He made out the form of a tall man holding a piece of wood or metal. The outline reminded him of someone.
“Akil?” he whispered.
“Boss?”
Akil dropped whatever he was brandishing and approached, holding his right wrist. He whispered, “I managed to get away, but I fucked up my hand again.”
Crocker handed him the pistol. “Here. Hold this with your left. Follow me.”
He proceeded quickly to the end of the barracks and peered around the corner. Saw orange flames as high as the roof of the barracks coming from two of the Toyota trucks. They lit up the whole front of the camp.
“What’s going on?” Akil whispered.
Crocker held a finger to his mouth. Soldiers were trying to save the other two trucks. He took aim with the AK and fired. As he did, someone started shooting at them from behind the barracks.
Akil pushed him. “Boss, get down!”
Bullets slammed into the ground around them and whizzed overhead.
Crocker said: “Use the pistol and try to take out the driver. I’ll deal with the bastards behind us.”
But the building cast a dark shadow, making it hard to see. He squinted into the ribbon of black. Saw someone move, followed by a shoulder-fired rocket discharge. He shouted, “Hit the ground!” as he dove belly-first to the cement.
The rocket screamed overhead and exploded against the side of a disabled tank. Hot metal spun through the air, smacking the side of the building and ricocheting.
Akil stopped firing.
Crocker whispered, “You get hit? What’s wrong?”
“I ran out of ammo. You got an extra mag?”
A moment after he answered no, soldiers opened up behind them with automatic weapons. In front of them and around the corner of the building, the driver of one of the Toyotas gunned its engine and spun it in a half circle so that its .50-caliber machine gun faced them from less than forty feet away. A soldier in the truck’s bed aimed it and started firing—pop! pop! pop!
It tore chunks of concrete from the side and corner of the building, making it almost impossible for Crocker to return fire.
Akil, urgently: “Boss, we’d better circle back!”
“How?”
The soldiers behind them inched closer. Their only protection was a two-foot-high concrete wall that extended from the end of the building; their only options were facing the soldiers in back or making a wild dash for the disabled tank. But the Toyota backed toward them with its .50-cal firing, cutting off that possibility.
Crocker returned fire at the soldiers in back and was about to make a desperate run toward them when his ammo ran out. Now they were really fucked.
“What now?” Akil shouted, prone on the ground.
Crocker shrugged and flashed on an image of Holly getting out of the shower.
They had nothing to defend themselves with. The enemy was closing in on both sides. Bullets were tearing into the concrete from front and back.
He said, “Let’s make a run for the tank!”
Akil nodded, resignation in his eyes. “Why not?”
Crocker took one last glance at the Toyota, which had backed to within twenty-five feet of them, and saw something flicker beyond it and to his right. A small flame moved forward. He made out Davis, running. The gunner in back tried to maneuver the .50-cal so he could train it at him.
Holy shit!
When Davis got within fifteen feet of the Toyota, he threw the Molotov cocktail, twisted, and fell to the ground.
The gunner exploded in flames and screamed.
Crocker to Akil: “Let’s run! Now!”
He flew past the burning truck and was looking for Davis when someone hit him and tackled him from behind. Next thing he knew he was grappling with a soldier in the dirt, smelling his putrid breath, grabbing for his neck.
He heard Akil shouting, “Boss, I recovered some weapons! Boss, where the fuck did you go?”
He was about to yell back when something exploded in the back of the truck, blowing dirt and debris into his mouth and eyes. This allowed his attacker to spin on top of him, grab the knife from his belt, and aim it at Crocker’s throat.
He saw the hatred in the man’s eyes, then started choking. As his mind flashed back to Holly, a bolt of energy surged through his body. He reached up, grabbed the arm holding the knife, and twisted his torso sharply right. As soon as the soldier spilled off, Crocker spun and kicked him in the face, then grabbed the knife and thrust the blade into his heart.
Breathless, blood dripping from his hands, he found Akil and Davis standing behind the burning trucks.
“You saved our asses,” he mumbled as the latter handed him an AK with a green flag painted on its wooden stock and extra mags. “Thanks.”
“I’m returning the favor.”
He wasn’t sure what Davis was referring to. He was trying to clear his head, assess the situation—the soldiers with the rocket launcher in back of the building; Lasher and Jabril badly injured; Ritchie and Mancini defending them in the room on the second floor.