THE GUNMEN LEFT the van’s headlights on. Jake was partially hidden in the dry streambed, but it would be only a matter of time before they found him. The single most valuable lesson he’d learned during his time in the field was that it was better to be the aggressor, to dictate the terms of an engagement, than to be a victim of events.
He drew his pistol and crawled through the streambed. He peered above the bank and saw a third man emerge from the van.
Al-Quereshi.
The three al-Qaeda men searched around the Datsun with their rifles up. It was dark, and Jake could barely see the sights on his weapon, but he pointed it at the closest man. When the others were on the far side of the car, Jake pulled the trigger.
The shot missed. The man spun toward the sound and Jake fired again, hitting his target center-mass. The man sat down and mumbled something.
Jake scrambled ten yards through the streambed and looked up. Al-Quereshi was crouched behind the Datsun, his rifle pointed over the hood at the area where Jake had just been. The mutterings from the first man stopped. The second fighter was nowhere to be seen.
Jake fired at al-Quereshi and immediately scrambled another ten yards through the streambed. An AK-47 clattered and muzzle flashes lit the area as bullets tore up the ground around him. The AK ran dry and Jake heard the shooter changing magazines.
Jake sat up and fired.
And missed.
Al-Quereshi saw the flash and dialed in Jake’s position, unleashing another burst. The rounds hit the earth just inches from his head, spraying sand into his face. He scrambled backward ten feet through the dry streambed. His heart was pounding. He was flat on his back and holding the pistol in tight. In the silence of the desert night, he heard footsteps coming closer.
Jake had one round left.
The al-Qaeda fighter peered over the edge of the streambed.
Jake shot him in the face. He died instantly, tumbling forward and landing on top of Jake.
But it wasn’t al-Quereshi.
Jake rolled the dead man off and took his rifle before scrambling through the streambed and peering above the bank. He scanned the area with the gun up. He was sure that he’d at least wounded the terrorist leader.
Nothing.
Jake ran to the Datsun and slid behind the engine block, but he didn’t draw any fire. He didn’t hear any movement. He crouched behind the car and scanned the area again. Nothing. He ran to the van and searched under it, around it, and inside of it.
Still nothing.
Jake fired a few times into the desert. The ex–Delta Force operators he’d trained with upon joining the Special Activities Center had called it “recon by fire,” and Jake hoped it would draw out al-Quereshi, but the terrorist didn’t take the bait.
Jake searched the area, wondering how the al-Qaeda thugs had tracked him. He thought of the little boy with the stuffed animal who’d watched Jake steal the car. Having lost his own parents at a young age, Jake had felt empathy for the kid, but the terrorists had probably told him that the American he’d seen was responsible for bombing his house and killing his family, further spreading their dogma of hateful intolerance and gaining a future recruit through the propagation of more lies.
Jake searched for half an hour, but there was no body, no blood trail, and no sign of al-Quereshi.
Jake glanced at the Datsun. With a little luck, he could still make the Saudi border before sunrise.
But the only luck in Jake’s future was bad luck.
The car’s left front wheel was slanted forty-five degrees. It had broken an axle when it veered off the road. He decided to take the van.
As he walked toward it, the van’s headlights revealed a bullet hole in the loose fabric of his jacket.
Close . . .