A good-looking, dark woman had gotten to her feet with the others, and she stepped to the side. There was something about her that seemed familiar to al-Turabi. She seemed to hold herself like a cop; probably an intelligence officer.
“It’s him,” al-Turabi told his men. “Radio Imad, we go now!”
The hair on the back of McGarvey’s neck was standing on end. Neal Julien, who had been his bodyguard when he was DCI, was trying to get Adkins’s attention. It was something about an intercepted transmission.
“Here in the cemetery?” McGarvey called up to him.
“Yes, sir!” Julien shouted back.
Adkins, finally realizing that something was going on, started to turn toward his bodyguard, when the Anglican minister in his dark coat and white collar suddenly exploded in a bright flash of blood, chips of bone, and big pieces of flesh and muscle.
A split instant later a tremendous bang rolled across the gravestones and trees.
The mourners, covered in blood and carnage, with more body parts dripping from the tree branches, were slow to react, having no comprehension of what was happening.
But McGarvey knew exactly what was going on. The minister had been in a direct line from a firing position up the hill. Whoever had fired what was probably an RPG had missed their intended target, but they wouldn’t stop for long to reacquire.
“Get down!” he shouted. He was at Toni Talarico’s side in two steps. He scooped her and the children in his arms and bodily hurled them to the ground as a second RPG slammed into the tree he’d just stepped away from with a loud flash-bang.
Almost immediately automatic weapons fire from two positions up the slope from the gravesite tore into the mourners who had been too slow to move, tearing into their bodies.
Julien had shoved Adkins to the ground behind the coffin, shielding the DCI with his own body as bullets slammed the earth all around them.
McGarvey pulled out his pistol as he rolled over, in time to spot the shooters who were crouched behind one of the sheriff ’s vans that had showed up just a few minutes ago. He’d seen them pull up and figured they were part of the security arrangements. He held his fire because they were way out of effective range for pistols.
But Gloria was down on one knee, firing at the nearest van, as was Adkins’s other bodyguard, who suddenly cried out and was flung backwards.
More automatic weapons fire raked the gravesite from the second van fifty meters farther down the hill, and it was clear that their principal target was McGarvey.
“Stay down,” he told Toni and the children, and he jumped up and headed at an oblique angle toward the second van.
Immediately, the terrorists concentrated their fire on him, leaving what remained of the funeral party in relative safety for the moment.
McGarvey raised his pistol as he zigzagged through the trees and opened fire on the second van, emptying his magazine as quickly as he could pull the trigger.
An RPG round passed his left side with an audible whoosh and a split instant later a grave marker a few feet in front of him disintegrated with a loud bang, flying chips of marble cutting his face.
He veered left toward several large trees about twenty feet closer to the second van, ejecting the spent magazine from his pistol, pulling the spare out of his pocket, and ramming it home.
All the fire from both vans was concentrated on him now, but he could hear pistol shots from the gravesite, which meant that Gloria and Julien were still on their feet.
Something hot stitched his left shoulder, causing him to stumble and drop to one knee. One of the shooters had come out from behind the second van, and unlike the others, who had simply been shooting indiscriminately, had steadied himself against the hood, taking care with his aim.
McGarvey pulled off four snapshots, the third and fourth hitting the terrorist, and spinning him away from the van, where he collapsed in a heap.
For just a second or two all but the pistol firing stopped.
McGarvey struggled to his feet and raced the last few yards to the trees before the stunned terrorists could react.
“He’s getting away,” al-Turabi shouted insanely. He and his men had concentrated on McGarvey’s retreating figure, which had given the DCI’s bodyguard and the black woman time to advance up the hill, closer to the van, where they’d taken cover. Now they were shooting methodically, pinning him and his people behind the van.
The walkie-talkie lying on the seat in the van hissed to life. “Rashid is down,” Odeah radioed excitedly.
Al-Turbai reached through the open door and grabbed the radio, no longer caring if their broadcasts were being monitored. “Where’s McGarvey?” he screamed.
“Imad hit him and he went down. But then he disappeared into the woods like a ghost. We must leave now while we can!”
“Not until McGarvey is dead,” al-Turabi ordered.
One of his people, who had peeked around the end of the van, suddenly fell backwards, a hole in the center of his forehead just above the bridge of his nose.
“Kill them!” al-Turabi bellowed, spittle flying everywhere. He keyed the walkie-talkie. “Blanket the woods with RPGs!” he shouted.
His people had begun to lay down heavy fire in the direction of the bodyguard and the black woman, who were well hidden behind large grave markers. But even over the heavy fire he could hear several sirens in the distance.
There was no time left, and he suddenly realized that he did not want to die here.
He keyed the walkie-talkie. “We’ll come to you as quickly as we can.”
Two of his people went down under the accurate fire from below the road, leaving only him and twelve others; the mujahideen in the second van, plus the three drivers waiting at the south gate.
He keyed the walkie-talkie again. “Why aren’t you shooting?” he demanded.
At that moment two RPG rounds exploded in the woods down from the gravesite, and he tossed the walkie-talkie back in the van, and climbed in the back. It was time to get away from this accursed place without being killed or captured.
“Let’s go!” he shouted to his people. “Now!”
THIRTY-NINE
Two RPG rounds, one right after the other, exploded within a few yards of where McGarvey was crouched. He’d seen the two terrorists step out from behind the sheriff ’s van, but before he could shoot, they’d fired the rockets.
Spears of wood and shrapnel flew everywhere, several hitting McGarvey’s left side, cutting his leg and torso, and opening a fairly substantial gash in his neck. The two concussions also knocked out his hearing, leaving behind a whooshing sound as if he were inside a jet engine.
Picking himself up, he staggered across to the bole of a larger tree, from where he had a good line of sight up to the second van. He counted at least four men plus the one on the ground.
The same two who had fired the RPGs had reloaded and emerged from behind the van again.
McGarvey’s vision was hazy, but he steadied his gun hand against the tree and squeezed off a shot that slammed into the hood of the van. The terrorist stepped aside, and then started to bring the RPG around.
Before he could fire, McGarvey pulled off two snapshots at the other terrorist holding an RPG, knocking him down, and then scrambled as fast as he could across an open swatch of grass to another clump of trees.
An RPG round struck a few feet behind him, spraying his back with what felt like thousands of needles or buckshot.
Aiming over his shoulder he fired two shots at the terrorist who’d launched the RPG, and the slide locked in the open position, the pistol dry.