Another hour, and we would have been safe. She showed up unannounced five days ago, and we had to scramble to escort her to a dozen different meetings. We thought she was headed home today, but she changed her plans at the last minute and decided to leave tomorrow instead.
Someone doesn’t want that to happen.
Nagan slams into one of the abandoned cars, pushing it forward five feet, then throws the SUV in reverse and tries to repeat the maneuver with the car behind us.
“We’re sitting ducks!” I snap as I grab a helmet from under the seat. Before I can buckle the strap, the windows in the SUV shatter, and my ears start to ring.
“Bomb!” I can barely hear my own shout and swipe at my cheek, finding it sticky with blood. Craning my neck, I scan all around us.
Fuck. The SUV carrying Pritchard, the Ambassador, and her son lies on its side, smoke pouring from the engine. “Fall back. We’ve got to get them out of there.”
Nagan kicks the driver’s side door open and drops into a crouch with his Colt M4 at the ready. I sling my own rifle over my shoulder and pull the Sig Sauer p228 from my harness with a grunt.
Bulletproof vests are heavy and cumbersome, but you spend enough time in a country where half the population wants you dead, you get used to moving in them.
Pritchard crawls out of the SUV’s front windshield, blood staining his collar, then stretches out his arm. “Ms. Ambassador! Give me your hand.”
“Austin! Where’s the kid?”
“In the back!” he shouts.
With Nagan laying down cover fire, I climb on top of the overturned SUV and pry the back passenger door open. The boy—he can’t be more than fifteen—peers up at me, wide-eyed and clearly in shock. A trickle of blood cuts a bright red swath across his arm. “Hand. Now!”
He doesn’t move. Shit.
“Are you injured? Benson, answer me. Right fucking now!”
That snaps him out of his fog. He loosens his seat belt and, with a wince, reaches his hands up to grasp mine.
“As soon as you’re clear, you get to your mom’s side and stick there. Like glue, you understand?”
“Uh huh.” He nods, and I maneuver him onto the side of the car. It only takes him thirty seconds to get to his mother, who’s hiding behind Pritchard as the man fires at a three-story building across from us.
“Snipers!” he calls, and I take aim.
“Go! I got this!” A flash of a scope in the bright sunlight focuses my gaze, and I pull the trigger, taking one of the snipers down with a single shot.
In my periphery, I see the ambassador and her son, surrounded by her personal security detail, rushing down the sidewalk toward a local mosque.
Nagan and I, along with the other two members of our team, Harrison and Levy, move towards Pritchard, scanning the buildings all around us for more threats.
I’m the first one cross to Austin’s side of the street, just in time to see a bullet find its mark in his shoulder. But he barely stumbles and shifts his grip on his pistol.
I turn, searching for the asshole who shot him. Movement to my left. I fire but miss. “Shit!” Something metallic sails in a wide arc from the building above me, landing less than fifty feet away.
Fuck. Time slows to a crawl as I sprint in the opposite direction, but the blast is so close I can feel it in my chest. Searing pain snakes from ear to ear, and the world goes quiet except for a dull hum.
Dizzy, I stumble toward Pritchard. He’s backed against a concrete block wall, firing at the snipers across the street, but the wall…something’s wrong. Another pipe bomb sails over the concrete, and I race for Austin, tackling him and driving my shoulder into his stomach.
He flies back as the third bomb goes off, but I don’t see where. Something knocks me to the ground and drives the air from my lungs.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The sky above me is marred by smoke and dust and when my diaphragm stops spasming and I suck in a breath, the coppery, sweet scent of blood is almost choking.
Austin’s face swims in and out of focus. His lips are moving. Why can’t I hear him?
“Pritchard,” I croak. “I can’t feel my arm. Shit. I can’t…there’s something wrong with my ears. It’s so quiet. Fuck. Am I dying? Don’t let me die, man.”
Tears burn my eyes as Austin, his gray dress shirt soaked in blood, grabs for my left arm. Turning my head takes more effort than it should. I’m so tired.
