She ducked her head around the corner. The Grizzly that had been firing on her had been popped open, the turret torn off and thrown to the side. She was just in time to see a secondary explosion as the big diesel tank detonated, a raging column of orange fire that scorched up and out of the wreckage of the hull. Debris flew hundreds of feet into the air and razored shrapnel peppered the wall with high-pitched chings.

No time for questions.

“Faik! After me—run!”

She sprinted into the yard and hoped that he was wise enough to follow her lead.

The Grizzly was spewing black smoke and steam into the morning air, the rain still slamming down. The guards, still barely recovering their composure, had either been thrown to the floor or had turned to face the sound of the explosion.

They had taken their attention away from Beatrix.

That was unfortunate for them.

She opened fire as she ran, holding the rifle with both hands and pumping bullets from the hip. She carved a path through them, the rounds either taking down their targets or forcing them into a second panicked retreat.

She heard the roar of a powerful engine from the other side of the wall and then the squeal of rubber biting on asphalt as a car skidded to a stop.

She hoped it was Faulkner.

Pope discarded the empty launcher and hurried back across the roof. There was a fire escape on the other side of the building, and he took the stairs two at a time, pausing on the landing to withdraw his pistol. He didn’t need it. The guards in the yard had either been shot or were too stunned to think about what had just happened, and none of them reacted. There was an alley at the back of the building with just enough space for the Toyota Camry that he had rented from the Hertz counter at the airport in Kuwait City. He gripped onto the last rung and dropped the final ten feet to the ground, tossing the pistol onto the passenger seat as he slid into the car. He turned the ignition and drove quickly away from the prison.

Faulkner left rubber as he gunned the engine. The police turned in the direction of the SUV at the sound of the engine. One of them raised a rifle. There was no chance for him to fire it. He heard the crackle of automatic gunfire and saw the muzzle flash as Beatrix emerged from the building. The prisoner quailed behind her. She had a spare magazine in her left hand, pressed up against the forestock, and, as the first ran dry, she ejected it and slapped in the replacement almost without pause.

Three of the police went down, and the others scattered. Faulkner hit the brakes and slid the back around, thudding into one of the survivors full-on and sending him ten feet through the air.