Day of Wrath

Thorn swore silently. He and Helen were smack-dab in the middle of a hornet’s nest. They’d come out right in the center of a huge open space — not an isolated, enclosed room as he’d hoped. And there were people all around them. Most appeared to be armed.

Sooner or later these bastards were going to realize their enemies had jumped right into their midst. And when they did, all hell was going to break loose. Like right about now … It was too late to retrieve his pistol. He yanked the Winchester shotgun off his shoulder, flicked off the safety, and pumped the fore-end-chambering a 12-gauge round.

One of the men closest to him heard the sound and swung around.

“Mein—” Thorn saw the pistol in his hand and pulled the trigger — riding the recoil back and automatically pumping another shell into the Winchester’s chamber.

The sabot round he’d fired blew a big hole.clear through the German’s chest and blasted out his back in an impossibly large spray of blood and pulverized bone. The dead man flew backward and landed in a splayed heap beside an overturned cot.

Helen’s Beretta barked three times-knocking down another man, this one carrying a submachine gun.

The rest scattered — diving for cover behind cots or wriggling frantically away across the floor toward some of the doors that opened up into this one vast room. Panicked shouts in German and what sounded like Arabic echoed across the space.

A pistol round slammed into Thorn’s back and glanced off the Kevlar vest. A red-hot wave of pain washed through him. Christ.

He spun around and saw a figure crouched behind one of the COTS.

He fired. Pieces of bedding, metal frame, and flesh exploded away from where the sabot round struck home.

Thorn pumped the Winchester again and scanned their surroundings rapidly — frantically searching for a way out of this killing zone.

They were too damned exposed here.

He turned toward the south wall — toward the staircase Helen had tossed her pipe bomb down. There. Another fire door stood right beside the stairs leading up. He’d bet good money there was another staircase behind that closed door — and that those stairs led down.

Lying prone on the floor beside one of the men she’d just shot, Helen Gray spotted movement near the far wall. A man carrying a submachine gun had just come out of the room closest to the main entrance. He looked tough and totally unafraid.

Not good.

She fired twice. Both rounds hit her target squarely in the chest.

Incredibly, the other man stayed up and fired back with the submachine gun — calmly walking three-round bursts through the chaos in the middle of the room.

She flattened herself as bullets whipcracked past just inches to the right — tearing huge strips of linoleum from the floor. Body armor!

That son of a bitch had body armor on, too.

Without hesitating, Helen raised the muzzle of her Beretta slightly, altering the view over her front and rear sights. She squeezed the trigger.

A neat, red-rimmed hole appeared in the other man’s forehead and he went down.

Strike Control Center Ibrahim could hear the sounds of gunfire now — the stutter of submachine guns, shotgun blasts, and the crack of pistols. He shook his head in disbelief. The battle was moving closer. How could this be?

He whirled toward Talal. “What’s happening up there? Where are my pilots? I want an accurate report!”

The former paratroop officer spread his hands helplessly. “I can’t give you one, Highness. I’ve lost contact with Schaaf. He left the security office to lead the defense — and immediately dropped off the com net.”

Ibrahim swore sharply. Incompetents! He was surrounded by fools and incompetents. First Reichardt had failed him. And now Reichardt’s chosen deputy.

He stabbed a finger into Talal’s chest. “Get up there and take command?”

He nodded toward the only security guard still in the control center. “Take that man with you!”

Talal stared at him. “But Highness, you will be unprotected!”

Ibrahim glared at him. “Do your job right, Captain. Then I won’t need any protection!”

Talal stiffened. “Yes, Highness.” He snatched up his submachine gun and headed for the door that led to the planning cell.

Ibrahim didn’t bother watching him go. Instead, he swung around on the two German technicians who were left. He pointed to the 9mm pistols they wore. “You know how to use those weapons?”

They nodded hurriedly.

“Good. Then guard the door. Move!”

The technicians scurried into position.

Ibrahim turned back to contemplate the secure phones that linked him with the five strike airfields. His eyes narrowed.

Should he transmit the arming codes and target coordinates now — and order an immediate launch?