Gunfire, grunting and screaming, shouts of mercy and cries of bloodlust pierced the day. Mai took a surprise elbow to the face and stumbled back against a metal siding, weapon falling. Drake was almost too stunned to react, to help her, but before he could even move, Alicia drew her pistol, spun and shot the adversary in the time it took him to draw a single breath.
Mai blinked at her. “Thanks.”
Alicia just winked before turning her attention back to the man she had by the throat.
Drake shook his head. “This is all just a delay tactic.” He could see beyond the edge now, down into the plaza. The terrorist leaders were just finishing up their business as if it were a steady day at the local meat market. They didn’t hurry. Barely a single one cast even a glance up the hill to the place where men fought and died on their behalf.
“Damn their arrogance,” he whispered furiously. “But it’ll cost them.”
As the onslaught began to thin out, Drake advanced. He took a quick look around, taking stock. He couldn’t see everyone, but saw no fatalities on their side.
“To me,” he said into the mic. “To the plaza.”
Men emerged from between the containers, weapons ready, steadfastly determined to make the next advance. With high and constant vigilance, they swept down the hill, shooting everything that moved ahead. Now, to Drake’s satisfaction, the terrorist leaders and arms dealers were fleeing with abandon, leaving personal bodyguards and crates and boxes of armaments and missiles in their wake.
Beyond the plaza he saw choppers with rotors already whirling and many of the terrorist’s security personnel digging into strategic positions. Some of the weapons he saw being readied were more than daunting. The huge tent sat serene, its sides flapping in the breeze, an oasis of calm amidst the storm.
To Drake’s left, Hayden appeared in his sight, bounding alongside with the ever-present Kinimaka watching her back. The Hawaiian seemed even more concerned than usual with keeping his boss safe. Probably due to the painkillers, Hayden would be thinking she was invincible. Drake fired at movement ahead, wishing he felt the same way. More gunfire and a stray shot slammed into a box of missiles, sending the lot up in a humongous explosion that rivaled the best New Years Eve firework display.
But these were deadly missiles, exploding fragments and small, deadly warheads. Drake and his team, to a man, threw themselves headlong into the dirt and kept their heads down. When he looked up, Drake saw a fireball whooshing to the sky. Trails of thick, black smoke streamed all around it. He scrambled up. Members of the enemy force, twisted hunks of metal and smoldering timbers now littered the plaza.
Drake advanced onto the square, roughly paved surface, cracking off a shot every now and then when something moved. A man ran at him from behind a fiery hunk of destroyed timbers, but Dahl was quick to meet and stop him dead in his tracks. Literally.
The team hiked across the square, surrounded by flames and destruction, sweeping for any signs of life or enemy snipers. Dahl found an untouched box of RPG launchers and their missiles, which he quickly doled out. Drake saw Ben and Karin and Gates now running down the hill behind them. Belmonte, to his surprise, was already part of the attack team, holding a light machine pistol and a handgun.
So far so good. He wondered again about the eight pieces and experienced a surge of fear. What if Holgate lied even under extreme regret and duress? What if the pieces were already gone or even on their way to Singen by now?
God help them all.
Then he crested the final rise and got a first real look at the valley below. A valley of death¸ he thought. On the flatlands, more than a dozen choppers were waiting or being boarded. One lifted off as he watched. The slope down into the valley was heavily covered on both sides of the road by small knots of men holding every weapon imaginable.
They were dug in, and they were waiting, knowing that if Drake’s team wanted to advance any more, they’d have to go past them.
Drake’s entire team lined up in a staggered formation, two deep along the rim of the valley. At that moment, the big tent’s door-flaps were pushed back and out came a small troop of rugged men all wearing thawbs—or robes — and Keffiyeh—headdress. Behind them came soldiers carrying machine guns, dressed in jeans and jackets and behind them came a final group — a scurrying band of European men — probably mercenaries — hefting all eight pieces of Odin between them.
The sale had been completed. The choppers were already warmed up and itching to fly.
Drake saw no other way. He looked across at Dahl and Sam and their men, and thought of the future of their world, of their children, nothing else. For our children, he thought. “For our future!” he cried aloud.
The charge was on.
Hard down the grueling slope they flew, feet tugged at by bloodied clumps of dead grass, guns tight against their shoulders, meeting bullet with bullet, battle cry with war cry. And death filled the air. Choppers rose ahead like black birds of prey only to be blown out of the sky by expertly aimed RPG launchers. Fire rained down from the skies. A creeping column of explosions and a deadly wall of lead marched before and among the sixty, the unsung heroes, men eaten by fear but forging ahead despite it all. And even as they fell, they kept firing, even as their dying bodies hit the ground they threw a last grenade or took another bullet for those who still lived and still ran headlong into the face of death.
All across the hill, they were ranged, sweeping down toward the guns. Not one among them wavered, but fought fire with fire and stormed through the deadly onslaught like a wave surging across a reef.
Drake felt more than one bullet sear past his face. A great fiery explosion lit up the hill before him, but he forged through it. Something nicked his ear, probably shrapnel, but he barely felt it. Every stride brought the enemy within reach. Every stride brought the pieces of Odin closer to safety. With precise fire and expert magazine changes, he pounded round after round into their assailants. Bullets, grenades and rockets fired high into the air as men cartwheeled backward, struck at the very moment they pressed their triggers. At one point, a chopper smashed down into the very heart of the terrorists’ defense, bursting apart on impact and blasting metal shards, men and terrible tongues of fire outward in a horrific display of absolute mayhem.
That same blast destroyed more enemy fortifications from the rear. Drake’s team fell among them, up for blood and battle, offering no quarter. Drake jumped over a high mound, landing amidst a tangle of men and fired three times, three directions, into the chests of his enemy. They fell back with heavy thuds. Mai landed beside him. Belmonte came down on the other side. The thief shot at a masked man emerging from the smoke downslope. Drake lifted his head.
“Keep going.” He keyed his mic. “We have the momentum. Don’t stop now!”
But at that moment, there was the horrendous sound of heavy gunfire, the kind of sound made by a big caliber weapon that seems to shoot right up from the bowels of hell. They hit the deck as gigantic chunks of earth blasted into the air, chewed up by the huge shells.