Gunfire roared out through the gap in the perimeter, a fearsome staccato complete with accompanying muzzle flashes. King didn’t have enough details, but he assumed they were either al-Shabaab militants or a separate party of armed bandits. Out here, there was no telling who wanted your head on a stick. King realised that Reed had provided them with the initial distraction to stage a takeover-coup.
He had indirectly started an all-out war between an extra-legal smuggling ring and armed attackers.
In the chaos, no-one paid attention to King’s tractor unit. He wrestled with the idea of returning to the complex and attempting to instigate order, but quickly dismissed it as a fool’s errand. There was no controlling what had unfolded, and his main objective remained with Reed and the payload.
What that payload consisted of was anyone’s guess.
King tore his attention from the side mirror, leaving the warring factions to their own devices, and leant on the gas pedal again.
He made it a dozen feet before the three distinct gunshots rang through the space ahead.
He saw the trio of muzzle flares in the brush — they emanated from a shallow ditch in the land, off the beaten track from the main trail — just a few dozen feet from the nose of his semi-tractor. For a brief instant, the flashes lit up a strange scene — at least six or seven of the invading militants milling around in the darkness, surrounding a single spot. Three of them dropped, hit by the gunshots.
But that wasn’t what froze King in his tracks.
He recognised the weapon that had discharged.
It sounded an awful lot like an M45 pistol — standard issue for the Force Recon Marines.
A tight ball forming in the pit of his stomach, he snatched the Kalashnikov rifle off the passenger seat and flicked the safety off, temporarily abandoning all thoughts of pursuing Reed.
If he was correct in his assumption, then at this current moment Bryson Reed was the least of his problems.
He threw the door outward and leapt out into the dirt, landing hard on the side of the trail. He kept low, skirting down the terrain with silent, cautious steps, placing his boots on the flattest sections of ground. He worked with what little light he had available, some of the artificial glow from the complex dissipating into the surroundings.
Sure enough, he spotted a trio of Somali militants crouched low at the bottom of the shallow ditch, their attention fixed solely on their target.
In their midst, King saw an unkempt mop of blond hair.
He saw flaming, blistering red — and unleashed hell on the bandits who had dared to cross his path.
35
How, or when, or why — none of it mattered.
What mattered was Beth.
King surged into range and unloaded four rounds from the AK-47 into the chest of the bandit furthest away from her. He hadn’t been wearing a vest, and the bullets tore his vital organs to shreds. He fell forward, pitching face-first into the dirt.
The other two posed more of a threat. They were in the process of manhandling Beth around, snatching at her clothes in sadistic glee. King didn’t dare fire on them at risk of hitting her, so he dropped the weapon and launched himself at the pair with reckless abandon. He crash-tackled them into the mud, slamming an arm into each of their throats with enough force to send all three of them cascading to the floor of the ditch.
Wading in putrid muck, King reared his head out of the earth and smashed an uppercut into the exposed jaw of the closest bandit. Teeth shattered and blood sprayed — the guy let out a guttural moan and fell to the dirt. As the man collapsed, King spotted strands of Beth’s uniform fabric between his fingers. There wasn’t a shred of remorse in his body.
These men knew what they were doing — and they would face the consequences.
With two men out of the equation and three down behind them, it left the last bandit in a one-on-one confrontation with King. The guy — long and lanky but with similarly little muscle as the rest of the party — looked quickly in either directions, subliminally searching for an escape route. He had no weapons on his person — he must have felt he’d gained the upper hand after they wrestled Beth to the ground.
King didn’t hesitate. He sent the sole of his combat boot into the man’s chest, going through the motions of a vicious front kick. He guessed that the guy wouldn’t have the fast-twitch reflexes to dodge the blow, so he leant his whole weight into it, overcommitting in an attempt to floor the bandit with a single kick.
It worked swimmingly.
A distinct crack sounded in the gloom — King figured he’d broken the man’s sternum with the front kick. The guy wheezed and spluttered and went down on one knee, offering no resistance. He kept enough balance not to topple backward, but the horrified expression on his face as he sunk to the ground signalled that King had dealt out serious internal damage. The bandit wasn’t headed anywhere in a hurry.
With the two men nearest Beth temporarily incapacitated, King dropped to one knee and scooped up the AK-47 he’d abandoned in the close-quarters brawl. A rudimentary yet effective weapon, he had practiced with it mercilessly stateside, his superiors understanding that it was the most common rifle one could acquire on the third-world battlefield. The safety had been flicked off well before he’d come into possession of the firearm, so it all it took was a sweeping aim and two separate pumps of the trigger.
Just like that, a six-man party of savage Somali bandits were no more.
King didn’t pause — even as the sound of the unsuppressed gunshots pounded in his ears, he reached down and helped Beth out of the hot mud. She stumbled to her feet, taking a moment to find her balance. King’s stomach twisted as he searched for any sign of serious injury, but aside from a bloody lip she appeared unhurt.
Just shock, he thought.
If he hadn’t appeared to hurl the last three men off her, she would have succumbed to a fate neither of them wanted to consider.
‘You did good,’ he said, trying to take her mind off what might have occurred. ‘Those three dead guys back there — that was you?’
She nodded, white as a ghost. ‘I couldn’t do much against six of them.’
He nodded back. ‘Understandable. Anyone would be overwhelmed by six hostiles. Eventually.’
‘I can’t believe what just happened.’
King said nothing — he didn’t know how to respond.
‘Is it always that easy?’ she said, staring at the trio of dead men around her.
He shrugged. ‘Not usually. I outweighed them. I caught up to Reed back there and he beat the shit out of me. He’s damn good.’
She visibly stiffened. ‘You found him?’
‘I’ve been trailing him this whole time.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Did you happen to see a building-on-wheels rumble past a few minutes ago?’
‘I was a little preoccupied.’
King nodded understandingly. ‘Look, we can’t hang around here for long. You okay?’
‘Yeah. I’ll live.’
‘You hit anywhere?’
‘No. You?’
‘Not hit. Might have a few broken bones, though.’
‘You’re inhuman.’
He shrugged. ‘Just adrenalin, mostly. I’ll come down soon. Let’s get out of here.’
‘Are we going after Reed?’
He paused. ‘I am. I always planned to. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but we’ll discuss it later. Now’s not the time.’
None of the colour had returned to Beth’s face, and King didn’t feel the urge to interrogate her about why she had come after him. He had a million questions — first and foremost, who the hell is protecting the peacekeepers if you’re here? — but he bit his tongue and helped her out of the ditch, aware that a close encounter with rape and murder left a permanent mark on the psyche. He had seen the effects of wartime trauma before and felt no need to add any kind of additional mental stress until she had time to process what had happened.