“Morphine, Lieutenant. You can’t go on without it.”

  “I don’t want…”

  She snarled at Will and John-Wesley, “Hold him. It’s for his own good.”

  Two pairs of hands gripped him like iron, and she jabbed the tiny needle into his arm. The rest of him hid behind webbing, armored vest, helmet, and weapons. Seconds later, the relief washed through him. He didn’t like it, knew he’d be thinking at less than optimal efficiency, but without it, his mind would be warped with pain.

  “Thanks. I can move on now.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Will said, “The pain will have eased, but if the leg gives way in the wrong place, it’s goodbye, Lieutenant Nolan. Thing is, Boss, I don’t want to spend a month going over the paperwork and the endless inquires if you don’t make it back.”

  He grimaced. “Your concern is noted. I’ll try to stay alive and not make your life too hard, Master Chief.”

  “You do that.”

  They made their scrambling, slipping, and sliding way along the treacherous rock. And almost made it. They were within meters of getting off the spur and finding cover when the roar of engines announced the arrival of snowmobiles. ISIS had crossed the valley and come back to find them. Bullets whipped up the snow around them, and there was a single order he could give that may give them a chance to live.

  “Run!”

  They raced through the snow, heading for the rocks, but he knew it was useless. They couldn’t outrun snowmobiles, and the distance was too far. They wouldn’t make it. Endgame.

  Chapter Three

  The noise of the engines was loud and even increased. Without question, they’d brought in more machines, more fighters to make sure of the kill. They would need a minute to get behind cover. The snowmobiles needed less than half that time to be on top of them. The pattern of the firing altered, and Nolan glanced back. Four more snowmobiles had arrived, each with a driver and a soldier on the back. They were circling around the two vehicles with towed sledges. He assumed they were joining them to approach in a single, coordinated attack to kill them in a fury of gunfire and roaring engines.

  Yet they didn’t come. The SEALs had dropped to the snow, lying prone, ready to return fire. In an instinctive gesture, Will had pushed Maysoon flat and almost lay on top of her. Vince was lining up for a shot. Ryder was behind and to the flank, where he could complete their defensive position. It was hopeless, and he gave silent thanks for the morphine shot they’d injected. It meant he could give of his best, fighting to the bitter end. If there were the slightest chance of beating them, even one in a million, he’d go to hell and back to take it. Not limp into death favoring a painful leg wound.

  Something was wrong. The firing had intensified, and yet fewer bullets were splattering around them. Vince pulled the trigger, and an ISIS riding a sledge toppled over. Nolan shouted, “Good shooting.”

  He shrugged, “I was aiming at the driver on the lead vehicle. The shot was lousy. The damn things won’t stay still.”

  Maysoon struggled from Will’s embrace and looked up, her eyes sweeping around the area and taking in the enemies ranged against them. Her eyes widened, and she shouted at Nolan.

  “Tell them not to shoot. They’re my uncle’s men. They’ve come to save us!”

  He didn’t wait to confirm, just bellowed the order, “Hold your fire. We have friendlies out there.”

  The new arrivals were different. Not Bombardiers, but bigger, more powerful Yamahas painted in a bright red. The men riding them were different. Military uniforms, the livery of the Sultan’s tiny army. The cavalry had arrived. But they didn’t have it all their own way. The insurgents decided to fight on foot, their machines came to a standstill, and they formed a defensive perimeter. The Sultan’s force circled for a few moments, taking potshots at ISIS. But the enemy took advantage of superior numbers and poured a torrent of fire back at the soldiers. Two men went down, and the surviving six men halted their vehicles and used them as cover.

  It was a standoff. None of the three groups was strong enough to finish it and close in for the kill. Nolan searched the terrain and found what he wanted, a shadow in the snow. Not quite a trench, not so deep. A scar in the snow best described it, but when he worked out the angles, it was enough. He caught Will’s gaze.

  “Cover me. I’m going to sneak across and get in close.”

  Bryce looked at the ground and shook his head. “You’ll never make it, especially with…” He nodded at his injured leg, “There has to be a better way.”

