The impact tumbled Sameh onto the sofa, catching Jaffar on the shoulder as he fell. The two men scrambled back to their feet, Bisan held tightly in Sameh’s arms. They started toward the two women now crowding the dining room entrance.
But it was too late. The front door splintered.
Marc was in position, crouched down and behind the hall cupboard. The portal smacked the wall on the cupboard’s other side. A man of the night leaped inside, attired in midnight clothing with a baklava over his head. A figure of death and doom. Black eyes glittered through the openings as they tracked over the living room and fixed on Sameh and Bisan and Jaffar.
His gun arm came up in another fluid motion, matched only by Marc’s sudden appearance at the attacker’s side.
Sameh gripped Bisan even tighter and crouched down to the tiles, covering her body with his own. Marc gripped the attacker’s gun arm in one hand, not going for the weapon but merely shoving the man’s aim upward. It was like watching ballet, two superbly skilled and talented dancers twisting to the music of death.
The gun gave off a series of sharp coughs. The elongated barrel flamed brightly as bullets chopped dusty divots from the parlor ceiling.
Marc’s other hand struck with blurring speed. Three, four, five, six blows, first to the abdomen and then the ribs and finally the neck. The attacker’s eyelids fluttered.
Marc waltzed the man around while the gun still fired, forcing the gun arm back down so that bullets struck the second man who piled through the door. Marc ripped the gun from the first assassin’s hands and smacked him hard with the weapon on the forehead. Marc spun swiftly and fired through the now-empty doorway.
The machine pistol clicked on an empty chamber. Marc crouched and patted down the prostrate attacker. He shouted over his shoulder, “ Everyone out! Go! ”
Sameh scrambled up from the floor and bundled Bisan into the dining room. Miriam and Leyla stood there with outstretched arms. They clustered together and ran through the portal into the kitchen. The last Sameh saw of Marc was the man slapping a fresh clip into the machine pistol and disappearing into the night.
Together they rushed into the cellar. Sameh’s hands were trembling so hard he could not punch the numbers into his phone. His breath caught in a ragged cough matching the imam’s.
There was a knock on the cellar door. Marc called softly, “It’s me.”
Leyla rushed over and unlatched it. Marc slipped inside. “Lock it.”
“Where are they?”
“I think they’re down. But I can’t be certain. I didn’t want to move beyond the wall.” He looked over the frightened faces. “You all okay?”
“Yes.” Sameh’s voice sounded much more confident than he felt.
“Good. Everybody into the corner. Sameh, you and Jaffar make those calls.”
They crouched down, a huddle of panicked breathing. The women whispered quiet comfort to Bisan. The cellar’s bare bulb illuminated their lone protector standing in the center of the concrete floor, gun up and aimed at the door.
Only when Major Hamid Lahm answered the phone did Sameh notice the stain spreading down Marc’s arm.
Chapter Thirty-Five
T hey brought Marc to the same hospital where they had taken the children. Hamid Lahm drove him in a police Land Cruiser, talking into his phone most of the way. Sameh and Bisan rode along, Marc between them in the back seat. Jaffar’s bodyguards had left earlier in an ambulance. One had been wounded in the leg, another had a probable concussion, the third had taken a bullet in the shoulder. The police had bundled the immobile attackers into another vehicle and sped off. Miriam and Leyla remained at the house with two of Hamid’s team, promising to follow shortly. Bisan had insisted on coming with them. Sameh had reluctantly agreed, as it would have taken precious time to convince her otherwise.
They were followed by another Land Cruiser holding two more police. A boxy Mercedes, the car of Jaffar’s father, took up the rear. The Grand Imam’s bodyguards had arrived in short order, intending to take Jaffar straight back to the family compound. But Jaffar was having none of that. Either they took him to the hospital where the wounded men were being treated, or he would travel in Hamid’s SUV.
Bisan gripped Marc’s hand and leaned forward to hold Sameh’s hand as well. Twice Marc asked if she was all right. The first time, she did not respond. The second, she asked if it hurt, being shot. Marc said he had simply been grazed. She stared at the blood leaking around the compress bandage attached to his arm and did not say another word.
There was hardly a better way to arrive at a Baghdad hospital than by police SUV with flashing lights, followed by Imam Jaffar. They were escorted into the emergency room and personally greeted by a bespectacled man in a dark suit. Sameh introduced him as the hospital director. Marc tried to apologize for all the fuss over a simple flesh wound. But it was doubtful the director heard a word he said, busy as he was welcoming the imam.
The same doctor who had supervised the care of the rescued children also was there to greet them. He had the weary and rumpled look of a man drawn from a deep sleep. The doctor shooed out the crowd, then peeled off the bandage and tut-tutted over Marc’s wound. But when Marc expressed regret for bothering him and his staff over a trifle, the doctor said, “Is true what I hear, you save the imam?”
Marc did not respond.
The doctor nodded, as though Marc’s silence was the answer he expected. “The imam is not here because of this wound. He is here to thank you for his life.”
There was a muffled discussion in the hall. Marc heard Jaffar’s voice. The doctor translated, “The imam says, his guards have come out of surgery. They are stable.”
Marc waited while the doctor injected a local anesthetic, sewed the wound shut, and gave him a second shot of antibiotics. Then he asked, “Would you mind checking my ribs?”
“Another wound here?”
“Not tonight. I was in the vicinity of a car bomb.”
“Ah. The market. Yes, I heard the blast here in hospital. Then we wait and no phone rings. You understand?”
“No incoming wounded.”
“Yes, is so. You save us from another bad day. The market, the mosque, the police station. Very bad.” He took surgical scissors from the tray. “Please to lift arms.”
He snipped Marc’s shirt off, then carefully probed the ribs. “I am thinking no breaks. But I will wrap for the night, give time for, how you say it, muscles to ease.”
“Inflammation.”
“You will please to take pills to reduce this. And for pain. You have a place to sleep without danger?”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Al-Hamra.”
The doctor sniffed his disdain. “You will stay here. And sleep. Without worry, yes? Tomorrow much better.”
Marc thanked him and sat while the doctor left to make arrangements. Marc actually had hoped they might give him a bed. He knew his wounds weren’t serious, and the doctor would have known this also. To the medical community in Baghdad, bruised ribs and a grazed upper arm were nothing. But the two attacks had left Marc weakened. His body ached, his mind was sluggish. He wanted a night without danger in a place where he could safely relax.
A male nurse entered the cubicle, pushing a truly ancient wheelchair. Marc knew argument over walking to his assigned room was futile, so he lowered himself into it and allowed the nurse to push him out of the examination room and into the hallway. Bisan’s face contracted at the sight of him in a wheelchair with his strapped chest and bandaged arm. The doctor spoke in soothing tones, and both Sameh and Jaffar placed hands upon the child’s shoulders. Marc said simply, “It’s fine. You’re safe, I’m all fixed up and in good hands here.”
He was taken to a private room with a view of the illuminated barrier wall. The periphery lights were so bright they pierced the closed drapes. But Marc seriously doubted the light would bother him at all.