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It jams.
I throw my now-useless weapon at him, hoping to spoil his aim, and fall to the left, using the bodies of his fellow shooters as a quick and dirty barrier. I draw out my SIG Sauer P226pistol and snap off a quick shot just as thechatter-chatterof the AK-47 starts.
My quick shot misses.
So does the second one.
The guy moves his rifle, starts chewing up his former allies to try to get to me, and I fire off one more round.
It takes him down via his scarf-covered forehead.
I get up, moving to the side, going up the trail a couple of meters, looking to see if they have any more friends or shooters following them.
Nothing—not even a goat.
I quickly return, strip them of their AK-47s, and toss the weapons over the side. I find something interesting on the utility belt of the first gunmen, then get to Jeremy.
He’s gritting his teeth and is on one side, holding his MP5 in the approved prone position, looking up at the trail.
“Clear?”
“Yeah,” I say, “but I’m not too sure for how long. Here.”
I toss the item I took from the belt at him, and he grabs it with his left hand. It’s a Uniden handheld radio. Jeremy gives it a quick check, then tosses it behind him.
“We’re being tracked,” he says.
“True.”
I look around the rocks and trail, find my H&K MP5, and pick it up. Discovering an expelled 9mm cartridge case jammed in the extractor, I manage to work it free. I then work the action to ensure there’s a live round in the chamber.
Jeremy’s working to get up, so I sling my MP5 over my shoulder and give him a hand.
“That was quick action,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“I see what you did,” Jeremy says. “No time for a warning, no time to push me away. You give one hell of a kick.”
I look up the trail again, glad to see there’s no movement.
“You should see how I move in heels.”
He smiles and says, “Your shooting was quick, too. How did you know they weren’t three lost sheepherders?”
I check my watch, look down the trail, think I spot a road in the flat distance. That would be nice.
“Muscle memory, I guess,” I say. “I saw the shapes pop up, saw the AK-47s in their hands…and their stance. They weren’t being cautious, and they weren’t approaching with their weapons held casually. They were getting ready to open fire.”
“Glad you shot first.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Them, not that much. Let’s get going.”
“Agreed.”
Chapter19
TOM CORNWALL’Soffice, on the thirtieth floor of One World Trade Center, has a grand view of the Hudson River and the far New Jersey shoreline. Although he will readily admit to anyone—save for his wife, Amy—that he has a number of faults, he does possess discipline when it comes to his work.