  He hardened his tone. “I’m going, and I want you to blast them, keep their attention. That’s an order, Master Chief.”

  He snaked away and hugged the bottom of the shallow groove. The insurgents were thirty meters away, and bullets raked over his head. None came near enough to make him think they’d spotted him. He made it to the halfway point, and then poked his head up a fraction to survey the ground he had to cover. The depression he was following ran out ten meters before the enemy position. The shadow in the ground that marked the depression he’d assumed ran all the way to their barricade of snowmobiles and sledges was deceptive. The trough he lay in was just enough to hide his body. Nearer the ISIS position, the scar in the snow was shallower, a few inches deep at most. They’d see him coming and hit him with a torment of automatic fire.

  It meant he’d have to do it the hard way. He hit the transmit button.

  “This is Bravo One. Will, I’m going to have to rush them the last few meters. Hold your fire, reload, and when I give the word, hammer them.”

  “Boss, you can’t…”

  He cut him off, “We don’t have a choice. Stand by to open fire.”

  He continued the long crawl, reached the point where the gully petered out, and paused. Took a breath, gripped his MP7, loosened the Sig Sauer in the leg holster, and catapulted to his feet. Bullets began to whistle past him, but they were his own men covering his attack. He ran, ignoring the signals that came from his leg. The pain telling him the morphine wasn’t enough to block out the agony. They saw him, a few shots whined past, and the first bullet slammed into his armored vest.

  He returned fire on the run, shooting from the hip. An enemy fighter fell, but the rest ignored the covering fire and sent their fury toward Nolan.

  A huge man, who looked like a heavyweight wrestler, stepped out from behind cover and ran at him. His comrades poured a torrent of gunfire toward Nolan, who had no option but to dive to the ground before they struck an exposed part of his body. He looked up. The man was almost on him. He rose to meet him, dodged a bullet from the pistol he had pointed at him, and pulled the trigger of his assault rifle. Nothing happened. He knew the magazine had been full, and he hadn’t emptied it. The reason was the snow. Somehow it had compacted inside the mechanism, perhaps when he last switched mags. The frozen water had jammed either the feed mechanism or the breech, and the weapon was effectively useless.

  He tossed it aside and ripped out the Sig, just as the man leapt at him, and shouldered him to the ground. He clutched the automatic, but the fighter had his arm pinioned with his free hand. He was raising his own automatic to shoot the American in the face, avoiding the inconvenient obstacles of the vest and helmet. Nolan took the sole option open to him, gripped the man’s black tunic with his free hand, and flopped backward. It pulled them off balance, and as he was about to hit the snow, he twisted, so the ISIS lay alongside him.

  The Syrian still had his gunhand locked, and Nolan used his free hand to slam a fist into the man's face. He grunted in pain as his nose broke, but he kicked out and delivered a shattering blow to his injured leg. The impact sent white-hot bolts of pain that almost caused him to black out. He ignored them and punched again. The man blocked the blow, and he withdrew his hand, feinted a chop to the neck, and as the hand dropped, turned it into a finger strike. The Syrian screamed as the two rigid fingers smashed into his eyes and blinded him. He reached with one hand to return the pain to the SEAL and brought up the pistol with the other hand.

  His sidearm was a Russian Stechkin 7.62m. Like any automatic, it could do fearsome damage at close-range. The difference between the Russian gun and its American equivalent was in the firing mechanism. The Stechkin could fire on full auto. If he pulled the trigger, accuracy would go out the window, but he’d be sure to score a lethal hit with at least one bullet. He fended off the blow aimed at his head, and at the same time, brought up his Sig Sauer, now freed by the Syrian’s attack.

  The Stechkin roared, and a stream of bullets churned up snow inches from his boots. Nolan’s own Sig fired once, but his bullet was aimed. He’d paused to make certain, knowing he had a single chance at hitting the other man before one of his bullets killed him. The round took him in the chest, and the Syrian’s huge body shuddered, but it wasn’t a kill shot. His opponent had emptied the clip in the wild burst of firing, but he slammed in another clip in a slick movement, and he was ready to fire again. He brought up the gun, and this time, his hand was steady, his eyes icy with intent. Nolan got there first.

