He had an instant to react when a large white van roared out of a side road and T-boned the Vauxhall’s passenger side. Elizabeth yelled as the airbags exploded. Rome couldn’t see, but he held on to the steering wheel and fought to keep the car from being pushed sideways into a ditch filled with water. He managed to pull them back onto the road. He shoved the airbag out of the way and yelled, “Elizabeth, are you all right?”
“Yes! What happened? That van—”
Over the pounding rain they heard the van doors open and slam shut. Rome grabbed his SIG out of his waist clip. “Down, Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth’s voice was amazingly calm. “I nicked one of Father’s handguns, Rome. Here they come, four of them—let’s get the bastards.”
He saw she had a 9 mm Glock. Well, of course she did. “Keep your head down, I’m going around the back of the car.”
Bullets clanged against the passenger side of the car and shattered the window. Elizabeth shook off shards of glass and flattened herself in the well, then rose up and fired off most of her magazine. She heard a yell.
Rome slithered out the driver’s-side door and elbow-crawled to the rear of the car. He could make out the white van through the deluge and four people walking toward them, with their faces covered. One was firing an H&K MP5, thirty-two rounds, the sound of it deafening, only slightly muted by the heavy rain. The others had handguns, and they were firing at Elizabeth. He rose up and fired at the man closest to him, hit him in the shoulder. The hit spun the man around. He screamed and fell, but then he rolled, came up on his knees, raised his handgun toward Rome. Before he could fire, Rome shot him in the chest. He collapsed onto his back on the road.
The others turned their fire on him, just as he’d hoped. He flattened himself behind the back tire an instant before a bullet struck the ground beside him. A dozen bullets ripped into the side of the car; another struck the tire, which hissed out air. He leaned out, fired back, fear and rage hot in his belly, until his magazine was empty. He slammed in his only other magazine and fired again, but he knew that soon, once it was empty, it wouldn’t matter what he did. When Elizabeth was out of ammunition, they’d simply walk up and shoot both of them. He’d failed.
No, not just yet. Rome crawled to the back of the car again and reared up. Through the thick rain, he saw to his astonishment one of the men step behind the other two and shoot them both in the backs of their legs. They yelled and collapsed to their knees, their weapons clattering to the wet pavement.
“You bastard!” It was a woman’s voice.
The man picked up the H&K, pulled the black hood off his head. It was Khaled Aziz.
He yelled, “Stay down, both of you, or I’ll finish it. Put pressure on those wounds so you don’t bleed to death.”
Rome ran to the bullet-ridden passenger door, jerked it open. “Elizabeth?”
She was lying in the well. She gave him a maniacal grin, her Glock still in one hand, her other hand pressed against her neck. “Rome, don’t worry, it’s—just a flesh wound.”
He saw blood snaking through her fingers and nearly lost it. He tore off his coat and shirt, pressed his shirt against her neck, lifted it only for a moment. “Okay, you’re going to be okay, it’s through and through, only a long gash through your skin.” He closed his eyes for a moment. An inch inward and she would have bled to death.
She said, “That man who shot them, it was Khaled. What’s he doing?”
“He’s checking the two he shot in the backs of their legs.”
Khaled came running up, pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, and gave his name and location, all in a calm voice, as if he did it every day. He punched off his cell, gave both of them the once-over. “We’ll have help momentarily. Elizabeth, your neck—how bad?”
Khaled bent over to examine Elizabeth’s wound when another bullet struck the car door, where Khaled’s head had been an instant before. Rome whirled around and fired once, twice.
The woman yelled out, “No! Yusuf!”
Khaled and Rome ran to stand over him, lying flat on his back, the rain splashing on his black-hooded face, mixing with his blood, rivulets of red snaking off his body onto the pavement. He wasn’t moving.
The woman was yelling curses at them. Was it Adara Said?
Khaled said in an emotionless voice, “I really didn’t want him dead, Adara. He should have listened to me and stayed down.”
She cursed again, her voice choking with rage and pain. Khaled walked over to her, went down on his haunches, took off his belt, and wrapped it around her leg. “Pull this belt tight or you’ll bleed to death.”
“I’ll kill you, you bastard. He’ll kill you.”
Rome said, “Who is that, Adara? Your brother, the imam?”
She pulled the belt tight around her bleeding leg, still cursing. Khaled pulled off her black hood. Rome stared down at a young woman, her hair sodden and flattened to her head, the rain mixing with the tears on her very pretty face.
Khaled leaned close. “It’s over, Adara. Who’s going to kill me?”
She spit up at him, hissed, “Go to hell,” and turned her face away.
“Stay down, Adara. Help is coming.” Khaled said nothing more to her, walked with Rome back to the car, where Elizabeth sat against the bullet-ridden seat, her eyes closed, her hand pressed against her neck.
