twice more, placing both shots in the man’s throat in case he was wearing body armor taken from the body of a dead soldier. The man’s bulky coat made that hard to tell.
Another Taliban went down under the guns of the ANP officers defending their position at a cargo truck.
That left two.
Movement to the left caught Linko’s eye, and he saw Lourds and Anna Cherkshan running away from the Taliban, the ANP, and him. Beyond them, over a rise, Linko knew there were vehicles. He’d left one there himself.
Linko pushed himself up and ran, sweeping around the area where the last two Taliban were. He had twice as much ground to cover as the American professor and Anna Cherkshan but felt he could manage it.
However, Lourds and the woman were faster than he’d thought, and the snow deeper in spots than he’d figured. Twice he fell headlong into a snowdrift and had to fight his way back out.
He arrived at the rise just in time to see Lourds and Anna Cherkshan climb into a four-wheel-drive pickup at the front of at least thirty vehicles. The media had flooded the area with rental cars. Pulling the rifle to his shoulder, Linko fired a burst of rounds that caught the truck’s left rear fender as the vehicle shot forward. Lourds swerved around a van, cutting it too close and sliding into the parked vehicle. The truck’s tires spun uselessly for a moment, then Lourds must have engaged the four-wheel-drive, because it powered through.
Taking aim at the retreating truck, Linko fired again, punching holes in the truck’s rear window. The borrowed rifle cycled dry, and he had no more magazines. He threw the useless weapon aside and ran for his rental car.
Breath coming easily but clouding the air with gray clouds, Linko used the electronic key to open the sedan’s locks as he approached it. Throwing open the door, he slid behind the seat. He twisted the key in the ignition, and the motor caught immediately.
As he watched the truck racing around the parking area, Linko smiled to himself. Lourds had made a mistake—he hadn’t checked his exit path. There was only one way out of the impromptu parking area, and Linko commanded it.
He waited patiently as Lourds figured out the maze of parked vehicles and corrected his flight, finding a wide space that allowed him a straight shot at escape.
Linko planned to ram the truck and drive the vehicle into the others on the opposite side of the path, and then to beat Lourds to death with his bare hands if he had to. Then he would take the scrolls.
Suddenly, across the path, a Taliban warrior stepped through the swirling smoke coming from the battlefield. As Linko watched, he lifted an RPG-7 rocket launcher to his shoulder, aiming straight at the sedan.
Cursing, Linko grabbed for the door.
***
Praising God for delivering his enemy into his hands even though the rest of his brethren had been routed and left dead and dying on the mountain by the cursed Army helicopters, Mafouz Abu Walid aimed his rocket launcher at the sedan fifty yards away.
He and three of his men had run down from the mountain when the Army aircraft had appeared. He’d known the mountainside would become a fire zone and that his life was probably forfeit, but he had wanted to take down as many of the dirt diggers, media, and ANP as he could. His rewards in heaven would be great. He could almost taste the wine and smell the virgins.
He pulled the trigger and heard the whoosh of the rocket leaving the launcher. For just a moment, he saw it in flight, then it gained speed and disappeared. A heartbeat later, the front of the sedan exploded. The engine cover blew off and sailed through the air as flames enveloped the destroyed vehicle.
Reaching into his munitions pack, Mafouz took out another rocket and loaded the launcher. There was at least one more target to be had. He’d seen the truck racing around before he’d spotted the Russia Today journalist climbing into his car. He listened for the roar of the truck’s engine, but the noise echoed within the hollow, distorted by the sounds of battle and the aftereffects of the RPG launch.
For the moment, though, he wanted to gloat over his kill. The journalist had to be fried to a cinder if he hadn’t been blown to pieces. Wiping blood from his injured left eye, Mafouz darted across the path.