Harvath took one last look around the area to make sure no one was sneaking up on him, and then made ready to fire. “Bring it.”
The sound of gunfire got louder as Haney and his pursuer got closer to the intersection.
Soon enough, Harvath could see him flashing his high beams. The next thing he knew, Haney was in the middle of the intersection, and his truck had been sent into a spin.
It was at that moment that time seemed to slow down.
CHAPTER 31
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It was called a bootleg turn. Dropping into second gear, Haney gave the wheel a quick jerk to the right, and then spun the wheel all the way to the left.
As Haney’s vehicle fishtailed into a 180-degree turn, the men behind him had no idea what was going on.
Gage, who had already inserted his third fresh magazine into his M4, opened up full auto on the cab of the other vehicle. The rounds punched holes through the sheet metal and shattered the rest of the glass.
Both vehicles came to a stop, facing each other, fifteen feet apart in the middle of the intersection.
“Any time, Harvath,” Haney said over the radio. Throwing his vehicle in reverse, he began backing out of the intersection as fast as he could.
Harvath’s grenade launcher was loaded with high-explosive thermobaric rounds, which produced little to no shrapnel. Nevertheless, the minimum safe distance from detonation was thirty feet. As soon as Haney got to twenty-five, Harvath warned, “Going hot,” pressed the trigger, and let it rip.
The fuse on a thermobaric round armed itself three meters after leaving the launcher’s muzzle. In this situation, there was plenty of time for it to arm before hitting its target. Except for one thing—Harvath’s aim had been off.
It wasn’t like shooting a rifle. It was more like lofting a tennis ball the length of a long swimming pool and trying to land it in a wastebasket.
The round sailed over the militia technical and detonated in front of a building on the other side of the intersection.
“Damn it!” he cursed. Racking the weapon, he loaded another round and readjusted.
Before he could press the trigger a second time, the driver of the militia vehicle had already popped the clutch and was squealing his tires. Harvath fired anyway.
This round was on the money. It took off in a high arc from the cemetery and landed squarely in the bed of the militia technical.
It exploded hot and bright, melting the pickup truck’s frame, killing all four people inside, and cooking off all of their ammunition.
Over the radio, Harvath could hear Haney and Gage cheering. But nearby, he could also hear the sound of automatic weapons fire.
Slinging the grenade launcher, he transitioned to his M4 and ran for Haney’s technical.
As he ran, he scanned for threats and hailed Staelin. “Tyler, give me a SITREP.”
The Delta Force operative’s transmission crackled in and out and came in pieces. “Vehicle inoperable . . . Four tangos . . . Returning fire . . . One prisoner KIA.”
One prisoner KIA? “Fuck,” said Harvath as he increased his speed. When he got to Haney’s pickup, he didn’t bother climbing into the cab. Leaping into the bed, he pounded on the side and yelled through the broken rear window, “Move! Move!” as Haney peeled out.
Harvath had no intention of losing anyone from his team. He had to go in and pull them out before things got any worse.
The Reaper pilot didn’t need to tell him a swarm of militia members were already headed their way. He knew it just as surely as he knew the sun would soon be up. Too much had gone sideways. They needed to regain the initiative.
“Corner!” yelled Haney. “Hold on.”
Harvath did as he was told.
Haney hit the turn so hard, Harvath was almost thrown from the truck.
“Where the hell are you guys?” Staelin yelled over the radio.
“Inbound hot,” Harvath replied. “Less than sixty seconds out. Coming in east of your position. Hang in there.”
All of a sudden, he heard thunder. Except he knew it wasn’t thunder. The militia technical had opened up its powerful .50 caliber machine gun.
Harvath didn’t need to tell Haney to hurry. He’d heard it too. Dropping the hammer, he pushed the pickup as hard as it would go.
Thirty seconds later, Harvath pounded on the cab and yelled for Haney to stop. He had just caught a glimpse of the militia vehicle.
Jumping out of the bed of the truck, he yanked open the rear door and grabbed the RPG launcher from the backseat. As he loaded a grenade, he hailed Staelin over the radio. “RPG incoming. Take cover. Now.”
Running back to where he had seen the technical, he mounted the weapon, took a knee, and after checking his back blast area, sighted in his target.
The flashes from the monster .50 cal machine gun as it spat its rounds looked like lightning.
“Smoke-check that motherfucker!” Staelin shouted over the radio. “If you don’t, we’re dead!”
Harvath didn’t wait. Pressing the trigger, he sent the 93 mm, single-stage HEAT warhead sizzling toward its target.
The militia member firing the machine gun never saw it coming. The grenade hit the technical, and it exploded in an enormous fireball.
Flaming pieces of wreckage littered the street, and a hail of razor-sharp shrapnel rained down as Harvath leapt back into Haney’s truck. “Let’s go!” he ordered.
A block down, Haney turned to the left. There was still the sound of sporadic gunfire.
He drove as close to it as he dared, then Harvath and Gage hopped out and moved to the battle on foot.
Locals peered out windows or stood in doorways to watch what was happening. When they saw the Americans, some retreated inside. Many simply stayed in place, as if rolling gunfights happened every day in their neighborhood.
As they neared the corner, Harvath asked for one more SITREP. Staelin radioed that there were two militia members remaining and gave their location. They had gotten onto the roof of a house. Every time Staelin and his team tried to move, the militia showered them with rounds. Harvath ordered him to sit tight.
When he and Gage got to the corner, he radioed Staelin and then counted down from three.
On cue, Staelin drew out the snipers.
As soon as the militiamen popped up, Gage stepped out from around the corner and, with Harvath covering him, shot them both.
But the moment Gage had gotten his rounds off, another sniper materialized in the window of a different building and fired.
The bullet entered the back of Gage’s left shoulder. “Fuck!” he cursed, as Harvath grabbed him by his vest and yanked him back around the corner.
Harvath radioed everyone that there was a third sniper and for Staelin and his team to stay put.
“Where the hell did that guy come from?” Gage asked through gritted teeth.
“Second-story window across the street,” Harvath replied. He hadn’t seen the shooter until the flash had erupted from the end of his muzzle, and by then it was too late. “Can you still fight?”
Gage nodded.