin and gristle to expose part of the windpipe. Rat Face wore that milky stare of the dead, looking into the next world. Blount wondered what those eyes saw now. Not seventy-two virgins, he imagined.

Blount tried to search Rat Face's clothing. The shackles made it difficult for Blount to place his hand all the way inside the pockets. Instead, he used his fingers to turn the pockets inside out. He found nothing but a folding knife.

Maybe Monkey Ears had the keys. Blount searched Monkey Ears in the same way, turning the pockets of the man's trousers. On the left side he found half- and quarter-dinar coins. On the right he found a key ring.

“Got some keys here, boys,” Blount said. “Y'all see anybody coming?”

“Not yet,” Fender said.

“Negative, Gunny,” Grayson called from the next room.

So which key? Blount examined his shackles. They looked a lot like double-lock handcuffs, only heavier. He knew of Marines and SEALs who carried universal handcuff keys, but a universal key wouldn't have worked on these damned things. The key slot was bigger than standard. Lord only knew where these shackles came from and how old they were.

Blount jangled the keys, fingered each one. Car keys, door keys, keys to whatever, maybe this dirtbag's stash of porn. But a rusty iron key caught Blount's eye.

The key had a short blade and a large round bow, like a misshapen skeleton key. Blount inserted it into the key slot on his left shackle.

The key fit. But it wouldn't turn either way.

Frustration burned in Blount's chest. Bad way to finish if he couldn't get everybody's chains off. If all else failed, maybe they could shoot the eyelets and free themselves that way. But they couldn't shoot the shackles off their wrists; it would be too easy to slip and blow off a hand. If the keys wouldn't work, the men might have to drag chains across the desert as they fled. A trek into the Sahara would be hard enough as it was.

A drop of oil would have gone a long way. Damned terrorists couldn't even maintain their equipment. Blount slammed his left shackle against the wall. The impact stung his wrist.

He tried the key again.

No movement. The locking mechanism was rusted. What Blount needed now, of all things, was a can of WD-40 or Break-Free. But all he had was muscle.

Blount swung his wrist once more—a little like throwing a roundhouse punch, except he bent back his hand to strike with the
shackle. He scraped the heel of his hand. The iron dug a gouge into the masonry.

He brushed the dust from his bleeding hand, inserted the key. Twisted it left. Nothing. Tried it again. Felt the mechanism click. Twisted the key to the right. Something else clicked. One click for a ratchet lock, Blount presumed, and another click for a pin lock. The shackle opened, dropped from his wrist, and clanged onto the floor.

“All right,” Fender said.

“What's happening in there?” Grayson called from the next room.

“Gunny unlocked his chain.”

“Cool.”

Blount placed the key into the other shackle. Maybe that one was less rusted; the key turned more easily, and the right shackle fell away. He rubbed his wrists, went over to Fender.

“Gimme your left hand, bud.”

Fender shifted the pistol to his right hand, offered up his left.

Blount inserted the key. He had the same trouble with Fender's shackle.

“Smack it against the wall,” Blount said. “It's all rusted.”

Fender hit the wall with his shackle.

“Ow!” Fender cried.

“All right, hold still.”

Blount tried the key again. This time it worked. Fender's left shackle and chain fell away.

“Yeah!” Fender shouted. He held up his right hand. That shackle unlocked on the first try.

Fender stepped toward Rat Face's body. Stomped the side of the head. One of the lifeless eyes bulged out.

“Fuck you, motherfucker,” Fender said.

“Take it easy, Corporal,” Blount said. “He ain't gon' get any deader.”

Fender placed his hands on his hips, looked down at the dead terrorist, breathed hard. Rubbed his wrists, looked up at Blount.

“Aye, aye, Gunny.”

Blount held out the key ring.

“Go unlock Grayson and that other guy,” Blount said. “I'll see what gear I can find.”

Fender took the key and went to the other room. Blount could hear him talking with Grayson.

“Never expected to see you again,” Grayson said.

“You shoulda seen Gunny Blount kicking their asses. It fucking scared
me
.”

Blount heard their chains clanking, more conversation.

“Get this shit off me.”

“Who's this guy?”

“Says his name is José Escarra. He don't speak much English.”

Across the room from where Blount had been chained, he examined the equipment the terrorists had placed on the table. He found his watch, his grandfather's KA-BAR knife, two Marine Corps M16s, his radio, a GPS receiver, a CamelBak hydration pack, and other gear. Kassam had also left his flintlock. Blount lifted the antique pistol by its wooden grip.

Dried blood speckled the lock and the barrel. Sergeant Farmer's blood. For a moment Blount wanted to fling the pistol against the wall. Instead, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood away.

The pistol's cock jaws still contained a chunk of flint. Blount wondered if that flint came from a field somewhere in America a couple hundred years ago. The grip bore fine checkering; somebody had put some pride into the making of this thing. Letters stamped on the side plate read
PERKINS.
Another stamp read
SALISBURY 1799
. Was Perkins the owner or the builder of this weapon? Was that Salisbury in North Carolina, Maryland, or England? No time to think about it now. Blount stuck the pistol in the cargo pocket of his trousers. He looked around for ammunition and found only enough for
one extra magazine for each weapon. For both the M16s and the AK-47s, the magazines carried thirty rounds.

In the next room, chains and shackles fell to the floor.

“When you guys get loose,” Blount called, “you need to get some water to take with us. Food, too, if there's anything fit to eat. Look around.”

“Aye, Gunny,” Grayson answered.

Each breath Blount took, each step, seemed a miracle. Training, luck, and fire support from Fender and Ivan had given him a new life. But he and the others had been born into this new life with danger all around. Kassam and more jihadists could show up at any moment. Now the men needed to get out and away.

Blount found his tactical vest, slipped it over his back. Placed the PRC-148 radio into a pouch, slung one of the M16s over his shoulder. Pressed the power button on the GPS; it was a “dagger” model, the Defense Advanced GPS Receiver. To Blount's pleasant surprise, he found the battery still good. After the DAGR initialized, he stored the position of this hell house he'd just taken over. He looked around for his helmet, found it in a corner, put it on. Picked up the KA-BAR, went over to Ivan's body and kneeled beside the dead Russian.

“I know it ain't right to leave you here, bud, but we gotta make tracks,” Blount said. “Somebody will come for you later. And I'll make sure everybody knows what you did.”

Blount opened Ivan's shirt enough to reveal a necklace that held the Russian's dog tags. He unclasped the necklace and pocketed the metal tags. Next, he unbuckled the belts that had served too late as Ivan's tourniquets. Threaded the black one through the loops of his trousers and the KA-BAR's sheath. Buckled the belt, placed his hand over the pommel of his grandfather's knife. Then he stood up to continue his life's mission.

“Look alive, boys,” he called. “Time to move.”

“Hey, Gunny,” Grayson called from the other room. “I found a bucket of water.”