Sam Driscoll was glad he was wearing his big Salomon boots this evening. Otherwise he was sure he would have broken his foot on the helmet of the prostrate man in front of him. Still, the top of his foot hurt like hell from the impact.
He’d been running full out for five minutes, with only a couple breaks to slow in order to check Ryan’s GPS locator on the map on his mobile phone. Now that both threats were down and Ryan was safe, Sam kicked his foot out to shake away the pain, picked his backpack up off the ground, and began looking for some zip ties to restrain the two attackers.
“Thanks,” Ryan said, still looking at the men on the ground.
Sam wasn’t reveling in his handiwork at all. Between gasps for breath he said, “Asshole shot my backpack. The camera and spotting scope belonged to the company, but the tablet computer in here is mine. Took a round right through the screen.” He looked to Ryan. “You gonna buy me another?”
Ryan had his hands on his knees; he was still heaving from the action of the past few minutes. He managed a laugh. “Sure, man. I owe you an iPad. If you want I’ll throw in—”
Ding Chavez’s voice came over the network now. “Clark? Hazelton is down and critical! I need wheels. Now!”
As one, both Jack and Sam hefted pistols off the pavement, left the two unconscious men where they lay, and leapt on the downed Ducatis.
Sirens filled the air in the distance as they began racing back to help Chavez.
Seconds earlier, Ding Chavez rounded the corner of a building at a full sprint only to find a large man crawling in the middle of a dark and otherwise empty two-lane street. He recognized the white shirt and bald head of Colin Hazelton, and he raced over to him. “Come on, Hazelton! Let’s move!”
Ding tried to help the man back to his feet, but Hazelton could not put weight on his legs.
Ding heard the hissing sound of air leaving the man’s lungs. The back of the ex — CIA officer’s shirt was soaked in blood. It took another second to find the wounds, but through tiny tears in the shirt his fingers felt the damaged flesh. Ding ripped Hazelton’s shirt open, exposing the man’s back and the pair of small, deep slit punctures below his shoulder blades.
“Shit,” Ding said. He knew all about deep injuries to the torso. Holding pressure on these two holes would do nothing for Hazelton, because he was bleeding internally, and his deflated lungs were far away from the surface wounds on the skin. They were behind the rib cage, spurting blood and functioning at ten percent efficiency at best. Ding needed to seal the holes and try to reinflate the lungs.
While still on his knees in the middle of the dark street, he reached into his backpack and retrieved a tiny black pouch. It wasn’t much, just a personal first-aid kit that each man on the team carried with him at all times. From it Ding pulled a pair of occlusive dressings, ripped them out of their packaging with his mouth. He used his forearm to wipe blood away from the sucking wounds, then he affixed a dressing over each hole. He pressed them firmly on the skin, knowing he needed to completely seal the breach before he could do anything else.
Chavez rolled the man onto his back. He saw Hazelton’s eyes were open and unfixed. Hurriedly he performed rescue breathing, more commonly known as mouth-to-mouth, trying to get enough lung function going to keep the man’s blood oxygenated.
He stopped only long enough to shout over the commo net. “Clark? Hazelton is down and critical! I need wheels. Now!”
Clark responded quickly. “I’m on the way!”
“Are you clear of the opposition?” Clark asked.
Ding started to reply in the affirmative, but he looked up when a single headlight appeared far up the street. It wasn’t moving, but he heard the revving engine of a finely tuned motorcycle.
“Negative,” he said. “At least one of the bikers is back. Probably trying to figure out how help showed up so fast.” Ding could run, but he didn’t want to leave Colin Hazelton here in the middle of the road. The man needed attention this second. Without someone to keep his heart beating he wasn’t going to make it more than a minute.
Jack Ryan, Jr., came over the net. “Jack and Sam coming to you with bikes and guns. Find some cover till we get there, Ding.”
But Ding stayed right where he was in the middle of the road, continuing the rescue breathing, a valiant attempt to keep Hazelton’s heart beating.
The motorcycle lurched forward and began heading up the street in his direction.
After five breaths Ding transmitted while listening to Hazelton’s mouth for sounds to confirm the man was still breathing on his own. “Biker heading my way. I don’t know what this guy’s going to do, but if I run, Hazelton’s dead.”
Clark said, “I’ll be there in twenty seconds.”
Ding watched the approaching headlight. It passed under a street lamp at the intersection three blocks away. In the light he saw a black Ducati and the biker was holding something out in front of him, pointed at Chavez and Hazelton in the middle of the road.
Ding spoke softly, a twinge of resignation in his voice. “Ten would be better.”
Chavez was unarmed. His mission had been to ascertain just what a former mid-level CIA exec was doing here in Vietnam. Moving through the country with firearms didn’t seem prudent, considering the threat matrix.
It was clear now, however, that had been the wrong call.
The bike raced up the street, approaching the intersection at speed; the rider kept his pistol out in front of him, aiming it at Chavez.
He fired, a flash of light and the gun’s recoil snapped it up. Chavez could only drop low to the pavement, tucking over Colin Hazelton. He felt the round pass just high.
Another shot sparked the pavement just to Ding’s left. He began chest compressions now, but he felt sure that as the attacker closed on his bike, the next shot would find its mark.
Ding saw the pistol level again, and he saw no way out of this. He was about to take a round.
A gray four-door sedan raced into the intersection from the east, its headlights off and its engine screaming at full throttle. The man on the Ducati sensed the movement on his left and turned to look a half-second before impact; he pulled his gun arm back in and tried to turn the motorcycle, but before he could take any evasive action at all he was flattened by the sedan. Sparks and wreckage arced into the air, smoke billowed in all directions at the point of impact.
The biker was crushed under the sedan. His helmet bounced down the street. Ding was reasonably sure there was no head inside the helmet, but he could not be certain. The impact had certainly been violent enough.
Chavez winced but immediately went back to giving Hazelton mouth-to-mouth.
The sedan came to rest just as Ryan and Driscoll appeared behind Chavez on the two Ducatis. They climbed off the bikes, helped their teammate to his feet, scooped Hazelton up by his arms and legs, and then carried him to the sedan.
John Clark waited behind the wheel. His airbag had deployed and his windshield was cracked across the entire length of the glass, but the vehicle remained operational.
Sam climbed in front, and Jack and Ding pulled Hazelton into the backseat with them. Clark took off before the doors were closed; behind them sirens neared and flashing lights reflected off wet streets and the window glass of apartment buildings.
Clark called out to the men behind him, “Anyone hurt?”
Ding said, “Just Hazelton.”
“Is he going to live?”
Ding made eye contact with John in the rearview, and he shook his head. But he said, “Let’s get him to a hospital.”
The intimation was clear from the tone in his voice. Nobody was going to save Hazelton at this point, but they had to try.