“Someone’s shooting,” Justin said, slamming again on the brakes and putting the BMW on reverse.
“Stay back, stay back,” Abdul shouted at a group of female bodyguards running next to their car, “there’s a shooter.”
More chaotic gunfire followed, this time from the police officers and the Prime Minister’s bodyguards.
“Actually, there are four shooters.” Carrie tapped the laptop screen. “The ambush is in two stages. Snipers are positioned on the second story of the airport’s towers and the terminal rooftop.”
“The general’s men.” Justin frowned.
“Yes. According to Zakir’s notes, their plan is to kill the Prime Minister if he’s pulled out of the car alive.”
“In case the landmine didn’t kill him,” Abdul said. “It’s so clever.”
A few high caliber rounds scrapped the asphalt in front of the BMW and Justin began to back up slowly.
“We’ve got to tell them,” Justin said, “otherwise the Prime Minister will die, if he’s not dead already.”
He opened the driver’s door.
“I’m coming with you,” Carrie said, before Justin could step outside.
Justin shook his head. “No. Talk to Johnson. She can call in help.”
“What help? We don’t even have a station in Tripoli.”
“The Americans do. They have clout in this place. This plan may have other stages, assassinations of other government officials.”
“I’ve got his back,” Abdul said.
Carrie nodded. “If the two of you get shot, I’m gonna kill you.” She handed the mini-Uzi to Justin.
Justin and Abdul doubled over as they snuck out of the car. The guard who recognized Abdul joined their group. He brought an extra AK-47 for Abdul.
“Let’s get these people,” he shouted, as they huddled behind an armored truck. Sporadic gunshots and gasps of pain pierced the thick cloud of smoke and dirt hanging just above the convoy.
“First, we need to eliminate the snipers,” Justin said.
“You know where the snipers are?” asked the guard.
“Yes, second story of the control tower and the terminal rooftop,” Justin said. “We need to tell the security chief, so that all firepower is hitting those targets.”
“The Prime Minister’s limo is bulletproof, but the landmine has damaged it,” Abdul said. “I wonder if the Prime Minister is still alive.”
“We can’t extract him until all snipers are gone,” Justin said.
“I agree,” the guard said.
They ran along the stopped cars, the guard leading the way. Occasionally, he gestured at police and military officers, all of them positioned around their vehicles, to explain that the two civilians with him were on their side. The smoke thickened as they came near the middle of the convoy. Justin coughed and squinted, in order to see his footsteps.
Gunfire erupted to his left. He hit the ground. A heavy machine gun drummed from atop one of the military trucks. A handful of spent cartridges bounced around his feet. Justin, Abdul and the guard pressed forward and stopped when they were three cars away from the limousine. Bodyguards and police officers had formed a barricade, using two of their trucks. A few men were lying in the ditch along the road. A large man in a gray suit was shouting orders at everyone.
“That’s the chief,” the guard said timidly.
The chief noticed them out of the corner of his eyes. “Who are you? What do you want?” he shouted at them.
The guard relayed the information to the chief, who listened for a few seconds.
He doesn’t believe us, Justin thought, as the chief turned his back to them.
The chief took a pair of binoculars from one of the jeeps and walked to the edge of the road. He took a few steps in the open field, away from the curtain of smoke. Then, he scouted the areas pointed out as the snipers’ positions. Once he made out the two silhouettes shooting from the control tower, he yelled at two of the bodyguards carrying light machine guns to raze down the entire tower. Moments later, more PKM machine gun fire began hammering the control tower and the terminal rooftop. After a couple of minutes, the chief ordered everyone to cease fire.
“I think all shooters are dead.” Abdul listened for any gunshots.
Justin found a pair of binoculars and surveyed the targets. All windows of the control tower were shattered. The terminal rooftop was shredded to pieces.
“I think you’re right,” Justin said slowly, “but I still have a feeling this is not over.”
A loud, sharp siren pierced Justin’s eardrums. He gazed at an approaching ambulance. It screeched to a halt a few feet away from the Prime Minister’s limousine.
“Where did that come from?” Justin asked.
“There’s a medical center at the airport,” one of the guards replied. “Someone must have called them. Or they noticed the explosion and the fighting.”
A dozen or so bodyguards rushed toward the white limousine. Two of them jammed their rifles into the twisted doors, using them as crowbars, to release the doors from their hinges. Finally, the driver was dragged out of the limousine. Then, four bodyguards escorted the shaken, but alive, Prime Minister into the ambulance. A man in a white paramedic uniform was standing by its back doors. He was glancing around nervously and looked away as Justin’s gaze caught his eyes. Turning around, he closed the ambulance doors, although the bodyguards were hardly out of the way.
“Where are they taking the Prime Minister in such a hurry?” Justin asked.
“Downtown, to a hospital,” one of the guards ventured a guess.
“They’re supposed to hurry, since the Prime Minister is probably wounded.” Abdul noticed Justin’s uneasiness. “They’re just trying to help.”
The paramedic climbed into the driver’s seat and began backing up the ambulance.
Justin turned his complete attention to Abdul. “What did you just say?”
“I said they’re trying to help the Prime Minister.”
Justin’s face turned pale. He swallowed hard as his stomach turned. “That’s what the Prince said. Those supposed to help the Prime Minister will kill him.” He looked around and shouted at one of the guards, “Give me that gun.”
Before the guard could reply, Justin had snatched the AK-47 from his hands.
“What are you doing?” the guard asked.
“Justin, what’s going on?” Abdul said.
Justin shouldered the rifle and pointed it at the ambulance, which was rounding one of the trucks in the barricade. It drove into the shoulder of the highway, and it began to come toward Justin. As the sunlight fell on the ambulance, Justin recognized the face of the second paramedic sitting in the passenger’s seat. He was the man who shot Nour.
“They’re not medics,” Justin shouted. “They’re going to kill the Prime Minister.”
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Abdul shouted at a few bodyguards and police officers aiming their weapons at Justin.
His words were followed by a quick burst of automatic gunfire. The passenger was shooting at Justin through the ambulance windshield. One of the bullets pierced the side of Justin’s left thigh. Others whizzed past his head.
“Ah,” he cried, maintaining his shooting position. He pulled the trigger. His single shot went through the neck of the shooter.
Justin moved his rifle sight half an inch, aiming at the driver’s head. The ambulance abruptly stopped. Six bodyguards stormed it.
“Make sure the driver is not lynched,” Justin said to Abdul. “We need a witness.” He dropped the AK-47 to the ground just as his left knee buckled underneath him.
“I got you,” Abdul caught Justin by his waist and arms and lowered him to the ground. “We’ll get a medic for you.”