SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Ritzik came up off the ground to get a better angle, and saw muzzle flash from the vehicle. Bright yelloworange-white death. And then, things slowed down, almost as if time were standing still. He could sense the rounds coming at him in slo-mo. He pancaked. Rolled to his left as sand kicked up all around him. He fired back: one-two-three quick bursts of suppressive fire. Real time resumed. Crawling on hands and knees, he scurried around the berm and put a second series of five-round bursts through the Toyota’s door. But the goddamn 4x4 took the licking and kept on ticking. Not good. He yelled at Mickey D: “Shoot at the tires—”

Too late. The 4x4 was out of range. Now the big truck loomed into Ritzik’s sight picture, the top of the driver’s head visible. Ritzik fired. Glass shattered. But the truck kept going. Ritzik and Mickey D loosed a series of long bursts as the cab drew even. They could see the profile of the driver, head lolling against the broken window.

Ritzik head-shot the man. But he didn’t move. He just kept driving. He was a goddamn bullet sponge.

And then Ritzik realized what was happening. The driver was dead. Ty had killed the son of a bitch. The second man in the cab was using the corpse as a shield. Where the hell was an RPG when you needed one? Ritzik’s bolt locked back. He dropped the empty mag out, slapped a new one into the mag well, and raked the canvas-covered truck bed.

But the big vehicle kept going forward. Gaining speed. Moving out of range.

“Boss—” Mickey D’s voice in his ear.

Ritzik spun around.

“Third truck.”

Ritzik saw. A knot of hostiles were crawling, shielded by the causeway sidewall, working their way toward the number three truck. The one with the hostages.

His AK came up, front sight on the leader. He put a three-shot burst into the sumbitch. One down.

From Ritzik’s right, Mickey D emptied a full mag at the tangos. The muzzle flash from the AK was blinding. “Fire discipline, Mickey,” Ritzik screamed at the pilot. He blinked, trying to regain any semblance of night vision. Jeezus. He aligned the AK’s front sight and squeezed off a quartet of three-shot bursts at the advancing tangos.

Two of them managed to crawl to the rear of Truck Three. Ritzik saw a grenade. “Ty — your twelve-thirty.”

“Roger.” The sniper brought his muzzle up. Found the target. Squeezed the trigger. The grenade rolled under the truck and exploded.

Ritzik spoke coolly into the throat mike. “Rowdy, Shep — one-two-three-four hostiles — rear of truck three.”

“Roger, Loner. We’ll take the truck and hostages.”

19

1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.

0010 Hours Local Time.

Sam was screaming, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon — don’t let it tip.”

And then the corner of the rear flap was pulled aside. A bearded face. An arm. A gun. “Jeezus — X,” Sam yelled.

As the gunman’s eyes tunneled on Sam and Kaz, X-Man reached across, grabbed the man’s gun arm, and slammed it down onto the tailgate. The gunman screamed. The revolver went skittering across the truck bed.

X-Man leveraged himself out of his kneeling position and, without letting go the terrorist’s arm, took him by the hair and yanked the man inside the truck.

“Don’t let the bomb fall,” Sam screamed. He let go of the crate and dove for the gun.

X-Man and the terrorist were struggling, arms and legs thrashing. Sam thought he saw the pistol on the truck bed. Then the two men rolled on top of the weapon.

“Sam—” Kaz’s voice. “Jeezus, the bomb.”

Sam launched himself at the nuke.

“Ungghs.” X-Man sensed the pistol underneath his kidneys. But there was no way to get his hands on it. He was otherwise engaged. The son of a bitch was strong. Wiry. He stank, too. Urine, feces, sweat, garlic; a whole panoply of Uzbek aromas.

X-Man tried to roll the Uzbek over so he could get on top and strangle the sumbitch. But he couldn’t get any traction, couldn’t get any leverage. The guy was a natural grappler. That made him dangerous.

Shit — from the way they were moving, X was pretty certain the Uzbek had felt where the pistol was, and he was gonna try for it. Not good.

X-Man broke free and chopped the little bastard upside the head. He heard something crack. He hoped he’d done some damage.

But not enough. The Uzbek’s hand slipped away, out of his grip. Slammed up, choked him around his throat. Tried to crush his windpipe. Gasping, X-Man slipped an arm inside and broke the grip. Kneed the sucker in the balls.

Kaz screamed, “X — the knife…”

The Uzbek reacted to Kaz’s voice — dropped his guard for just a millisecond.

It was all the opening the security man needed. His fingers found the terrorist’s eyes and raked them. He slammed the terrorist’s ears. He hammered the side of the man’s face again, this time audibly breaking the bone at the outside of the eye.

“Knife? Where?” X-Man looked around, wild-eyed.

He smashed the guerrilla’s head onto the truck bed and then, using every bit of strength he could summon, he drove his forearm into the man’s Adam’s apple and pressed down with his entire body weight.