Oath of Office

Jack made good use of the distraction and closed the distance to the second Iranian, parrying the pistol away with his left arm while he swung upward with his right to plant a staggering hammer fist to the man’s unprotected groin.

The extra inches of suppressor on the muzzle of the handgun made it slightly more difficult to maneuver effectively. Jack exploited the lag in speed, trapping the gun in both hands and driving the other man backward against the wall with the point of his elbow. Stunned, the man swung with his left, attempting to hit Jack in the head when he should have tried to secure his gun. One of the blows, robbed of its full power, impacted Jack’s injured ear, bringing a wave of nausea.

Ryan growled, clearing his head. With the handgun pinned to the wall, he drove a knee over and over into the man’s groin and thigh at the same time, throwing elbows at his throat. The Iranian slid down to protect his groin, then used the wall as a brace as he used the force of his legs to push upward, trying to shake Ryan’s grip. The pistol barked, suppressed but not nearly silent, sending a round dangerously close to Ryan’s face.

Invigorated by the near miss, Ryan followed the upward transition of movement, twisting his own center at the same time he stepped inward, impacting the man’s armpit with the point of his shoulder, spinning toward the gun. The man peeled off the wall as Ryan followed him through the turn, throwing him violently on his back while retaining his two-handed grip on the pistol. He was vaguely aware of the fight going on behind him. He’d heard furniture break, Ysabel’s cry as she fell, and Dovzhenko’s frenzied yowl as he attacked Sassani. There had been no other shots, and Ryan had his own hands full.

The Iranian turned out to be a better on the ground than he was standing up. Straddling the man in the mount position, Ryan slammed the gun hand against the floor, sending another shot into the far baseboard. The Iranian bucked his hips upward and to the side attempting a throw. With both hands occupied against the pistol, Ryan had to post, bringing forward a foot and planting it to the side of the Iranian’s body to keep from tumbling over. Instead of returning to the mount, Ryan retained his grip on the gun and continued in the direction of his posted leg, pushing off and around over the top of the Iranian’s head, lifting and turning, bringing the arm and the pistol around with him as he went. Ligaments tore, tiny carpal bones snapped. The Iranian’s finger convulsed on the trigger again, this round tearing downward through his gut at near-pointblank range. Ryan pressed his advantage, his own finger finding the trigger now and sending two more rounds into the wide-eyed man’s belly before wresting the pistol away.

He heard another yowl and spun to find Dovzhenko seated on the ground, bleeding from the nose. Ysabel, too, was on the ground, on all fours, dazed, her scarf gone, trying to get back in the fight. Major Sassani had sunk to his knees, the knife from the cake sticking from the side of his neck. Blood arced from the wound in time with his pulse, painting Yazdani, who stood over him. The IRGC man croaked, unable to speak from the blade that bisected his voice box. He toppled forward a moment later, the arc of blood slowing to a trickle as his life ebbed away.

The other Iranian coughed behind Ryan, causing him to turn with the suppressed SIG. The wounded man shrank backward, shielding his face from another shot. He writhed on the carpet, eyes clenched in excruciating pain.

Dovzhenko helped Ysabel to her feet. She tended to a shaken Yazdani while the Russian stood beside Jack.

“Hospital,” the Iranian whispered. “Please.”

Dovzhenko knelt. “Lieutenant Gul,” he said. He looked at the wounds, then shook his head. “I am afraid there is no time. I will pass on a message to your wife.”

“Thank you,” Gul said. He coughed again. Pink blood foamed at the corners of his lips now, indicating at least one of the shots had nicked a lung. Ryan guessed another had hit the liver.

“Why?” Dovzhenko asked. “Why was Sassani after Maryam? What was so special about the three students? And why me, for that matter?”

“Alov… ordered it…”

Dovzhenko’s mouth fell open. “General Alov of the GRU?”

Gul nodded weakly. “I am so cold.” His voice was like the air escaping a punctured ball.

Yazdani brought a small throw blanket from the couch and draped it over the young man, situating it with trembling fingers.

“Why?” Dovzhenko asked again. “Why Maryam?”

“She saw them… together. Like the students.”

Dovzhenko groaned. He thought it strange when he’d seen the picture, but it didn’t seem enough to kill over. “Alov and Reza Kazem?”

Gul shook his head. “Not Alov.” His lips and teeth were bathed in pink blood. “I… I… the woman…”

The man was drifting now, forcing Dovzhenko to lean forward to hear his words.