Two armed guards ran toward them, pointing their AK-47s at Akil, who emerged from the cab with his hands held over his head. One of them ordered him to lie prone on the ground. Akil shouted back at him in Farsi. He didn’t want to lie down, and when Crocker saw the pistol stuck in the back waistband of his pants, he understood why.
One of the guards aimed his AK at Akil’s head, while the second guard stepped forward and used the butt of his gun to pound Akil in the chest. Crocker aimed the Glock at the first guard and pumped four rounds into his torso. The man spun and fell, surprising his companion, who was standing over Akil, now lying on his back.
The second guard turned for a split second to look back at his colleague, and as he did, Akil cocked his leg back and kicked him in the groin. The guard doubled over. Crocker leaned over the edge of the tank to get a clear shot, but as he aimed the Glock, a third guard fired from somewhere near the plane. A bullet sailed past Crocker’s ear. Others slammed into the metal around him.
He ducked, flipped his body over to the right, grabbed the rail that ran along the other side of the tank, and let himself down. Akil and the second guard were wrestling on the opposite side of the truck. Ignoring his colleague’s safety, the third guard sprayed the truck, causing bullets to ricochet off the tank and hood.
Crocker crouched by the front right wheel and fired at Guard #3, but the intense light in his face made it hard to see. The jet was bearing down on them. Turning and looking up, he saw the pilot’s and copilot’s eyes, their determined faces. Guard #4 now opened fire at him from near the parked jeep. Bullets skidded off the concrete around him, throwing up long sparks.
But he couldn’t hear the shots, because the roar of the engines drowned out all other sound. The jet picked up speed. Its wing was practically overhead.
With bullets whizzing past him and slamming into the side of the truck, Crocker opened the passenger door and climbed in. The engine was still running. He glanced out the side window and saw Guard #1 reaching for his AK. Crocker leaned out and shot him three times in the head.
As he put the truck in reverse, bullets shattered the windshield. He ducked. The plane’s wings were behind him now. Crocker saw Akil pulling himself up off the tarmac and knew he was in danger of being sucked up into the jet’s engine. So he opened the door, leaned down, grabbed Akil around the torso with his left arm, lifted him into the cab, and pushed him over his lap into the passenger seat.
“Nice fucking plan,” Akil groaned, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.
“Sloppy execution,” Crocker countered, shifting the vehicle into first and pushing down on the accelerator. He realized that bullets were no longer hitting the truck.
Maybe DZ or Hamid took the other guards out from behind.
“Now what?” Akil grimaced.
“Buckle your seat belt and hold on!”
He had the truck in fourth gear. The left front fender was about twenty feet wide of and thirty feet behind the oscillating red light on the tip of the jet’s wing. Crocker gunned the engine and pulled even. Just then someone in the cockpit leaned out with an AK-47 and started shooting. Crocker ducked behind the dashboard as bullets slammed into the vehicle’s hood and grille.
They were passing the terminal, and the jet was moving fast. Crocker thought, Now’s the time!
With bullets ricocheting off the hood and tearing into the dash, he turned the steering wheel sharply left just as the plane started to lift off. The top of the tanker grazed the side of the jet engine, then slammed into the landing gear with a tremendous explosion of sparks.
“Fuck, yeah!” Akil shouted.
Crocker felt an incredible jolt and tried to hold on to the steering wheel, but lost control. The tanker was knocked off its wheels and rolled once, twice, then flipped again and landed in the grass with a thud that jarred him so powerfully he passed out. He gained consciousness briefly at the sound of an enormous explosion that lifted the truck off the ground.
“Akil?” he called weakly.
Chapter Thirteen
People are made of flesh and blood, and a miracle fiber called courage.
—Mignon McLaughlin
He woke up in a hospital. Blinked. Felt his legs and arms, which were still intact. It took him a couple of seconds to focus on the yellow walls and the man sitting in the corner in a green chair, talking into a cell phone in what he recognized as Portuguese. The first things about him that registered were the short dreadlocks and the tattoo on his neck. Then Crocker remembered his name.
“DZ,” he said, trying to sit up. “What the fuck happened? Where am I?”
The left side of his head hurt. He lifted his left arm and touched the bandage that ran from the top of his head to his ear.