It was a good thing the soldier was drunk or Harry would be dead by now. Scanning the terrain where the bullets had originated, Harry spotted a deeper shadow alongside a jeep. After another once-over of the area, Harry zeroed back on the shadow. This time it separated from the transport, and metal flashed in the light.

Gotcha, Thompson.

Harry checked his clip. Near empty. Time to improvise. He removed his shoelaces and stepped out of his boots. Sliding around the front of the tank, Harry waited for Thompson’s approach.

A soft crunch of rock sounded. Thompson rounded the transport, and Harry sprang, chopping down on the soldier’s gun arm. The weapon skidded across the earth. Thompson kicked out, his boot connecting with Harry’s stomach.

Oomph. Harry gulped in air. He straightened.

Feinting with a right, he slammed Thompson’s jaw with his left fist. Thompson crashed to the ground.

Pouncing, Harry flipped the man onto his stomach and tied his arms together in a vicious knot with one of his shoelaces.

Click. The metallic noise of a cocked gun came from behind him.

Chills rippled down Harry’s spine, and he lifted both arms in the air. Rookie mistake. He should have known it was too easy. Sammy and Elise’s dilemma had fuddled his brain.

“Stay where you are, Captain Benson. I don’t want to shoot you,” Hughes said, his young voice quivering.

“How did you get out of the cuffs?” Harry asked conversationally, resorting to his training. If he could get the private to talk, perhaps he could salvage the situation without anyone getting hurt.

“Matthews used the loo. I found a paperclip on the floor and used it.” Amusement lit Hughes’s voice. “I’ve been picking locks since I was eight.”

“I never took you for a traitor, Hughes.”

“I’m not a traitor, but I can’t have you arresting Lance Corporal Thompson. He’s a brother to me. His family took me in after my parents died. I promised them when I joined the military that I’d watch out for Ollie. You have to believe me; Lance Corporal Thompson was forced into this.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the young private. “By pulling a gun on an MI6 agent, you are an accessory to this crime and will face a court-martial along with your fellow soldier.”

Private Hughes blinked. “MI6?”

Harry lashed out with his right leg and sent the soldier to his knees. The gun went off. The bullet ricocheted off a tank, then spent itself in the dirt centimeters from Harry’s feet. His ears rang. He shook his head and cleared it before Hughes regained his feet, then kicked the gun out of harm’s way.