down a side street.
“It’s Hamarwein, then. The old town. After them!”
His driver followed, mouthing a curse and missing the corner of a building by inches as he cut the turn short. Boorama did all he could to remain in his seat, without checking to see if the second car followed their lead.
Boorama thumbed back his pistol’s hammer and hunched forward in his seat, shaking his head to clear the fog of pain. He instantly regretted it and cursed the man who had humiliated him.
The man he planned to kill within a few short minutes.
“HOW MUCH FARTHER to this old town?” Bolan asked Natalia Mironov.
“Five minutes. Maybe less,” she said.
“We may not have the time,” he answered, and a muzzle-flash exploded from the first chase car, as if to punctuate his words.
That shot missed, but the second scored a ringing hit on Mironov’s trunk or bumper. She muttered a curse, and started swerving as she raced along the narrow street. There wasn’t much leeway for fancy driving, but her skill under the circumstances left Bolan impressed.
He could have tried a burst from the Benelli SMG, but that meant wasting bullets to take out the car’s back window, and he guessed that he’d be needing all of the rounds in its short magazine when they stopped to confront their pursuers. Until then, the best move was to keep his head down and trusting his driver to cook up a plan.
Unfortunately, trust was scarce in Bolan’s world, and trusting Russian agents on short acquaintance was a double challenge.
They cleared the narrow street and sped across a kind of open square, came kissing close to an old fountain that was dry and crumbling into ruins, then roared down another street that seemed more claustrophobic than the last one. Bolan had a fleeting hope they might be saved by accident, when their pursuers split and passed on opposite sides of the fountain, nearly colliding as they cleared it, but the one-eyed lead car surged ahead and held its lead.
“I thought we had them there,” Mironov said. “Those idiots nearly did our work for us.”
“Still, no cigar,” Bolan said.
“We can smoke one when we’re finished with them,” Mironov replied.
“And when would that be?” Bolan asked her.
“Any minute now.”
Bolan had refamiliarized himself with Mogadishu and Somalia by studying maps on his last night in the States. He knew the Hamarwein was close, but Mironov’s zigzag approach had managed to confuse him, even if it didn’t shake their enemies. He was relieved, then, when they cleared the narrow street and rolled into a sort of plaza flanked on every side by buildings that had once been shops.
He had a chance to see that most of them were empty now, their facades bullet-scarred and blackened by flames during one of the city’s innumerable firefights. A couple of the buildings had collapsed entirely, and it seemed that no one was in any hurry to rebuild them.
“Welcome to old town,” Mironov announced, as she slammed on the brakes and cranked the steering wheel, putting her car into a long and noisy slide.
Bolan held until it came to rest, then bolted from the backseat with his SMG and crouched behind his open door. Waabberi did the same thing on the far side of the car, leaving Mironov to use her own door as a shield.
As the pursuit cars reached the plaza, she turned back to look at Bolan and surprised him with a smile.
“Just shoot the fools who are chasing us, not me,” she said. “Okay?”
DIRIE WAABBERI HAD been witness to a hundred shootings in his lifetime, maybe more, but this would be the first where he was a participant. His hands were trembling slightly as they clutched the black Beretta, and he wondered whether he should be the first to fire a shot.
The hunters had already fired at him, of course—not once, but several times. He wondered how many they’d killed or wounded by mistake at the Bakaara Market, but he could not dwell on such things if he wanted to survive the night.
He had to focus on the enemies in front of him and do his best to kill them, hopefully with the assistance of his two new allies.
An American, and then a Russian! It was too much for his mind to cope with, when his life was riding on the line.
The chase cars roared into the plaza, and Waabberi had a momentary fear that they would ram the Russian’s car, but both screeched to a halt in front of him, breaking respectively to right and left. Four men leaped out of each car, weapons in hand, and then a shot rang out before Waabberi had a chance to fire.
Within a heartbeat, every weapon in the plaza opened up, pistols and submachine guns hammering at one another, shiny cartridges clinking on paving stones. All of the cars were taking hits, and he could hear the Russian agent cursing as she fought.
Waabberi’s first selected target was the driver of the second chase car, barely visible behind his open door, some twenty feet downrange. Waabberi’s first shot missed the car completely, while his second struck the door but failed to make it out the other side.
Waabberi ducked a couple of incoming bullets, frowning as an idea came to him. He backed up slightly, then lay down beside Mironov’s car to aim beneath his open door. And as he’d hoped, he had a clean view of his target’s knees.
Waabberi took a breath and held it, squinting with his left eye as his right took aim. He knew he’d only have one chance to get this right. A miss would warn his adversary, and the man would bolt before Waabberi could correct his aim.
His index finger seemed to take forever, squeezing the Beretta’s trigger, then the pistol bucked against his palm and his opponent howled in pain, sprawling into the open as he clutched the bloody ruin of a mangled knee.
Waabberi wasted no time gloating. Still without exhaling, he lined up another shot and put his fourth round through the wounded gunman’s gaping mouth.
Simple.
Perhaps it was his background, all the death that he had witnessed growing up in Mogadishu, but Waabberi felt no pity for the man he’d killed, no sickness at the thought of having snuffed out a human life. The gunman was no better than a snake or scorpion, in his opinion.
All Waabberi felt was sweet relief—and pressing need to drop his other enemies before they did the same to him.
Rising to crouch behind his open door again, he scanned the battleground in search of ready prey.
SIMEON BOORAMA TRIGGERED three quick shots and broke for cover, sprinting toward a burned-out building to his right. He hoped a change of vantage point would help him kill the adversaries who were shooting up his men and cars, before he found himself alone and trapped.
In truth, Boorama didn’t care that much about his men, and both the cars were stolen. If he had to leave the battle site on foot, so be it. All that mattered was eliminating those whom he’d been sent to kill—and the white woman who’d come from nowhere to assist them.
Bullets rattled past Boorama as he ran, head throb bing with the jolt of every stride, sweat
