Sara Ashland gasped when her eyes fell on the terrorist.
He was grinning through his beard, his eyes dancing.
‘I got you.’ Thickly accented English.
He started reaching into his jacket with his free hand.
Zeb made his move.
One hand shoved the girl away, to safety.
His other hand flew up, its palm jerking the barrel towards the sky.
The killer fired reflexively, the bullet burning a hot furrow into Zeb’s jacket as it grazed his left shoulder.
Zeb ignored it.
He body-slammed the shooter, crushing him against the boulder.
A hoarse shout escaped Namir’s man.
He struggled, punched, kicked, and tried to get control over his HK.
Zeb ignored the blows. Compartmentalized the fiery lance that shot through him when a flailing hand jabbed his wound.
He caught the man’s chin.
And smashed his head back against the rock.
The assailant’s thick, shaggy hair absorbed most of the blow.
Zeb headbutted him, just as the killer’s knee rose, seeking his groin.
He twisted. Took the blow on his thigh, and headbutted the terrorist again.
His forehead broke his attacker’s nose.
The man howled and punched Zeb in the throat.
Zeb’s vision went dark momentarily, but he counterattacked.
He caught hold of the terrorist’s rifle barrel and yanked, catching the killer caught off-guard.
As he stumbled forward, Zeb punched him in the mouth with a bent elbow.
The man’s howl became a scream.
His lips split. His teeth broke.
His cries turned feeble when Zeb crushed his head repeatedly against the rock.
Then they stopped.
Zeb looked around for a fraction of a second.
Sara Ashland was still on the ground, shaking her head in a daze.
No other terrorist came crashing through the forest. No alarmed or angry yells sounded.
He picked up the shooter and heaved him across his shoulder.
‘Get back inside,’ he told the girl. ‘Use the HK if you have to.’
He carried the dead gunman back the way he had come. Deep into the cover of the trees.
A wide, meandering circle, all the while looking out for other hostiles.
He dumped the body in a clearing half a mile away from the rocks.
He took the man’s cell, sprinted another half-mile, and fired several times into the sky.
Ten men down.
Namir will track his phone and hear the shots. They will assume the dead man is on our trail.
A diversionary tactic.
Enough to buy us time.
I hope, he thought.