Chapter 54

CHAPTER 54

Heavy rounds chewed through the thin metal skin of the van as Haney lunged for his suppressed HK417. Ignoring the danger, he aimed through the passenger-side window and unleashed his own withering barrage of gunfire into the tree line.

In the cutout behind him, Harvath and Staelin were a blur of controlled chaos. Retreating behind their bullet-riddled Renault, they returned fire with deadly precision, allowing Preisler the ability to drag Johnson to safety as, one by one, they picked off their attackers.

A young Russian, barely in his mid-twenties, was the first to fall. Taking a bullet to his throat, he crumpled to the ground, his Kalashnikov clattering uselessly beside him.

Next was a grizzled man in his forties, his skin like cracked leather. Receiving two shots to the chest, he collapsed like a cheap lawn chair behind the embassy security vehicle.

Having neutralized the closest threats, they immediately engaged the Russians in the lead car. An enormous man with a shaved head and a thick black beard leaned out of the passenger seat and fired his weapon on full auto, tearing up the hood of their Renault and splintering its windshield.

Harvath waited for the onslaught to pause and then, risking a peek around the side of the sedan, caught the man as he was reloading his weapon. He double-tapped him through the bridge of his nose and his left eye, killing him instantly, and painting the inside of his vehicle with bits of brain and bloody bone.

Moving to take out the driver, Staelin rolled away from the Renault just as a volley of bullets tore up the position he'd been occupying a millisecond earlier.

The driver—a thin man with a tight crew cut—quickly took cover behind his engine block and changed magazines. It wasn't, however, enough to protect him.

Lying in the dirt, Staelin fired at the man's boots, ripping apart both of his feet. The driver dropped to the ground, screaming, and made himself an even bigger target.

From the Russian's abdomen to his lower jaw, the ex–Delta Force operative opened up on him and painted a lethal racing stripe right along the driver's upper body.

The round that went through the driver's jaw—shattering his face—kept going through the roof of his mouth and into his brain, killing him and bringing his screaming to an end.

That left only one more possible combatant—the Russian military attaché.

"Where's Elovik?" Harvath demanded.

No one knew. He hadn't been seen since the shooting started.

"Probably hugging the floorboards in the back seat of that lead vehicle," said Staelin, rejoining him behind the Renault.

"No way," Harvath replied. "He's a decorated combat vet. We need to get up to that car and figure out what's going on. Ready?"

The man nodded.

Harvath began counting backward from three, but before he could get to one, another fusillade exploded from the trees.

Aborting their launch, they tightened up behind the Renault and waited for Haney to return fire. But the shots never came.

Instead, Haney put out a distress call over the radio. "I'm hit," he stated. "Fuck."

"How bad?" Harvath asked.

"Bad."

Damn it, Harvath thought to himself. First Johnson and now Haney.

"Can you still fight?"

"Negative," Haney replied. "Trying to get my tourniquet out. There's a lot of blood."

There was only one thing Harvath could do. Collapsing the stock and holstering his PDW, he laid out a plan to Staelin. "I want you to give me your MP5. All the extra mags too. When I give the command, you're going to clear the Russian security vehicle and then move on to Elovik's. I'll lay down cover fire for you."

"And if Elovik's in there?"

"If he's armed, shoot him. If not, pull him out of that car by his throat and wait for me. Understood?"

Once again, Staelin nodded. After handing his MP5 and spare magazines over to Harvath, he drew his pistol and made ready to move.

Inserting a fresh magazine into the submachine gun, Harvath confirmed a round was chambered, then flicked the firing selector to three-round bursts. Getting himself into place, he looked at Staelin and ordered, "Now!"

The moment he gave the go command, Harvath popped up from behind the Renault and began strafing the tree line.

He tore through it like the world's deadliest weed whacker. Pieces of bark, branches, limbs, and leaves went in all directions. Wherever the enemy shooter was hiding, he wanted to be certain the sniper couldn't pick his head up.

"Car one clear!" Staelin announced over the radio. "Standing by."

"Reloading!" Harvath declared as he ducked back behind the Renault and inserted a fresh magazine into the MP5.

When he was all set, he repeated the go command, "Now!" And as Staelin took off running, he popped back up and began spraying the woods all over again.

"Car two clear!" Staelin reported. "Elovik KIA. Standing by."

Harvath dropped back behind the Renault once more and asked, "Was he armed?"

"Affirmative."

Harvath had no idea who had killed the Russian. Preisler and Johnson had both gotten off a couple of shots as they had been backing away. Alternatively, it could have been fratricide—the Russians were notoriously undisciplined in high-stress situations. Or Elovik could have simply popped his head up at the wrong second and been caught in the crossfire. None of it changed the fact that he was dead.

It also didn't change the fact that until they eliminated that sniper in the woods, Harvath and his team would remain pinned down, unable to escape.

If the police hadn't been alerted to the gunfight yet, any moment someone was going to pass by, see bodies and battle-scarred vehicles, and call it in. Observing the brI conducting an arrest was one thing. A bloodbath like this was something entirely different.

Harvath was now faced with a very dangerous task.

Radioing Staelin and Preisler what he wanted done, he swapped in a fresh magazine and took several deep breaths.

He was about to head into the woods to take out the sniper.