Crocker pulled himself to his knees, his head still throbbing. Through the grass he saw one of the jihadists jump onto the pickup’s running board and heard him scream through the window, “You stop, infidel! Stop or I shoot!”
“I can’t, brother. The brakes don’t work!”
Akil and the jihadist struggled through the window. Two shots went off in succession. The pickup veered left and crashed into the side of one of the Broncos. Immediately the confused jihadists leveled their weapons. Crocker knelt in the grass beside the front wheel of the pickup and opened fire.
He launched the M576 first, then raked right with the 416. Keeping in mind that the targets were wearing armored vests, he aimed for their legs, then finished them off with head shots, a tight burst at each. As soon as they went down, he looked for his next target. One-two-left-right. Through his EOTech sight he saw a jihadist in the back of the flatbed start to swing the ZU-23-2 into position, and caught him with a salvo that practically took off his head.
The flashes through the NVGs blurring his vision, he shoved an M441 round into the M320 launcher, aimed at the flatbed, and fired at the hood. BLAM! The front of the vehicle exploded into flames.
Davis and Suarez directed their fire left. Screams, smoke, confusion, cascading bodies. The encounter was pretty much over before it started, except for one jihadist who tried to launch himself through the Ford’s passenger-side window. He managed to reach in and grab Hassan by the hair.
Crocker ran up and shouted, “I got him. Back away from the Bronco, then accelerate!”
He smacked the jihadist in the back of the head with the butt of his 416 so that the side of his head smashed into the front post near the window. Then jumped, held on with his right hand, and thrust his SOG knife into his throat with his left. He pulled open the door, grabbed the jihadist by his beard, and threw him off.
“Watch out, boss!”
The jihadist’s body smacked the side of the Bronco as they swerved around it. The F-250’s door swung open and hit it, too, sending up a stream of sparks, blowing out the window, and almost taking Crocker’s right leg off. He pulled it back just in time. Hassan screamed. The baby started wailing.
Total chaos. Akil fishtailed the truck left and right, trying to control it, and throwing Crocker all over the backseat.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Having fun! Hoo-yah!”
Akil gunned the F-250 down a straightaway, smoke spilling from beneath the hood, then skidded around the next turn.
“Easy!” Crocker shouted, holding on and looking back. He could see that the Sprinter couldn’t keep up. “Ease the fuck up.”
Hassan was screaming and holding his hands over his eyes. “I’m injured! I’m bleeding!”
Crocker learned over, pulled away his hands, and saw a long scratch across his left cheek, maybe a few millimeters deep. There was just a trickle of blood. He slapped a hand over Hassan’s mouth and said, “Pull yourself together! You’re fine.”
The young man was practically hyperventilating, and his eyes were popping out of his head.
Crocker spoke into the head mic, “Everyone okay? What’s everyone’s status? Rojas, Breaker, Manny? Report.”
“Rocking and rolling, but intact,” Mancini responded.
“Shit my pants,” joked Davis.
“Praise my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” responded Suarez.
“Nicked in the shoulder,” said Akil from the front seat.
“What now, Deadwood?” Mancini asked.
“Keep burning out.”
He leaned over the seat and saw lots of blood around Akil’s shoulder. Looked like a bullet had passed through the fleshy part up top. He reached into his med kit, found a black tactical tourniquet, wrapped it as high around the shoulder as he could, and pulled it tight.
“Damage assessment to the vehicles?” he asked into the mic.
“We took a couple rounds in the hood and one through the windshield. Lucky shot.”
“Sarin intact?”
“Seems to be, yeah.”
“The women?”
“A little shaken but all good.”
The front right bumper of the Ford F-250 was a crumpled mess, and smoke continued to pour from beneath the hood.
“Engine’s heating up,” Akil reported.
Through the cacophony Crocker made out little Tariq crying and his mother quieting him, which brought him a moment of joy-quickly interrupted by Davis’s voice through the earbuds.
“That asshole is still behind us and bearing down.”
“How the fuck did he get through the roadblock?”
“Maybe he’s one of them,” Davis answered.
“It’s only one man. You sure?”
“Only one head up.”
Crocker had forgotten all about the vehicle tailing them. He craned his neck out the shattered side window to take a look and made out a Mitsubishi J21C jeep with a single driver behind the wheel closing, flashing its headlights and honking.
First he wanted to take a quick look at Akil’s shoulder to see if the tourniquet was working.
He said, “Hassan, take the wheel.”
“But-”
“Take the fucking wheel and maintain current speed!”
Hassan grumbled something as he grabbed the steering wheel. Akil slid closer to him, then they squeezed past each other and changed places, Akil holding his left shoulder.
Crocker shone a light on it and leaned forward to look.
“Bad?” Akil asked.
“Hold the flashlight and keep quiet.”
“As long as my dick is still working.”
Crocker cut away the wet T-shirt, cleaned the wound with an alcohol prep, applied some local anesthetic, smeared in some QuikClot, and covered it with a Battle Wrap compression bandage. Blood was spattered all over the driver’s seat and window. He didn’t know if it was Akil’s or the jihadist’s, or both.
“Ugly mofo,” Akil said, “with stinking breath.”
“Lean back. Drink some water. How do you feel?”
“Like I want to kick ass.”
Crocker grinned, slapped him gently on the side of the head. “You’re just as fucked up as you were before.”
“Lousy doc. I ought to sue.”
“For what? Listening to your BS?”
Through the earbuds he heard: “Deadwood, the jeep in back is within fifty feet of us.”
“Slow down,” Crocker ordered.
“Can you repeat that?”
“Ease up on the accelerator. Slow down.”
“Ill-advised, boss,” Mancini responded. “Could be a suicide bomber.”
“Could be. But I don’t think so.”
“Not a chance we should take.”
Mancini had a point. Crocker into the head mic: “Manny, you still got those portable StunRays?”
“Affirmative.”
“They functional?”
“The lithium batteries are pretty hardy, so should be. Want me to test them?”
“No time. What’s the range on those suckers?”
“They incapacitate at up to one hundred fifty feet.”
“All right. Slow down, then direct ’em behind you and blind the fucker!”
“Like that idea. Will do. Over.”
Crocker craned his neck out the window and looked back as the Mitsubishi pulled within sixty feet of the Sprinter. Suarez, Davis, and Mancini each held one of the XL-2000 handhelds out the window and switched them on at the same time. The intense light turned the road and jeep completely white.
It nearly blinded Crocker, too. He steadied his 416 against the rear windowsill and tried to fix a bead on the driver, just in case.
Whoever it was seemed to be losing control of the jeep, swerving left, then right. The Mitsubishi hit the right shoulder, dipped into a ditch, hit the ground grille-first, and flipped over. One complete turn, then another, and then it stopped roof-down in some shrubs.
“Stop!” Crocker shouted. Akil slammed on the brakes, and Crocker jumped out and ran back, weapon ready. He was joined by Suarez cradling an M5. Together they examined the overturned vehicle through their NVGs but couldn’t find the driver. Suarez pointed into the weeds ahead. Through the smoke Crocker saw a large figure lying on his belly and groaning. He had been thrown and landed chest-first. They couldn’t see his face.