Ramm raced after the man, as fast as when he’d sprung from concealment. The man whom he’d kicked through the air was no threat. He lay on his back, squirming in the dirt, his spine shattered from the twin impacts of the kick and subsequent fall to the rocky ground. Ramm jumped over him and caught the running man. He didn’t go for any form of subtlety: he struck a pile-driving elbow strike to the fleeing man’s back, buckling him in half, but never in a fashion the human spine was designed to bend. The man tumbled across the gritty earth, throwing up dust clouds. The attaché case flew from his unresponsive hand. Ramm dipped low: economy of motion, picking up the dropped case, while avoiding the bullets fired at him by the third Russian who was retreating into the chopper.
The pilot was feverish as he got the helicopter in motion. It began to lift off the ground. One yard, two yards, rising quickly. Ramm met the third Russian’s self-satisfied gaze. No way he could allow the man to leave. He leaped and got his free hand on the lip of the open door. Over him the Russian stood, his legs braced against the pitch of the chopper, his gun held with both hands. Ramm’s shoulders spasmed at the repeated impact of bullets flattening against them. Agonized but not willing to give up, he weathered the pain, and hauled himself into the passenger compartment. The Russian wasn’t as satisfied now…more stunned. He staggered back, glancing once in incredulity at his gun. Then something clicked in as Ramm rose up before him, and he swung the pistol up and fired directly at Ramm’s face.
A red flash of pain shrieked through Ramm’s skull and he almost pitched out the open doorway. Almost. Grimacing, he wiped at his scoured cheek with the back of his free hand and flicked a glob of blood across the floor. Now the Russian was incredulous. Had Ramm actually dodged a bullet?
‘Who…what in God’s name are you?’ Spittle flecked the Russian’s chin as he spoke in accented English.
‘I’m the Battering Ram. Perhaps you’ve heard my name and have learned to fear it? I’m the one who’s going to stop you murdering any more innocent civilians,’ Ramm said, holding the attaché case out by his side. ‘This will not fall into any filthy Bratva hands now.’
The Russian shook his head adamantly. ‘No, I will take it from you. I will kill you. You can’t be bulletproof. You’ve been lucky that’s all.’ He aimed the gun at Ramm’s chest and pulled the trigger. ‘Now die!’
A bullet struck Ramm dead centre.
He took the impact with a simple bracing of his feet.
‘Think again, scum ball,’ Ramm said, a vibration of rage passing through him. He whipped out his own pistol and put a round low in the Russian’s gut.
Gasping, the Russian fell against the compartment wall.
Ramm gave a crooked smile. He could have stopped the man’s heart with a well-aimed shot but he had something else in mind for him. The mobster must suffer, the way all murderous Red Mafia soldiers of the “brotherhood” should suffer. He should experience similar terror to that Ramm’s family had endured when the Bratva slew them simply for being blood kin to the Battering Ram, their deadliest foe.
Ramm swung the attaché case. The gun flew from the Russian’s broken fingers. Then Ramm was upon him. The man hollered, his voice tinged with both pain and fear. His scream didn’t curtail as Ramm hauled him out the open doorway and dropped him kicking and flailing to the ground now hundreds of feet below. Corresponding shouts of alarm came from the pilot and his co-pilot who twisted in his seat, a gun levelled at Ramm.
Bullets punched through the fuselage of the helicopter.
But they didn’t come from the co-pilot’s firearm.
On the ground the Taliban leader shouted curses as he fired indiscriminately at the craft. Ramm ignored him for a moment longer. He stopped and picked up the Russian’s dropped gun. It felt light, almost depleted of bullets, but plenty remained in his. As the co-pilot fired, then so did Ramm, his two guns exploding simultaneously. Ramm’s shoulder jerked at the almost point-blank impacts, but his aim remained steady enough and he shot the co-pilot a double-tap in the chest. The man slumped, blood trickling over the back of his chair.
The pilot wasn’t armed. He was concerned with holding the chopper steady, but also cast around for the co-pilot’s weapon. Killing him in cold blood went against the grain, but no witness could be allowed escape. Ramm put away his gun, giving the man an opportunity to arm himself, holding the Russian gun down by his side. With a cry, the pilot grabbed up the dropped pistol from his friend’s side and twisted to confront Ramm. Ramm brought up the gun, squeezed the trigger and blood spattered the cockpit. The slide locked back, the ammunition gone. A moan broke from the pilot, as he struggled with the controls. Not dead. Ramm turned the gun in his hand and brought the butt down on the man’s nape and the pilot folded over the controls. And the world turned on its axis as the chopper nosedived for the ground.
It was doubtful that the pilot would recover before the helicopter pitched into the earth, but Ramm wasn’t taking any chances. He leaned over the man, dropped the empty pistol and braced himself against the pilot’s seat while he again withdrew his own pistol. He emptied the magazine into the instrument panel. Sparks popped and fizzed from the burnt out controls.
Wind screeched through the passenger compartment, buffeting Ramm. The turbine made a similar wail as it sliced air. The helicopter was a dying beast, but as seemingly immune to bullets as Ramm proved, he wouldn’t survive an evisceration when it struck ground. Clutching the attaché case to his chest, he struggled uphill to the open door. One hand on the fuselage, his eyelids flickering against the blast of winds, he waited. The rocky ground rushed at him.
Three seconds from impact, Ramm jumped. He experienced a moment of weightlessness as he arced through space. His next sensation proved agonizing. He bent at the knees to soften the landing, but he’d travelled almost thirty feet and most of it downwards. He felt a shattering glass impact in his shinbones and he crumpled, and rolled, arms and misaligned legs flailing. The attaché case was lost momentarily in the plume of dust behind him. Ramm’s chin furrowed the rocky earth like a plow.
The eruption of the helicopter blasted hot wind over him. Metal shards tinkled around him, smoking hot. The stench of aviation fuel made him gag. Something massive and deadly spun overhead and slammed into boulders, but in Ramm’s dazed mind he didn’t immediately comprehend it was one rotor shorn from its moorings. He lay for a few seconds, then twisted over on to his back, propping his elbows beneath him. He didn’t search for the wreckage, but looked down at his legs. Happily he found them still attached to his body, and they weren’t misshapen. Friggin’ painful as all hell, but it was an agony he’d grown used to over countless combat missions. Finally he spun over on to his knees, testing his limbs, and then came up to a crouch.
Goggle-eyed, the Taliban leader peered at him from the front seat of the jeep. He was probably thinking much the same as the man in the helicopter had: what in God’s name was Ramm? He came to the wrong conclusion.
‘Devil!’ he screamed, as he leaned over the jeep door and rattled off a hail of gunfire.
Bullets zipped by Ramm. Some tugged at his outer clothing, but he suffered no direct hit this time. He stood a moment, sucking in lungful’s of air. He took a step forward and found that his limbs were steady beneath him. He took another step, and another, gaining momentum.
The Taliban leader cried out, throwing the assault rifle down so that he could turn on the jeep’s ignition. In his haste he missed the key the first time. He looked frantically from Ramm to the key, then back to Ramm again, who was now approaching at speed. The engine barked, and the Taliban man hit the gas. He didn’t think escape was a possibility, so he took the fight to his adversary. He gunned the engine and the jeep lurched forward. A war howl broke from him as he pushed the heavy vehicle directly at Ramm.