The attackers fired rockets in their direction, then retreated. One exploded in the sand in front of Crocker. Others screeched over his head.
He got up, spit out the grit in his mouth, and gave chase. But when he stopped to fire, the mag in the MP5 ran out. He didn’t have another. When he tried to fire the pistol, it jammed.
“Piece of shit!”
Still he gave chase. Reaching the first fallen attacker, he kicked him in the face, then relieved him of his AK, which was still hot.
The sand was a bitch to run in. Made him remember his younger brother and how they used to play on the beach when they were kids. His brother now owned several car dealerships north of Boston. Meanwhile, he was halfway around the world getting shot at by terrorists.
Nearing the marina, he sensed someone running beside him. It was the kid in the sleeveless T-shirt with the big eyes and uneven teeth.
Who is he?
Sounds of chaos continued beyond his shoulder. He knelt and fired at the attackers ahead who were jumping on motorcycles and climbing into the back of a pickup parked alongside the marina. Bullets skidded off the pavement and slammed into the cab of the truck. The kid beside him hit the rider of one of the motorcycles in the chest.
“Good shot!”
The bike spun, hit the curb with an eruption of sparks, and threw its rider into the bushes along the canal.
Crocker ran over and righted the bike. Jumped on and gunned the engine.
The kid sprinted to the canal, shot the rider again, then jumped on the back. A smooth customer.
Pointing the motorcycle toward the Corniche, Crocker pulled back on the throttle. The bike roared and took off.
For the first time he heard sirens approaching, which pleased him.
Finally!
But the bike wouldn’t pick up speed. He heard scraping from the back wheel.
Maybe the axle is messed up.
He got about fifty yards down the Corniche and stopped, his heart pounding.
“Motherfuckers!”
He looked at the kid with the big eyes and the tangle of dark hair that stood straight up.
The kid grinned and repeated, “Mutha-fukka.”
They knelt on the pavement and fired until they ran out of ammo. Then hurried together back across the beach to where the kid’s two buddies were lying. The one who was shot in the back had bled out and was dead, but the other was still breathing. Crocker removed the kid’s SURFER T-shirt and pressed it against two bullet holes near his hip.
“Hold it there until we can get him to a hospital. He’ll be okay.”
The kid with the big eyes grinned and raised his thumb. He was a brave little guy, whoever he was.
Pointing to his chest, he said, “Farag.”
“Tom Crocker. I’m going to help the people inside.”
“Very good. Good man.”
“Good luck, Farag. And thanks.”
Back in the brasserie, Crocker spent the next hour giving CPR and trying to clear airways and stop bleeding, using towels and pillows and the pathetically meager emergency medical supplies on hand. People were missing hands, parts of legs. They’d been shot in every place imaginable, struck with shrapnel, burned.
His hands and arms were covered with blood, and he was wrapping a sock around a man’s arm as a tourniquet when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning, he saw a NATO doctor and nurse standing behind him, light blue masks over their faces.
Emergency lights were now burning, powered by a portable generator, and he saw the room clearly for the first time. The scene was gruesome. Blood smeared everywhere. Piles of bodies. Reminded him of a documentary he’d once watched about a slaughterhouse in Chicago.
At least the wounded were being carried out on stretchers. Nurses, paramedics, and doctors were taking charge, directing armor-clad NATO soldiers.
“Have you seen Al Cowens?” he asked.
Someone pointed to a pile of bodies near the far wall.
“Really?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Which one?”
The man shrugged.
He searched and found Cowens near the bottom, the top left side of his head and face missing, and his tongue hanging out. Crocker sat on the floor, rested his back against the wall, and covered his face with his hands, exhausted. Completely spent. “It isn’t Al,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s just his body. Al, rest his soul, has hopefully gone to a better place. God bless him.”
Chapter Six
The wound that bleedeth inwardly is the most dangerous.
—Arab proverb
He dreamt that he was bleeding from a hole in his stomach and trying to get it to stop. His blood kept pouring out. It flowed into a clear hose that led to a fountain. Buzzards drank from it.
He woke up in a sweat, lying on a single bed in an unfamiliar room. An African mask staring at him from the opposite wall. Alicia Keys singing from a stereo in another room.