Day of Wrath

Such an order would utterly disrupt the final stage of his carefully planned timetable. It would certainly throw the ground crews and security troops at those airfields into confusion. He frowned. Some were paid mercenaries like those who were failing him here. They were sure to panic when they heard his command center was under attack. A few might even abandon their posts without launching their aircraft.

And even if all the planes left the ground, Ibrahim knew the damage their bombs caused would be dramatically reduced — perhaps even halved.

Too many key American personnel would be at home asleep — and outside the target areas. His hired planners had run through several night attack scenarios when drafting the Operation. None had yielded the kinds of results he desired.

No, he thought furiously. He would not be panicked into wasting so much of the destructive power he had spent so much effort, time, and money to obtain.

Besides, once the four heavily armed men he’d so foolishly deployed outside the compound returned, the two Americans would find the odds tipping even more heavily against them. Thorn and Gray were only human. They could be killed.

First Floor Thorn dropped another pistol-armed man taking potshots at them — swinging away to look for new targets before the man he’d shot even hit the floor. The sudden movement sent fire streaking down his side. Might have a broken rib there, he thought clinically.

“Pete!” Farrell’s voice sounded through his headset. “You’ve got company coming! That patrol’s on its way back-at the double! They’re heading for the gate.”

Damn.

Thorn scanned the room around them. He and Helen were each covering different sectors — moving from position to position whenever they fired. Several more of their enemies were down-either torn in half by his shotgun rounds or hit by one or more of Helen’s 9mm bullets.

Others had thrown their weapons away and were either lying doggo amid the clutter or fleeing out the building’s main entrance.

He let them go. There wasn’t any percentage in shooting unarmed men in the back-especially when they were abandoning the fight. Running away was exactly the kind of behavior he wanted to encourage.

But he and Helen were still taking fire from a couple of different locations. Throw four more guards wearing Kevlar and carrying automatic weapons into this battle, and you’ve got two very dead people, Thorn realized. Two very dead people who are us.

“Can you delay them?” he asked desperately. “I’ll try,” Farrell said matter-of-factly.

Thorn heard the sudden boom of a shotgun blast over the radio as Farrell opened up.

From his concealed position in the trees across the road from the Caraco compound, Sam Farrell saw the man he’d shot crumple to the pavement. Not even Kevlar body armor could stop a sabot round fired from less than forty meters away.

After a split second’s stunned amazement, the other three guards threw themselves flat and opened up — flailing away at the trees and brush on full automatic.

Pieces of torn bark and leaves rained down on Farrell. Shit, he thought, I am getting too damned old for this crap. He wriggled back behind the thick trunk of one of the trees and reloaded.

Helen Gray heard the desperate radio exchange between Peter and Farrell. The building entrance was in her sector. Which made stopping this new threat her responsibility.

She fired the Beretta two more times. Both shots slammed into the wall — right beside the man she’d been aiming at. With a startled yell, he threw his own pistol away and scuttled for the big double doors leading out.

Fair enough.

Helen tugged the empty magazine out of her own weapon and reached for another. Nothing. She’d used up the ammo she’d stuffed in her ready-use pouch. There were more rounds in her rucksack, but it would take far too long to get them out.

She switched to the shotgun, pumped it, and rose to one knee.

“I’m going for the doors, Peter,” she warned.

Without waiting for a response, she rose to her feet and moved forward, dodging around the tangle of cots, gear, and bodies.

A gunman appeared in one of the open doorways on the far wall.

Still running, Helen fired from the hip. Nine pistol-size pellets blasted out of the barrel and spread through a narrow arc. Two hit her target in the chest and two more tore his face apart.

Another man popped up to her right and fired twice. The first bullet snapped past her face. The second caught her in the side.

Momentarily stunned by the fiery impact, she stumbled and fell — still holding her shotgun. Another 9mm round spanged into the floor by her face and whirred away.

Helen spun on her side, fired, pumped the action, and then fired again.

An eerie, echoing, bubbling scream told her she’d hit the shooter.

Wincing, she levered herself upright and started for the main doors again. This time nobody tried to stop her.

On the other side of the vast room, the fire door to the stairs going down started to open.