Now.
Crackcrackcrack. I drop two, wet spray, pink mist, red blooms on chests. I don’t get Abdul, who ducks and runs as soon as the gunfire echoes.
Crackcrack…crackcrack…crackcrack. More drop, spreading red life into the dust. They can’t see where I’m shooting from yet, so I keep firing. My bad leg is beneath me, screaming, my good leg supporting my weight, tensed, ready to propel me into flight when they catch sight of my muzzle burst.
They’re dropping like flies. I don’t miss. There are too many of them clustered in the street. They were expecting to ambush, not be ambushed. Thank f**k for Hassan’s warning.
Then they see me. Or rather, they see the flash of fire from my M16. I duck behind the rusted hulk of the car, listening to the metallic thunk and ping of bullets hitting the vehicle, the snap-buzz of rounds hissing past my ear. I shuffle sideways laboriously, shifting positions. My chest burns, still-healing muscles not ready to wield a rifle but given no other choice.
Hackhackhackhack…hackhackhack. A few rounds hit too damned close for comfort, plugging through the weakened, rusted, blackened metal. Time to move. I lurch to my feet and throw myself backward, firing into the mass. They’re spreading out now, seeking windows and doors. I move down the alley, duck through a random door, and crawl out the window, ignore the huddled mother and children and aged grandmother in the corner. I flop to the ground roughly, cursing as I try to catch my breath. I roll to my stomach, gasping, panicked as my lungs struggle to release. I hear the muffled sound of a round going past my face, roll again and again, lift the rifle and find the muzzle-burst, fire. Hit, wounding but not killing.
Then I hear a sound more welcome than anything I’ve ever heard in all my life: the answering crackcrack of M16s in the distance. Marines. I fire again, pinking an elbow sticking out from behind a wall.
Crackcrackcrack.
There, from the east. Now AK fire chatters up, individual rifle voices blending into a cacophony. I think I hear four rifles. One fireteam. There, there’s the SAW, short coughing buzz-saw bursts. I could cry I’m so relieved. I make it to my feet, then duck again as bullets whine past my ear, reminding me I’m out in the open. I feel a stinging burn cut along my bare arm, a bullet scratching a red line. I run awkwardly, dragging my stiff leg behind me. I need to tie in with that fireteam.
I round a corner and have to scramble back. There’s a cluster of rag-heads—I feel a twinge of guilt at the racial slur, thinking of Rania—insurgents gathered with Abdul in the center. They’re surrounding a door, and there’s a lot of shouting, rifles pointing, but no one is shooting.
I have to drag a hasty translation from my whirling head: Give her up, Hassan—No! You’re a devil, Abdul!—One last warning, boy…
They’ve got Rania and Hassan cornered. Fucking shitfuck. What do I do? I slip a fresh clip home, peer around the corner, count. Seven, plus Abdul.
M16s bark a few hundred yards away, answered by AKs and interrupted by the SAW, and then there’s the glorious sound of an M203 coughing up a grenade, followed by the dull thunder of the explosion. An RPG, whistle-whoosh, boom. Not far away, moving this direction.
I have to fix this. Can’t let that turd-sucker Abdul get his filthy hands on Rania.
I lick my lips, drag a burning breath, knead the howling muscle of my injured thigh, wish this was over, wish I was still holding Rania’s sweet soft naked body against mine in the gray dark of dawn.
No time for that, dickhead.
Roll around the corner, open fire, swing the barrel horizontally, spraying recklessly, against all training. Hose the f**kers down. Get them looking this way.
Bullet pluck at the stone wall and whizz and hiss-snap; that got their attention, I’m thinking. Wait…wait…drop to a knee, pivot, fire. Blood blossoms, Abdul is yelling, screaming orders. Need him to f**king die. Fucking die, asshat.
Yells in Arabic, curses, and insults are directed at me, and I realize I shouted that last out loud.
There’s three left, plus Abdul. They’re coming this way, crouching, firing, sneaking. Abdul has an AK held in one hand, the stock held across his forearm of the fingerless, bandaged hand. Be damned if he’s not fairly accurate that way, too. I back away, knowing I can’t win a four-on-one showdown in the open.
They round the corner just as I duck into a doorway, pressing my shoulder tight against the splintering wood. Hesitate, suck up my fear, push down the pain, teeth grinding so hard my jaw aches, sweat running down my face along with trickles of blood from where shards of bullet-sprayed stone peppered me.
Deep breath, roll out and fire, drop back. One down. They scramble back under cover. Roll out, suppressing fire, wait…glimpse a body as he peeks out, plug him with ugly holes, drop back behind cover.
New clip, last one.
My breath comes in grunting gasps. The pain is winning.
Cannot f**king give in. I grind my teeth and suppress a groan of agony.
I see Hassan peek out the doorway, rifle barrel first. He creeps out into the road in a passable tactical crouch, rifle against his shoulder but not tucked up, waiting for a target. I roll out, he sees me, I point at the dead-end alley where Abdul and the last one are waiting. He nods. I hold up two fingers, pat my shoulder to indicate rank, although I’m not sure if Hassan will understand that. It was the gesture Rania first used. Hassan shrugs, holds up two fingers. I mime cutting at my fingers with the knife edge of one hand, then make a fist, and Hassan nods, comprehending.
I creep toward Hassan and the alley mouth, muttering f**k under my breath with every step. Throbbing pain gouts through me with every motion, every breath, every step, every eye blink. I’m running on stubbornness now.
Abdul has to die before I’m allowed to collapse.
We rush the alley at once, together. Abdul is waiting for us, his last man standing next to him, holding Rania captive. The goon has his arm around her neck, one hand groping her breast greedily, the other pointing a pistol at her, near her, not pressed directly at her head.
It’s a standoff. Hassan has his rifle aimed at Abdul and I’m kneeling, my bead drawn on the other one.
Tense silence.
Hassan shifts his feet, drawing the gaze of the man holding Rania. It’s all the distraction I need.
Crack.
Rania bolts the instant she feels his grip loosen. A black hole blooms red in the center of his forehead. Rania is behind me now, Hassan beside me.
Abdul doesn’t even flinch. His rifle shifts between Hassan and me, as if he can’t decide who he’s going to shoot first.