“We’re way past a capture mission now. This is survival. Kill or be killed.” Jake ran out of sight and ducked behind a crate.
Jake heard running and shuffling sounds and knew the O’Rourke brothers weren’t going to let him walk out of there alive. He had to neutralize them both. It was him or them.
The hunt was on.
He crouched behind the crates and moved quickly to the left near the tunnel where Hunt and Collins had entered. Collins’ bloody body lay still on the stone floor.
He couldn’t tell if Collins was alive or dead. He looked dead. His face was pale, his white forelock covered in blood.
Jake heard a wooden crate being pried open. He knew he had to move quickly or the O’Rourkes’ two-to-one advantage would escalate rapidly in their favor.
He crawled on hands and knees toward the sound, his pistol tucked in his holster.
He came upon Sterling, a puddle of blood growing underneath him. Sterling’s eyes were closed. He felt for a pulse and found one— weak, but he was alive. He had to move him to a safe location.
Kaplan had dived over the boxes and run about a hundred feet through the maze of crates. He was unarmed, his gun still on the crate where O’Rourke made him place it. He heard gunfire as he ran and hoped — no, prayed that Jake hadn’t been shot.
He had been in tighter spots in the Army but that was many years ago. He was surprised by the rush of adrenaline and anger. He remembered it well.
It drove him.
He found a smaller stack of crates and climbed on top. Climbing higher as he jumped from stack to stack. Jump, then lie low and listen. On the third stack, he heard someone shuffling along the stone floor. His vantage point put him around fifteen feet above the floor. High enough to see well, but low enough to be easily seen if someone looked up.
He waited until the steps passed by him, held his breath, and peeked over the edge of the crate to get a glimpse of who it was.
The Persian.
He moved silently along the tops of the crates, stalking his prey. When he was in the right position, he dove toward the Persian from six feet behind and ten feet above.
The Persian heard him too late and Kaplan knew it. By the time the Iranian spun around, Kaplan was on top of him, knocking the gun free from his hands. The gun slid twenty feet down the floor and out of reach for both of them.
Now it was hand to hand combat, Kaplan’s forte. The two men rolled on the floor and Kaplan punched the Persian mercilessly in the kidneys, bruising them. He groaned. Kaplan landed his right elbow into Nasiri’s jaw, knocking out three teeth.
The Persian grunted and rolled over on his stomach, spitting blood and teeth onto the stone floor. He pushed himself up with his hands and knees.
Kaplan moved forward and kicked him with tremendous force in his enormous gut. The Persian fell on his back.
He stepped back, rubbing his fist. He heard another gunshot, and glanced in that direction as he heard Laurence O’Rourke yell. A good sign, he hoped.
Kaplan heard the Persian move and then heard a familiar click. He wheeled around to see the Persian make a roundhouse swing at Kaplan’s mid-section with a switchblade.
He instinctively arched his body and jumped back at the same time, barely avoiding the sharp blade of the knife. He hated knife fights. He’d been in his fair share in Panama. Statistically, his chances were better against the gun. When shooting at a moving target, people miss more often than they hit. A knife is different. If it touches, it cuts. It cuts veins and vessels and arteries and tendons and ligaments. A knife can do debilitating damage even with little or no skill.
The Persian slashed at him feverishly while Kaplan ducked and dodged, evading the switchblade. Kaplan’s boot slipped slightly causing him to double-step to catch his balance. The Persian jabbed the blade straight into Kaplan’s chest. The tip of the blade stuck in his vest.
Kaplan had his opportunity and took it. He turned, grabbed the Persian’s wrist with one hand and placed his arm over the man’s arm. Now they stood side by side. He jammed Nasiri’s wrist into his own upward moving knee, knocking the switchblade from the man’s grip — shattering the bones in the Persian’s wrist.
Kaplan shoved Nasiri backward with his extended leg, laying him flat on his back. With his free hand, he picked up the knife and plunged it into the Persian’s abdomen just below the navel. With a downward thrust, Kaplan arced the six-inch blade severing the man’s intestines.
The Persian lay on the stone floor of the Friar’s Chamber bleeding profusely as entrails pushed through the large gash in his abdomen.
Kaplan pushed himself away, pulled the blade out of the Persian’s gut and wiped it on the Persian’s clothes. The man yelled something at Kaplan in Farsi. Even though Kaplan couldn’t translate it, he knew its meaning well by the tone in the large man’s voice.
Kaplan leaned over him, placed the tip of the knife blade between two ribs on Nasiri’s chest and said, “Time to go see Allah, you towel-headed son of a bitch.”
He plunged the knife blade into the Persian’s heart.
Jake looked around the crate of SAM-7 launchers and saw Sean O’Rourke prying open a wooden crate with a crowbar in one hand while the other hand clutched his left side, blood oozing through his fingers.
Jake’s heart raced as he saw the words stamped on the side of the crate: 50 CAL Machine Guns.
In the distance, Jake heard the Persian make a blood curdling scream. Kaplan has done his job.
O’Rourke looked in the direction of the Persian’s scream, his back to Jake. Jake had to move fast before O’Rourke turned around — he only had a second.
He stood up from behind the crate, aimed at Sean and fired. The bullet struck the man in the right side of his chest. Sean O’Rourke dropped to the stone floor.
O’Rourke spun around as his brother fell to the floor. Then he looked at Jake.
Jake fired. The bullet struck O’Rourke in the left shoulder. The Irishman fell forward striking his head on a wooden crate, then fell to the floor.
He heard O’Rourke’s gun bounce across the floor.
Jake stood up. His adrenaline was pumping. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Two shots, two O’Rourkes.
He walked over toward where Sean fell. The man looked up, agony all over his face. Uncanny, Jake thought. A change of hair style, glasses and a few pounds and Sean and Laurence could pass as twins.
He stared at Sean O’Rourke, the resemblance of the brothers fueled his rage once again and the events played through his mind. He saw Beth fall to the floor, blood spurting from her neck. He could hear himself screaming again. The same light-headed feeling overtook him and he wobbled slightly on his feet.
As Jake faltered, Sean stretched out his hand toward his gun.
Jake never flinched. “Oh no you don’t.” He raised his gun and fired one round into Sean’s forehead.
Jake walked around the corner of the crates, gun pointed toward the place where the other O’Rourke had fallen.
The spot was empty. A puddle of blood on the stone floor.
CHAPTER 74
Hunt heard the popping of silenced gunfire. Excruciating pain in her left leg consumed her. Jake had moved her out of the line of fire then he disappeared. He was better than she’d given him credit.
The first bullet in her leg had grazed the outside of her lower thigh, in and out, a clean wound. It would leave a scar but it didn’t hit any muscle.
She had taken two more shots into the same thigh. One had grazed the outside of her leg just below the hip bone. It was a flesh wound.