His eyes narrowed to slits. With the light going flat, it was increasingly difficult to judge distances accurately, but doing so was crucial. This was a delicate equation, he knew. The farther those enemy soldiers were from their helicopter at the top of the hill when he made his break, the better his chances of getting clear. But if he let them get too close, they’d riddle him with bullets before he’d gone more than a few yards. Almost unconsciously, his mouth twisted upward in a crooked grin. Maybe, just maybe, he mused, it had been a big mistake to join the Quartet Directorate. Because at the moment, the whole concept of lone wolf, high-risk missions behind enemy lines was starting to look pretty doggone dumb to him. “Kinda late to figure that out,” he muttered to himself, still watching the enemy draw nearer.
Flynn tensed. The Iranian troops were less than two hundred yards away, about halfway down the hill. It was now or never, he decided.
Still staying flat on his stomach, he scooted sideways out of his shallow hiding place over to where he’d laid the motorbike. He heard a startled shout from up the slope. He’d been spotted.
“Damn,” Flynn growled. Rearing up, he heaved at the motorbike’s handlebars, straining to lever the machine off the ground. Small though it was, the KTM still weighed more than two hundred pounds. For a moment, it fought him and he had a split-second, nightmarish vision of the handlebars ripping loose from his grip and crashing back down to the dirt. Not going to happen, he told himself. He heaved again. This time, the motorbike came up, slowly at first and then faster. It rolled vertical and thumped back down onto its front and rear tires.
There were more yells from the enemy soldiers.
Flynn threw himself astride the bike and hit the ignition. The engine sputtered to life. From farther up the slope, he heard the pistol-armed Guard officer shout a command, “You there! Halt! Halt, or we’ll shoot!”
For about a millisecond, he thought seriously about flipping the Iranian off — but then decided that was just the sort of pointless bravado that would only get him killed… and make him look pretty damned stupid in the process. Instead, he bent low over the handlebars, put the motorbike in gear, and sped off north across the slope. Still accelerating, he leaned hard left and then back to the right, veering around trees and stands of brush.
The Iranians opened fire.
7.62mm rounds tore the air around him and shredded trees — sending bits of leaves, shattered bark, and broken branches pinwheeling away. Other near misses gouged the slope behind him, hurling dirt and shards of pulverized rock skyward. One bullet ricocheted up off the ground and smacked hard into the motorbike’s engine mount less than an inch from his right leg. Spent, it tumbled away in a shower of sparks. Flynn gritted his teeth and leaned over to the right to keep his balance. The sudden powerful impact had almost tipped him over.
He sped between more trees and clumps of chest-high brush and came out onto a narrow path running northeast, around the curve of the hill. Slewing hard in a spray of sand and gravel, he swung sharply onto the rough dirt track and took it at high speed. Abruptly, the ear-splitting crack-crack-crack of rapid rifle fire died away behind him.
Flynn risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The Iranian troops were out of sight, hidden from view by the slope and vegetation. He nodded tightly to himself and sped up. Now this was a race.
Lieutenant Hassan Noorian lowered his pistol in dismay. Around him, his men did the same with their own weapons. Hitting a crossing target moving at high speed required both skill and luck — and unfortunately all of their shots seemed to have missed. Only a faint haze of dust hanging in the air still marked the spy’s path. Apparently, he was headed around the hill, speeding toward the trail which ran east into the next valley.
There was still time to block his escape, the lieutenant realized suddenly. On foot, he and his troops couldn’t hope to catch that motorcycle. But by the same token, their fleeing foe couldn’t possibly outrun a helicopter. He shoved his Browning pistol back into his holster, and shouted an order. “Let’s go! Follow me!”
With his soldiers close behind him, Noorian turned and sprinted back toward the top of the hill.
Twenty
Flynn came out of the narrow band of trees and tall brush and slowed down, rising higher off his seat to see the ground ahead. The little path he’d been following joined with a wider trail here — one that ran along the base of this hill before disappearing east into a smaller valley. It stretched before him, open and empty and inviting.
Like the jaws of a trap, he thought coolly.
Instead, Flynn swung the bike into a hard right turn that left its nose pointed straight up the hill. He opened the throttle wide and accelerated. Dirt and rocks sprayed out from under his rear tire as he veered from side to side to avoid boulders half-buried in the slope and stretches of loose gravel.
Seconds later, he roared over the crest and onto the almost flat summit. And there, only a few dozen yards away, he saw the twin-engine Iranian helicopter sitting on its skids. Its rotors were still spinning slowly. The skyline on the other side of the hill was still empty. A quick, predatory grin flashed across his lean face. He’d won the race.
Still moving fast, Flynn sped through a tight curve to come in from behind the grounded helicopter. In a cloud of dust, he skidded to a hard stop right beside its open side doors. The crewman crouched there behind his door-mounted machine gun looked up in surprise. His mouth fell open. Frantically, he fumbled for the grips of his weapon — desperately trying to haul it around to bear.
Too late, pal, Flynn thought evenly. He drew his pistol, brought it on target with the same, smooth motion, and fired twice at point-blank range. Hit squarely in the chest by both rounds, the Iranian folded over his machine gun.
Then, still mounted on his motorbike, Flynn leaned in through the helicopter’s open door and aimed his pistol toward the cockpit. Startled, both pilots swung toward him. Their eyes widened in horror. Before they could react, he opened fire — squeezing off multiple 9mm rounds just about as fast as he could pull the trigger. Blood spattered across the cockpit canopy. Sparks flew wherever his shots punched through flesh and bone and tore into instrument panels. Hit several times each, the helicopter pilots slumped forward against their harnesses, already dead or dying.
Grimly satisfied, Flynn slid the Glock back into his shoulder holster. Scratch one Iranian helicopter, he thought coldly. Without its flight crew, this bird wasn’t going anywhere.
He looked up just in time to see the group of Revolutionary Guard troops charging over the far crest of the hill. He opened his throttle again and peeled out, slewing around to head back the way he’d come. More rifle rounds slashed past him at supersonic speeds. But then he was on the downslope and out of their line of fire.
Focused now on not crashing, Flynn sped downhill and came back out onto the trail heading east. Heedless of noise, he accelerated again and raced ahead, leaving a growing plume of dust in his wake. There was no longer any point in trying to hide. He’d knocked out one Iranian scout helicopter, but the other would be on his tail soon enough. Speed had quite literally become life at this stage of his mission.