Crack.

The tribeman’s chest exploded, torn apart by a 5.56mm round fired at close range. He fell in a boneless heap and bled out across the sand.

Zalewski appeared out of the smoke, still holding the short-barreled carbine he’d fired one-handed. The big PJ’s left arm, apparently broken, hung limp at his side. Flecks of dried blood were spattered across his camouflage and body armor. Grimly, he prodded the Libyan he’d shot with the toe of his boot. “Pretty sure that was the last of ’em,” he said softly.

Flynn breathed out. “Sure hope so, Zee.” Slowly, he got back up. “And . . . thanks.”

Zalewski looked away from the dead tribesman and toward him. Lines of pain and exhaustion were drawn across his broad face. “What are your orders, sir?” he asked. “That we’re bugging out, I hope.” He nodded at the burning helicopter. “Because if there are more of these bastards out there, that smoke’s going to draw ’em like flies to rotting meat.”

The big man’s warning agreed with Flynn’s own somber assessment. They might have destroyed this first band of attackers, but there was no telling how many more enemy fighters were lurking at the nearby oasis—waiting to see the results of their carefully planned ambush. And with so many dead and wounded of their own, the smart move for Wizard One-One’s survivors and what little was left of the black ops team was to abandon this crash site . . . and fast.

Thirty minutes later, Nick Flynn sat with his legs dangling outside the open door of the heavily loaded HH-60W helicopter. Rotors beating hard, the CSAR bird lifted slowly off the ground, fighting for altitude as it flew east into the darkening sky. Bone-tired, he held on tight to the doorframe, craning his head to scan the desert rippling past below them—watching closely for any sign of another enemy ambush. Behind him, injured men were crammed into every available space inside the Jolly Green II’s cabin. There hadn’t been room or payload capacity to bring away any of their dead.

Between them, the black ops team and Wizard One-One’s crew had lost more than half their strength. Bill Wade would probably lose his leg. Mike Camarillo was dead, gunned down by the terrorists just outside the wrecked C-130. Zalewski’s arm was fractured, snapped when he’d been tossed around inside the downed turboprop’s crumpled fuselage by the suicide bomb blast. Most of the ex–Special Forces veterans working for White had been killed, some by the bomb, the rest during the ensuing close-quarters gun battle—but they’d gone down hard, taking most of the attacking tribesmen on that flank with them.

White himself was still alive, though he’d been shot in the chest. Apparently, the AK round had missed his heart, assuming he actually had one. Right now, the intelligence officer was propped up against the rear bulkhead, swathed in bandages, but conscious and glaring at Flynn.

“Fast movers at ten o’clock high,” Dykstra reported over the intercom.