As soon as the captain released the grip on Gregor Smitrov’s neck, he scurried toward the big American.

He almost made it.

A sudden burst from an AK-47 knocked him hard to the concrete. He lay still as a pool of blood formed around him.

Martinelli fired, cutting down the last trooper. The place fell silent.

Beaman ran to Smitrov’s side and rolled the president onto his back. He was still alive, but he was losing a lot of blood from some nasty chest wounds. Beaman could hardly feel a pulse.

Jason Hall ran to help as Beaman ripped Smitrov’s shirt open. The three entrance wounds were high up on his torso, stitching from his left shoulder across to his breastbone. Hall held his ear to the wounded man’s chest and listened to his shallow breathing.

The big SEAL looked over at Beaman and shook his head as he answered the unasked question. “Not good. His lungs seem okay. I can’t hear any rasping or gurgling. The pulse is pretty thready and he’s losing a lot of blood. Skipper, we need to get him to a hospital real quick.”

Chief Johnston walked over and squatted next to the pair. “Broughton took a slug through his calf. Passed straight through without tearing up too much meat. The boy’ll be okay. Just pretty sore for a while. Those guys were sloppy. Didn’t leave anybody outside. We’d better get moving. All that noise has to attract somebody.”

Beaman rose and nodded. He looked down at Hall. “Put a quick pressure bandage on Smitrov, then get him in the BTR. Any more first aid, we’ll have to do on the run.” To Johnston, he added, “Let’s go. Everyone in the lead BTR.”

They all headed out of the building, spacing themselves out and moving low. Weapons were ready, fingers on triggers. Never could tell when reinforcements might arrive.

The team piled into the lead BTR. Tony Martinelli hopped into the driver’s seat and fired up the big eight-cylinder 7403 diesel. Heavy blue smoke poured out of the exhaust as the brute roared to life. The BTR lurched forward as he slammed the drive into gear.

Beaman hopped up into the second driver’s chair and pulled the two armored hatches shut while Cantrell sat in the gunner’s seat. He moved the machine cannon out of its stowed position and readied the big gun for battle. The little 7.62mm coaxial machine gun was ready as well.

Martinelli steered the awkward eight-wheeled vehicle down the alley, picking up speed as they went. He looked over at Beaman and smiled. “Tony’s Taxi at your service. Where to, boss?”

“San Diego, if I had my choice. For now, head for the gate. It’s time we got out of town.”