gaze on the ranting Bedouin.
With only the briefest opening Bolan moved, powering himself away from the wall to launch a blistering strike at the guard with the rifle. His sweeping kick drove the toe of his combat boot into the guy’s groin, producing a shocked grunt. The guard began to double over, tears welling from his bugging eyes. Bolan slammed his bunched right fist into the exposed throat, feeling flesh and bone cave in under the unrestrained power of the strike. The choking guard fell back against the open door, wide-open eyes seeing nothing. He offered no resistance as Bolan stepped in close, snapped an arm around his neck and yanked the guy off his feet. As they dropped, Bolan spun the helpless guard back across his knee and snapped his spine. The guard uttered a final gurgle of agony as his entire body became limp.
As Bolan took the AK-47 from the dead guard, Sharif went for the second man as he grabbed for the pistol holstered on his belt. The Bedouin moved with the speed of a striking snake, one big hand clamping over the guard’s pistol, preventing him from lifting it, the other driving full-force into the man’s face. The solid impact of the blow was accompanied by the sound of breaking bone as the guard’s nose was crushed into a bloody pulp. Without pause Sharif hit the guard again, this time delivering a hefty punch that drove the target’s lips into his teeth and snapped his head back. Sharif snatched the guard’s heavy weapon from his belt and used it to hammer the guy’s skull, driving him to the floor.
Following Bolan’s lead, the Bedouin dragged the downed guard away from the door and deeper into the cell. Bolan crouched beside his man and checked him for additional weapons. He was going to have to be content with the AK. The 30-round magazine had a second taped to it for quick reload.
“Tell me about this gun, Cooper,” Sharif said, thrusting the pistol at the American.
Bolan checked it out. It was a 9 mm Glock 17, with an extended 31-round magazine. He made sure the safety was off, then handed it back to Sharif.
“Just aim and pull the trigger,” he said. “Thirty-one bullets in the mag.”
“Like this one?” Sharif asked, showing Bolan a second magazine he had pulled from the guard’s belt.
Bolan nodded. “When the magazine is empty the slide will lock back. Press here and the empty mag drops out. Snap in the fresh one, release here and you’re ready to go again.”
Sharif nodded. “I understand.”
They left the cell and moved down the passage to the main door. Bolan eased it open so he could check outside. Their most likely mode of transport was one of the dusty trucks.
“See the trucks?”
“Yes.”
“That’s our way out. We break for them.”
Sharif considered the suggestion. “But the weapon they have stored?”
“If we can get clear, we reorganize and come back.”
“If we can reach my camp, there are others there who would help.”
“Let’s do it, Ali.”
BOLAN MADE A FINAL SCAN of the camp, seeing the tented area off to the right, the parked vehicles across to the left. Between the lockup and the vehicles the ground was open, uneven, a rocky stretch that would offer little in the way of cover. It was far from ideal but there was no alternative. If he and Sharif were going to make their escape they needed a vehicle. On foot they would be an easy target if one of the helicopters came looking for them.
The only thing in their favor was the fact that being the middle of the day, the occupants of the camp had retreated to the comparative coolness of their tents. Bolan silently thanked the collective thinking that had created this siesta-like observance. Apart from an unfortunate sentry on the far perimeter and a second man standing in the shade provided by one of the helicopters, there was no sign of the camp occupants.
“Ready, Ali bin Sharif?”
The Bedouin shrugged, a fatalistic gesture that expressed his feelings. “As ready as I will ever be.”
“We won’t have a better opportunity. Go.”
Bolan slipped out through the door, picking up the pace as he moved away from the lockup. The black-clad figure of Ali bin Sharif stayed close behind him. The ground beneath their feet offered minimal resistance and they made little sound as they made their dash for freedom. Bolan made frequent checks on the two sentries, hoping neither glanced in their direction.
They traversed a low rise of ground, skirting one of the tents, dust rising from their passing, over the top of the rise and along the final stretch, closing in on the parked vehicles.
As always, it was the unexpected that posed a challenge as Bolan angled in on the truck he had chosen. A lean figure in khaki pants and shirt, wearing a long-billed baseball cap, stirred from his resting place in the rear of the truck. As he sat up, the man saw the approaching figures, mouthed a few words and fumbled for the AK-47 resting across his lap. He leveled the weapon and opened fire. His instincts were sharper than his aim—the stream of 7.62 mm slugs pounded the ground yards away from his targets.
Bolan came to a dead stop, raising his own AK. He targeted the shooter who had raised himself to a kneeling position, finger stroking the trigger, sending a single shot into the guy. It cored deep into his chest, spinning him sideways. He struggled to stay upright but a second shot from Bolan’s rifle laid him flat.
“Get him out of there,” Bolan called to Sharif as he climbed behind the wheel.
The Bedouin dragged the body out of the rear of the truck, commandeering the man’s rifle, and scrambled into the passenger seat next to Bolan. The engine burst into life as the soldier pressed the button. He worked the stiff gears, released the handbrake and floored the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, dust billowing as Bolan swung it away from the camp and headed for the desert beyond.
“Any suggestions on our direction?” Bolan yelled above the howl of the engine.
Sharif pointed. “To the north for now. That way.”
The crackle of autofire rose over the engine noise. Slugs snapped through the air, some clanging sharply against the metal sides of the truck.
“I think we have upset them,” Sharif shouted, his face creased in a smile.
Bolan concentrated on driving. The truck had little in the way of sophisticated suspension. Every bump and ripple in the ground was transmitted through the vehicle’s framework. Bolan had to fight the shuddering wheel as they bounced and lurched across the uneven terrain. His arms and shoulders began to ache. There was nothing else he could do but keep going, using whatever cover he could find. He gave up that maneuver when he became aware of the rising dust trail they were creating. It hung in the hot air long after they had passed.
“If they get those helicopters into the air, we will be spotted easily,” Sharif said.
“Tell me about it.”
Minutes later Sharif twisted in his seat, searching the sky behind them.
“I see one,” he said.
“Has he picked us up yet?”
The Bedouin studied the distant aircraft. “I think
