The Scorpion sprang at the door, launching into a flying tiuchaki. From somewhere in the corner, he heard the sound of an automatic as the major fired, but that didn’t matter. He began the reverse kick in mid-air, feinting with the left knee, but as the Arab tried to weakly block with the AK-47, the Scorpion caught him in the neck with the ball of the right foot and they both crashed against the door. The Scorpion grabbed the Kalachnikov and shot the major in the head, then raked across the room killing the Arab crawling towards the automatic. The big Arab loomed like a truck as he charged across the room. The Scorpion fired point blank. Three obscene red flowers blossomed on the big Arab’s chest and he crashed at the Scorpion’s feet.

He heard the sound of shouts outside and backed against the wall near the door as two Arabs, guns drawn, ran into the room. He shot them both from behind. One of them tried to turn and fire and as the Scorpion squeezed the trigger, there was only an empty click that reverberated to the bottom of his stomach. As the Arab struggled to aim, the Scorpion swung the butt at the side of the man’s skull, cracking it with the sound of a well-hit baseball.

The Scorpion threw away the empty AK-47 and grabbed the major’s Walther PPK automatic. Then he dropped into a two-handed firing position aimed at the doorway, but there was nothing else in the room except for the sound of his own labored breathing. He glanced down at his arms and saw that his left arm was covered with blood. His right arm burned with pain where the acid had eaten through. The side of his neck felt like someone was turning a corkscrew in it and he felt lightheaded. Loss of blood, he told himself stupidly. Got to get out of here, some part of his mind was screaming at him. He bent down and used one of the Arabs’ kaffiyehs to wipe off his arms, then he tore off a clean strip and tied it around his neck like a scarf. His hands were slippery with blood and he kept wiping them on his bisht, already growing stiff with drying blood. He heard shouts from outside, checked the clip and cocked the Walther. It was time to perform the classic military maneuver known as “Getting the fuck out of here,” he told himself.