  He pumped three more shots into the man’s chest as he stumbled away, shocked by the impact of the first bullet. A moving target is not easy to hit, not for a lethal bullet that would stop a man dead. So he put the three shots into a tight group around his heart. The fighter straightened, his eyes flared wide with shock and pain, and he pitched backward. For a few, brief seconds, the shooting stopped. It had become a microcosm of the battle, SEAL against ISIS, good against evil. They were watching, the Sultan’s men, Nolan’s men, and ISIS.

  The moment came to an end, and he rolled over and away from the line of fire as the insurgents directed their fire at him. There was still no cover from the furious fusillade, except…the body of the man he’d just killed that had slid a couple of meters away. He kept rolling and came up tight behind the man’s bulk. This time his size was an asset, and as he lay there, the dead body jerked with the impact of the bullets that smacked into him.

  The SEALs and the Sultan’s men fired repeatedly, trying to crush them with sheer weight of fire while their attention was focused on Nolan. Suddenly, the soldiers leapt to their feet, and with screamed cries of ‘Allahu Akbar’ charged down their enemies. The fight was brief. ISIS fighters got to their feet to meet the charge, but the soldiers came at them in a tight, compact group. They were well armed and armored, with Kevlar helmets and armored vests like the SEALs wore. ISIS put their faith in a dubious deity who deserted them, as he had on so many occasions in the past.

  The Syrians wobbled, hesitated, and started to fall back. It was the moment. Nolan ran at them, coming in at a tangent from the soldiers, simultaneously hitting the transmit button and shouting, “Will, on your feet. Get in here and finish them.”

  “Already on the way.”

  ISIS didn’t stand a chance. Although equal in numbers, they’d lost the initiative, their morale had evaporated under the attack from two sides, and they fled. Only to become targets for Vince Merano’s Barrett Light 50; they’d become a sniper’s dream, no longer bounding and jolting along in snowmobiles, but fleeing on a flat, snow-covered surface. Thick snow sucked at their boots as they tried to escape. Five men took flight from the brief combat. The soldiers killed one man with a well-aimed burst from an assault rife, and then Vince owned their asses.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s some shooting,” Will murmured as he watched, awed at the expert display.

  “That’s three he’s taken down, and one, " he paused, "No wait, the bastard’s found some cover. He ducked behind a drift. Do we let him go?”

  Nolan surveyed the ground and answered in the negative. “We wait.”

  They waited. The Sultan's soldiers began to stroll toward them, and he waved them back. Maysoon came up with him and called across to them. The officer in charge looked irritated, but they waited. A full minute later the insurgent emerged from the far side of the drift, and the Barrett 50 caliber bellowed a single shot. The bullet took him full in the chest, and his feet left the ground, the kinetic force slamming him up and back to fall a few meters away. The bloodied mess that stained the snow was enough to make it clear the check for remaining life signs would be pointless.

  “Is that all of them?” Vince’s voice came into his headset.

  “That’s affirmative. It’s time to go and say hi to the guys who saved us.”

  The soldiers were bearing down on them, and he questioned Maysoon. “They don’t look too friendly. Is that the way your people greet their allies, at the point of a gun?”

  She looked puzzled. “I don’t know. No, it isn’t normal. I don't know what’s wrong. Wait here. I’ll talk to the officer. It’s Captain Bassam Qabbani. I know him well.”

  She went ahead of them, but when they met, the officer pushed her aside and advanced toward Nolan. The gun barrels were still raised.

  “You are the Americans?”

  He held out his hand. “That’s us, sure, and thanks for helping out. We wanted to…”

  “You are all under arrest.”

  The other three SEALs came up behind him, and he silenced the angry murmurs. “Excuse me. I thought you said we were under arrest.”

  “That is correct. You entered this country illegally, and you have kidnapped one of our citizens. This lady,” he gestured toward Maysoon, “she is the fiancée of Sultan Khalil, and you should know the punishment for interfering with a member of the Royal household is death. Put down your weapons.”

