“I almost got you killed,” Jack said.
“You give yourself too much credit,” Ysabel said. “I—”
Hamid cut her off. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said, though it was clear from his tone that he was not. “But there are three motorbikes moving up behind us at a high rate of speed.”
Ryan, Caruso, and the Russian twisted in their seats to get a look behind them. The thick cloud of orange dust boiling up behind the van made it almost impossible to see anything.
“Are they armed?” Jack asked.
Hamid gave a grunting nod. “Everyone is armed. This is opium country. The Taliban are active not far to the south. Smugglers and bandits are as common as fleas here.”
“That’s odd,” Jack said. “That a bodyguard would take us through an area thick with opium smugglers.”
Hamid laughed, the way someone would laugh at a sophomoric child. “You are in Afghanistan. There are only two types of areas — unsafe and very unsafe.”
“Have you got any guns in the van?” Caruso asked.
Ysabel leaned forward and pulled an Uzi from under her seat. She passed it to Jack, keeping the muzzle down.
Hamid glanced in the rearview. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
Jack scoffed. “I do.”
“I only ask,” Hamid said, “because they fire from an open bolt, and I have seen more than a few Americans shoot holes in the floor believing the weapon is safe, when it is actually ready to fire.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’m familiar with how to work an Uzi.”
“I don’t want to come across as a whiner,” Caruso said, leaning across Jack and between the front bucket seats. “But do you have a gun for me?”
Ysabel passed him a Beretta 92 but kept a Kalashnikov pointed down between her knees. She looked at Dovzhenko. “I am sorry, but that’s all we have.”
The Russian held up a hand. “It is fine,” he said. “If things get bad, I will take one of theirs, whichever becomes available first.”
“They are about to pass us,” Hamid said, eyes glued to his side mirror. “They have not unslung their rifles.”
One of the motorcycles roared by, throwing up a rooster tail of dust but ignoring the van altogether.
The second bike passed, following the first. An AK-47 rifle was slung diagonally across the rider’s back.
The road narrowed some, curving sharply to the north as it followed the meandering course of the Hari River. The third bike kept to the rear, biding his time while his two friends drew farther and farther away. The river straightened, as did the road, and the bike moved up immediately, slowing a hair as he came abeam with the driver’s door.
Ryan heard a faint clunk, as if they’d kicked up a rock. The motorcycle rolled on the throttle and sped ahead.
“Sticky bomb!” Hamid said, throwing open the door in an attempt to rid the van of the magnetic device.
It was no use.
The blast lifted the front of the vehicle completely off the ground. One moment Hamid was there, behind the steering wheel, the next his seat was empty, torn to rags. The van lurched violently, the right wheel falling into the ditch that ran along the road and then rolling on its side as it slid along the gravel with a horrific squeal of metal on stone.
With no seat directly in front of him, Jack was thrown forward during the wreck, landing on top of Ysabel in a tangle of arms and legs and machine guns. Both of them were pressed against the shattered window that was now the bottom of the van and wedged between the dash and the bucket seat. Feet pointing skyward, Jack’s weight was on his shoulders and he essentially lay on his back in Ysabel’s lap.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She groaned. “I will be when you get off my ribs.”
“Give me the gun!” Dovzhenko barked from the backseat. He’d slid the van door open above him, revealing a bright patch of dusty sky.
Jack passed the Uzi without argument. He wasn’t using it at the moment.
“Dom!” he shouted. “You good?”
Dust and smoke poured into the van.
“Dom!” Jack said again.
Nothing.
Dovzhenko had climbed out and now looked down through the open door, the Uzi slung around his neck. “Pass the girl to me! The engine is burning. You need to get out now.”
Jack braced himself against the seats and helped Ysabel up. She looked at him in horror.
“You are bleeding,” she said.
“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
She looked back at him, terror in her eyes.
“No,” she said. “You are not.”
Ryan pressed up with his legs, pushing on her buttocks while Dovzhenko pulled her up and out.
“We have to hurry,” the Russian yelled. “The motorcycles are returning.”
“I’m right behind you,” Ryan said.
Caruso was only half conscious. He moaned, looked at Jack as if he understood, and then closed his eyes.
“Come on, buddy,” Jack said through clenched teeth. He squatted low and looped Caruso’s arm around his shoulder, pressing with his legs to drag Caruso up toward the door. “Dovzhenko!” he hissed. “A little help here!”
Nothing.
“Dovzhenko!”
Caruso stirred, his head lolling sideways to look directly at Jack. His eyes were dazed, unfocused. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” Jack said.
“No,” Caruso said. “I don’t think so, buddy. You should see yourself…”
“I said I’m fine.” Ryan called for the Russian again, then Ysabel, to no avail.
“I can’t lift you out of here by myself,” he said. “You still got that pistol?”
Caruso shook his head. “Nope.”
The sound of approaching motorcycle engines growled above the wind outside.
Jack lowered Caruso gently to the seat. This wasn’t working. He cast his eyes around the interior of the van, searching for another way out. He could crawl over the backseat and maybe kick open the rear doors, but Caruso was little better than deadweight.
The clack-clack cyclic of the Uzi ripped outside, followed by the distinctive crack of AKs. Acrid smoke began to pour in from the dash as the magnesium engine caught fire. Ryan knew they had maybe a minute before the van would become fully engulfed, less if the heat reached the fuel tank.
“Dom,” Jack said, heart racing now in near-panic mode. “We have to get you out of here.”
Caruso pointed at the ground. “Here.”
“I’m telling you we can’t stay here.”
Caruso shook his head, squinting now as the initial surge of adrenaline gave way to pain from his injuries. “Here!” He stomped on the window. “We’re on a ditch. Crawl out.”
Jack saw the butt of the Beretta now, jammed between the side of the seat and the passenger doorframe. He leaned Caruso against the backrest and traded places with him so he was on the bottom. It would be much easier if he went first and dragged his cousin out. The alternative would be like pushing cooked spaghetti. Jack grabbed the pistol and, bracing his feet on the metal frame, put a single round through the window. Fortunately, the van had shatterproof glass and it broke into a thousand tiny squares rather than deadly shards.
They’d come to rest with the wheels on the edge of the road and the roofline resting on the far bank, straddling the ditch. Gun in hand, Jack scrambled through the broken window, feetfirst, sinking immediately to his chest in muddy water. Caruso came behind him, gasping and becoming more animated from the surprise of hitting the muck.
“Can you keep your head up?” Jack asked.
“I’m good,” Caruso groaned. “My head feels like shit, though.”
“Looks it, too,” Ryan said, relieved that Dom seemed coherent enough to assist in his own rescue.
“Oh, yeah,” Caruso said. “Just wait until you look in the mirror…”