The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

hulls of a dozen beached fishing boats.  Leaning out the passenger side window with his Uzi, Jarral sent a spray of bullets out across the water.  But the jostling of the pickup as it plowed through the sand sent the bullets short and wide to the right.  Cursing, Jarral was forced to reload, ejecting the empty magazine and jamming a new one into the heel of the gun.

At the same time, standing in the cargo bed behind the cab of the pickup, Mamood inserted the first warhead into his RPG, arming the launcher.  Ignoring the muzzle flashes coming from the direction of the overturned fishing boats stacked to his left, Mamood took aim at the launch and prepared to fire. Beside him, Zameer opened up with his AK-47 but missed, sending the rounds into the night as he struggled to get a fix on the elusive target now flying back across the water.

Without warning, the driver’s side window exploded.  Instantly, the pickup began to slow, then ground to halt halfway across the sand. Momentarily confused, Jarral felt something wet and sticky strike the left side of his face.  Reaching up, he tentatively touched the strange sensation.  Looking down, he realized that the same wet, pulpy residue now also clotted his cheek and sleeve.  Turning, he started to shout at Furag but found the driver’s body slumped across the steering wheel.  Struck in the left temple, all that remained of his brains now covered the inside of the cab.  Recoiling, Jarral opened the door and tumbled backwards out of the pickup, landing on the sand.  Still clutching his Uzi, he scrambled up in fury, emptying the second clip in the direction of the beached boats.

At the same time, Jarral could hear Zameer cry out as several rounds pounded into his torso.  A moment later, whoever was out there had wounded Mamood as well, causing him to squeeze the trigger of the rocket launcher sending the first missile screaming harmlessly into the night sky before another round struck him in the throat.  As the RPG slipped from his grasp, it tumbled over the side landing at Jarral’s feet.

Staring down at the rocket launcher as if it were a gift from God, Jarral picked it up, shaking the loose sand from the trigger housing.  Spotting the second warhead on the floor of the pickup’s cargo bed, he reached in and grabbed it.  Dropping down behind the rear axle, he began to rearm the RPG.  His fingers worked quickly as he slipped the rocket into place, cocking the firing mechanism.

*****

At the same instant, less than fifty meters across the sand, Corbett crouched low behind the hull of a fishing boat, gripping the carbine.  The rancid odor of rotting fish mixed with gunpowder filled his mind with images of Kibera and Jon Alesander’s lifeless body lying in the mud-choked street.  Feeling his stomach begin to churn with that familiar sense of vertigo, he remembered the searing cry of his sister’s voice over the phone on 9/11 and forced himself to go deeper, to concentrate.  Tariq would not die here.  He would not allow it.  No matter what.  Having kept count, he knew now that only a single cartridge remained.  One chance.  Chambering the final round, he repositioned himself for a clear shot.

Having observed a total of four Jihadis in the pickup as it had driven out across the sand in pursuit of Tariq, Corbett could account for only three: the driver and the two riding in the bed of the truck above the cab.  That left a fourth hidden somewhere in the darkness behind the pickup.

As he crept closer, he caught a glimpse of something moving.  But before he could draw a bead, the dark figure scuttled over the side of the cargo bed and snatched what appeared to be a warhead for a rocket launcher before dropping from sight once more.

Glancing to his left beyond the breakwater, Corbett could just make out the launch as it reached the stern of the trawler.  Two sailors grabbed Tariq by the arms and helped him over the rail onto the afterdeck.  A moment later, the trawler’s twin Diesels roared to life, sending sound waves echoing across the water.

Instantly, Corbett knew.  The fourth man was mounting the warhead on the RPG.  Scrambling up, Corbett started running to his left, his line of sight still blocked by the rusting chassis of the pickup.  In the faint moonlight Corbett could just make out the warhead as the Jihadi raised the rocket launcher to his shoulder.

*****

Loaded and ready to fire, Jarral pressed his eye against the sight.  Focusing hard, he located the motor launch bobbing on the waves, now tied to the stern rail of the trawler.  Two sailors were reaching down to help another man aboard.  The moment he saw him, Jarral knew it could only be Tariq.  Giving praise to Allah, he prepared to finish it.  He was indeed the chosen one.  Placing Tariq in the crosshairs, he pulled the trigger.

*****

Still lacking an unobstructed view at the shooter, Corbett dropped to one knee and took aim at the only thing he could clearly see – the RPG itself.  Squeezing the trigger, he felt the carbine kick.  A moment later, he could hear the distinctive sound of the warhead being released, racing low across the water.  One second, two… then the concussive blast as the rocket exploded.

Shattered by the thought of Tariq’s death, Corbett clutched the empty carbine as he now ran directly for the pickup and the last Jihadi still hiding there.  As he closed the distance, he could finally see him.  The RPG had been knocked from his hands by the impact of the bullet.  His eyes still fixed on the sea, Jarral never saw Corbett until he was almost upon him.

Then reacting to the pounding of Corbett’s footsteps across the sand, he instinctively stepped back brandishing the peshkabz as he met