  Maysoon threaded herself between them. “Bassam, this is ridiculous. They didn’t kidnap me. That's bullshit. Ask my uncle, General Abbas al-Noury. He knows I was with them. He’ll tell you what happened.”

  His gaze was hard. “The General has told me nothing. All I have is my orders from the Sultan himself, and your fiancé is more than angry you have allowed yourself to fall into the hands of infidels.”

  Her gaze was as hard as his. “Bassam, these ‘infidels’ as you call them, have killed a number of our ISIS enemies and promised to help us kill more. They did not kidnap me. That’s nonsense.”

  “It is the order of the Sultan of Hermon.” His glanced swiveled back to Nolan, “Put down your weapons. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

  He glanced at the Captain. The man was itching to give the order, probably his Muslim mind craved to see Christian blood spilled on the snow. He didn’t intend to give them the chance, part of SEAL training extended to not opening fire on allied soldiers. A pity the Sultanate soldiers didn’t share the same philosophy. He gave the order.

  “Put down the guns. We’ll sort this out when we meet this Sultan.”

  “The hell we will,” John-Wesley growled, “These no-account Christ haters don’t give orders to Americans.”

  He gave them the benefit of his cold, mad stare. “The teaching of the Good Lord states, ‘If they worship other gods, do not yield to them or listen to them. Show them no pity. Do not spare them or shield them. You must certainly put them to death.’” He paused for effect, “So back off, you goat-loving motherfuckers!”

  It was an impasse. He wouldn’t lower the Heckler and Koch, and they were itching to pull the trigger. It was Maysoon who stopped the standoff becoming a bloodbath. She went to Ryder, and with a smile on her face, gently pushed the barrel of his assault rifle to point at the ground. “Please, John-Wesley, do as they say. I will resolve this when we get to talk to the Sultan.”

  “Ain’t no camel jockey giving me orders when I’ve just helped him out by killing his enemies.”

  “I’m ordering you,” Nolan gritted, “It’s the only way.”

  He put his gun down, unbuckled the Sig holster, and dropped it. The other two men followed suit. Ryder didn’t move.

  “The fuck it is. There’s another way.”

  “I know.” Her voice was soft, a gentle caress, “I’ve seen you in action, and you are a brave man. Do this for me, and I will be more than grateful. You will save many lives, believe me. Perhaps my own life as well.”

  “I dunno,” he muttered, but after a few seconds, he lowered the gun and placed it on the ground.

  The rest of them looked on, astonished. It was the first time the fire and brimstone breathing, bible punching, misogynist stone killer had ever acceded to a woman. He wasn’t happy, but no one had started shooting. Nolan looked at the Captain.

  “You have what you want, now what?”

  The officer looked relieved. “You may use the ISIS snowmobiles to drive to the Sultan’s palace.” He scrutinized Maysoon. “You will ride with us, not with the infidels.”

  “I will decide whom I ride with!” she stormed.

  “No, the Sultan decides, and those are his orders. Separate you from these foreigners.”

  She argued back and forth, but he was unyielding. She gave in with ill grace and took the rear seat of one of the snowmobiles. Two of the soldiers picked up their fallen comrades and tied the bodies to the rear of another of the vehicles. Qabbani gestured for Nolan’s men to detach the sleds and ride in on them. They drove off in convoy, the SEALs sandwiched between the soldiers’ vehicles.

  Nolan had ample time to try to work out their next move. Always assuming they escaped the trap they were in, somehow he needed to persuade the Sultan. Explain it was in his best interests they work with them to disinfect his kingdom from the ISIS threat. It was also in his best interests to cooperate with them in the search for the missing aircraft. The alternative was to have the Islamic crazies chasing after it like a pack of rabid dogs who’d caught the scent of fresh meat, dripping with bright red blood.

  He felt better after he’d worked it all out. He’d make a convincing case, and Maysoon would be there to support what he’d said. There’d been no kidnap, and she’d acted as no more than any normal soldier. Even if he wished, like most men would wish, she could act in a different way. Like the passionate, spirited woman she obvious was beneath the body armor and helmet, beneath the baggy camos that did little to hide the lush figure underneath. He caught himself and put her out of his mind.