The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(6)

RPG!

The grenade exploded behind him less than forty feet away. Then, as if working in concert, tracer rounds fired by the second group began to whistle to his left and right. The two ISIS fighters behind the technical had zeroed in on his position and were pinning him down. To his right, the man who had fired the RPG was reloading. White didn’t take time to aim, he just unleashed a long burst of his machine gun and continued to keep pressure on the trigger until he saw the RPG gunner stagger backward. The man fell on his ass, accidentally triggering his freshly reloaded launcher. The RPG exploded at his feet. Only his boots, with the man’s feet still in them, remained. Before White’s lips could curl into a smile, a new barrage of 7.62 rounds peppered the earth and rocks around him. White turned his head toward the lead technical just in time to see the intense red glow of yet another RPG.

The RPG hit a small boulder less than twenty feet below his firing position and exploded. White was shoved backward while being showered with bits of sharp rocks. He hit the ground hard as rounds continued to skip close by. He tried to breathe, but the explosion had sucked the air out of his lungs. His jaw hurt like hell, and he had a strong metallic taste in his mouth. Disoriented, he raised his head, looking for his M240B. The machine gun lay to his right, well past the semiprotective enclave the boulders offered. White dragged himself back to his firing position and glanced at the lead technical, the last known position of the two ISIS fighters, and saw that the two men were leapfrogging their way toward him, covering each other in sequence. There was no way he was going to get to the M240B before being cut down.

Damn. That left him with his pistol and the three fragmentation grenades he carried in the grenade pouch of his plate carrier. White drew his pistol from its holster and took a moment to strategize his next move. What about the Pave Hawk? Had it crashed? With all his energy spent on staying alive, he had momentarily forgotten about the helicopter. White glanced at his watch. Less than sixty seconds had elapsed since he had first engaged the lead technical.

“Victor-Two, this is SCAR-One, over,” White called out over the radio.

No answer. He was about to try again when he spotted one of the ISIS fighters only fifty or sixty feet away. The man was slowly climbing toward him. Maybe he thought White was dead, killed by the last RPG he had fired?

The man was thin, with sharp facial features. Like the other ISIS fighters, he wore a black headscarf and tan-colored body armor. He had a six-inch-long, disheveled black-and-gray beard. His eyes were small and filled with anger, hate, and fear. White slowly angled his pistol toward the man, afraid any brisk movement would catch his eye. He assumed the second fighter was trailing the first one.

He was wrong.

A strong voice coming from behind startled him. White’s Arabic was rudimentary at best, but he had no difficulty understanding what he’d been asked to do.

How in hell did he get here so damn fast? White wondered, weighing his options. None of them were good. He slowly got up and raised his hands to his side, still holding his pistol. The second ISIS fighter yelled at him again to drop his pistol.

If he was to make a move, it was now or never, before the first man arrived. It would become exponentially harder to take down two men aiming rifles at him. It was a fact of life that action was always faster than reaction. Even though White’s initial move would require precise timing and a bit of luck, it was imperative he made himself a harder target to hit. He had to make the ISIS shooter react to his action, not the other way around. With that in mind, and with lightning speed, White pivoted forward 180 degrees on his right foot and then leaped to his left, bringing his pistol up and aiming for center mass. He had time to fire two rounds before the ISIS fighter pulled the trigger. A bullet grazed White’s right arm at about the same time he crashed into a small pile of rocks. The ISIS fighter, hit by White’s bullets, staggered back, his face ashen from shock. White fired again. The man’s head snapped back, and his rifle fell from his lifeless hands.

Pain shot through White’s right arm. With a gasp, he pulled himself upright. He touched his arm and clenched his teeth. The bullet had carved a path through the meat of his arm. The wound didn’t look good and it hurt like hell, but he had to move. Or he’d be dead in seconds. His right arm became numb, and he transferred his pistol into his left hand. There was no point grabbing the ISIS fighter’s AK-47; he wouldn’t be able to operate it.

A grenade landed with a thud ten feet away. White sprang into action and ran in the only direction he could—up the hill. The grenade exploded and White fell forward.

Fuck.

Hot, searing pain shot up through the entire length of his left leg. Deep red blood soaked his combat trousers where a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself. Below him, less than seventy feet away, two ISIS fighters were taking aim at him.

How’s this possible? he asked himself, realizing too late he had missed one ISIS man. That explains why the third one surprised me.

As he raised his pistol, and through the thickening of his mind, White wondered what would happen to the downed marine aviators. He hoped his actions had bought his men the time they needed.

Then, from behind the hill, the distinctive sound of long blades chopping the air emerged, loud enough to draw the fighters’ attention. By the time they pointed the barrels of their rifles toward the Pave Hawk, it was too late. The door gunner fired a long burst from the minigun, killing both men instantly.

White tried to get to his knees but failed. The sand around him had turned red. With a last surge of lucid energy, he determined that the shrapnel must have nicked an artery. Desperately holding on to consciousness, he saw the Pave Hawk pilot skillfully bring the helicopter to a hover above his position.