Across the street, working in the light and twisting shadows given off by the burning car, Lev Strauss’s kidnappers gathered him up and carried him to a small cargo van at the back of the alley. Mufarrij knew the alley was a dead end from his earlier recon of the area.
Knowing the men would be back, Mufarrij pulled on his full-face helmet and climbed aboard the motorcycle. He pressed the ignition button, and the engine caught smoothly. The flat black motorcycle blended perfectly into the darkness. He wore black riding leathers, just another shadow in the city.
A small Fiat raced from the alley, followed by the cargo van and trailed by a second sedan. Von Volker’s mercenary team had seven men. Three had been on the capture, two on the rocket launcher, and two more acting as lookouts.
Mufarrij engaged the clutch and dropped the shift lever into first gear with his left foot. He followed the caravan as it shot through the twisting streets. They were driving too fast, certain to draw the attention of local law enforcement. Mufarrij knew from that action that they didn’t have far to go. If they intended to drive out of the city, they would have driven more slowly.
If they were acting quickly, he had to as well. He reached into his jacket and drew the Glock 18C from its shoulder leather. He smiled at the thought of using it. Glock had developed the vicious little 9mm machine pistol at the insistence of EKO Cobra, the Austrian counterterrorist force that was formed to protect Jewish immigrants chased through Austria by Palestinian militants. Mufarrij knew that Von Volker would not have approved the pistol’s use.
Holding the motorcycle steady with his body, the cruise control on, Mufarrij removed the seventeen-round magazine and took one of the thirty-three-round magazines from the small duffel strapped to the handlebars. After sliding it into place, he held the Glock in his left hand and sped up alongside the rear car. He saw the two men inside — both Europeans — as he raced by.
They stared at him as he passed, and he knew they’d alert their teammates, but it was already too late. The motorcycle left him vulnerable to a degree, but he was nimble as a falcon in flight. He preferred the nimbleness.
The van driver swerved across the street in an effort to knock him aside. Mufarrij dodged the clumsy side-swipe with a smile. Pointing his pistol at the driver, he scared the man into moving away. The van’s passenger shoved himself through the window on his side, hoisted himself into a sitting position so he could fire, but Mufarrij accelerated as he squeezed the trigger. The blast from the man’s weapon stitched across a line of parked cars. Holes appeared in their fenders and windows blew out in clouds of flying glass.
Drawing abreast of the lead car, Mufarrij aimed the Glock at the driver from a few feet out. Panicked, certain he was about to die, the driver cut the wheels sharply left, trying to use the car as a weapon.
Mufarrij leaned left as well, heeling the cycle over as he brought the Glock down and emptied the thirty-three-round magazine at the front tires. The bullets blew out the left-front tire, then he shifted his aim to the edge of the carriage, knowing the parabellums would ricochet off the street and tear into the passenger-side tire.
With both tires blown, throwing rubber in all directions, and the bare rims sparking on the stones, the driver lost control of the vehicle and it flipped onto its side. As Mufarrij wheeled the motorcycle around, the stricken car skidded across the street, sparks flaring all around it.
Mufarrij slid off the motorcycle and swapped the empty magazine for a full one, tucking two more full mags into his jacket pocket. He pulled the helmet off because it restricted his vision.
The two men in the overturned car never had a chance. Mufarrij executed them as they slid toward him, shooting through the cracked windshield into their faces. The car shot on past him, the grinding metal drowning out all other sounds.
The van driver tried to brake, but it was too late. He rear-ended the overturned car, the van slewing sideways in the road.
Mufarrij strode to the driver, shot him in the head, then thrust his gun arm through the window and unleashed a short blast that punched the second man through the passenger window. There was a third man in the van, but Mufarrij didn’t have time to look for him. He changed out the magazine and raced to the back of the van as two men got out of the rear escort car. Taking cover behind the car doors, they opened fire, forcing him to hide behind the side of the van.
Momentarily pinned, Mufarrij reached into his jacket pocket and took out a grenade. Knowing he’d be traveling through the Jewish parts of the city, he’d come heavily equipped.
Pulling the pin, he slipped the spoon off the grenade, counted two seconds, then underhanded it toward the car, just before he ducked back under cover. His timing was perfect, and the explosion went off under the front wheels.
The car jumped up, and the antipersonnel fragmentation took out the legs of the mercenaries concealing themselves behind the doors. The blast also ripped through the tires, making the vehicle settle heavily onto the ground.
Mufarrij braced the pistol in both hands as he strode forward. One of the men struggled to get to his feet, but he was disoriented and bleeding profusely from his lower legs and feet. Mufarrij put a three-round burst through the man’s head and searched for the second one.
The other man lay beside the car, bleeding out. A piece of shrapnel had sliced through the inside of his right thigh and cut the femoral artery. As Mufarrij watched, the man lost consciousness.
A squeal of terror came from inside the car. Blood stained the blond woman’s head as she tried to push herself up. Her face slashed and speckled by broken glass, she stared at Mufarrij with wide, shocked eyes.
‘No. Please. Please, don’t—’
Mufarrij shot the blonde twice in the chest, sparing her family the agony of her ruined face. She fell back out of view without a sound.
Ignoring the van’s rear door, Mufarrij raced forward to the driver’s door. Men used to working in groups tended to cover a single field of fire, relying on their comrades to cover the others. The final mercenary in the van would be panicked with all his teammates lying dead around him. And he still had to protect their kidnap victim. Expecting an attacker to come in through the rear doors, he would be completely focused on them.
Peering through the open driver’s window, Mufarrij spotted the last mercenary crouched in the rear compartment. Lev Strauss lay on the vehicle’s floor, barely stirring, still overcome by whatever narcotic they’d used on him.
17
Mufarrij took one step away from the van and aimed at the vehicle’s side. The sheet metal wouldn’t deflect the bullets much. Squeezing the Glock’s trigger, he spread a burst down the van’s length, staying level at about where he thought the last mercenary’s chest would be. When he finished, he sprang to the vehicle’s rear and yanked open the cargo door.
Inside, the mercenary leaned up against the far wall, holding a bloody hand over one of at least two wounds in his side. As the door opened, the man tried to lift the submachine gun on a sling around his neck.
Mufarrij put two rounds into the man’s face. The corpse stumbled back two steps and sat down heavily against the cargo mesh separating the compartment from the driver’s area.
Pulling a miniflashlight from his pants pocket, Mufarrij stepped up into the van and played the beam over Strauss. Blood dotted the man’s face, and at first Mufarrij feared one of the rounds had gone astray. Then he realized the spatter was from the last dead man. With a small sigh of relief, he squatted down beside Strauss.