Criminals were criminals.
Turning, Rapp stomped the inside of Fence Post’s knee. He pictured his foot shattering bone and rupturing ligaments like a sledgehammer busting through drywall.
The guard’s knee collapsed with a satisfying pop.
The man shrieked and stumbled, grabbing at Ferret Face’s arm for support.
Which meant that his fingers were no longer on his rifle.
Snatching the man’s AK, Rapp levered the stock around the guard’s midsection. He sank to one knee as he moved, presenting a smaller target. Rapp fired a burst into Ferret Face and then tracked the muzzle toward the Iranian. Rapp was taking the slack out of the trigger when the now-one-legged Fence Post entered the fight. The jihadi raked his fingernails across Rapp’s face just as the shot broke.
Both men missed their targets.
Rapp turned his head at the last moment, sacrificing his cheek to save his eyes even as the rounds he’d intended for the Iranian tore stone chunks from the cave’s roof. Cursing, Rapp hammered an elbow into Fence Post’s wrecked knee.
The man screamed.
Exploding to his feet, Rapp sank a shoulder into the bodyguard and sent him tumbling into the outhouse-turned-jail-cell. Turning, Rapp tracked the AK’s iron sights toward the Iranian only to see the man vanish down one of the two corridors leading from the room.
Rapp caught motion to his right.
CYCLONE was sprinting for the second exit.
The AK’s front sight post settled on the fleeing man’s back seemingly of its own accord. Rapp slightly adjusted the aimpoint and pressed the trigger.
The rifle barked and puffs of red mist erupted from the warlord’s leg.
CYCLONE crumpled.
The HIG commander grabbed his thigh and rolled onto his back, screaming. Crimson spilled from the wound, but there was no spurt of arterial blood. Gritting his teeth, CYCLONE pushed off with his good leg, crawling across the floor.
Rapp was impressed.
CYCLONE was as hard as woodpecker lips.
Crossing the room in two quick strides, Rapp stomped on CYCLONE’s leg. He went rigid as if electricity rather than pain arced through his body. Gasping, the warlord opened his mouth to scream.
He didn’t get the chance.
Snapping the wood stock down in a vicious arc, Rapp drove the rifle into the bridge of the man’s nose. The thin bone ruptured, and blood sprayed from his face. CYCLONE went limp.
“Hey, Ranger,” Rapp said, turning toward the depression. “You still down there?”
For a long moment no one answered.
Then a deep baritone replied.
“Who’s asking?”
“Your ticket out of here,” Rapp said. “Did you get the present I dropped you?”
“If by present you mean one of the nasty-assed jihadi guards, yes, yes, I did.”
“Good,” Rapp said. “Did he have the keys to your restraints?”
Another long pause. Then, “Maybe.”
A pair of jihadis edged around the stone doorway of exit number one—the corridor through which the Iranian had run. Rapp dropped one of the shooters with a well-placed head shot, but the second slipped away. Knowing what was coming next, Rapp flattened himself behind CYCLONE’s limp body.
The second shooter’s AK-47 peeked around the corner and a tongue of fire erupted from the muzzle. Rapp cursed as stinging shards of rock peppered his neck and face. Professionals often derided the “spray and pray” method of engaging combatants, but the cave was a stone coffin. A ricochet from the walls, floor, or ceiling would kill just as easily as a direct hit. Rapp switched the rifle’s selector switch to single and began squeezing off a series of slow, aimed pairs at the protruding barrel.
The rifle vanished.
“Listen up,” Rapp yelled over the ringing in his ears, “the cavalry’s coming, but they’re not here yet. I’ve got two hallways to cover and one gun. How about lending a hand?”
“You pissed on me.”
“I saved your life,” Rapp said. “Suck it up, buttercup.”
The rifle peeked back around the corner.
Rapp fired twice, but the first round did the trick. The AK clattered to the ground, and a scream echoed down the corridor. Rapp considered shooting again but didn’t. As much as he wanted to flood the corridor with lead, he couldn’t afford to waste ammunition.
“I thought Rangers liked to fight,” Rapp said.
“We do.”
The response came from just off Rapp’s right shoulder. He turned to find the former captive crouched on the stone floor next to him. As if seeing the man triggered the rest of Rapp’s senses, he could suddenly smell the gag-inducing stench from the Ranger’s uniform.
