Another bullet tore off the side mirror in an explosion of plastic and glass.  Then a second went through the windshield, forcing Rickards to shrink beneath the dashboard.

He then realized.  He did have a weapon—a large weapon.  Called an automobile.

Rickards stomped back down on the accelerator, ducking lower as more bullets tore through the windshield.

Khoury emptied his magazine at the approaching car, now headed directly for him, tearing over the open terrain behind a set of blinding headlights.

Khoury pulled his trigger again and received nothing but a faint click, causing him to instinctively reach for another magazine as he stood in the oncoming spotlight of the approaching car.

He yanked the magazine free but fumbled and dropped it.  He searched the ground, but in a panic, Khoury left it and began running for the second building where multiple men were emerging, watching in surprise at Khoury running toward them, followed by a car now careening into their direction.

“Move!” yelled Khoury, racing for protection.  He reached and rounded the structure just moments before the sedan crashed into it with incredible force just several feet from the door.

The impact destroyed a large section of wall, tearing much of it from the adjoining corner as the sedan violently lurched sideways.

Men were on the ground, having dived for cover before impact, and were now scrambling to their feet, including Khoury, who reappeared, stumbling, from the side of the small building.

In a cloud of dust and debris, the driver’s door on the car was pushed open, and Rickards toppled out on the ground, coughing violently.

When he rose to his feet, his eyes were met by those of Badawi, who was stunned at the sight of the American.  He then turned to search the ground for his weapon.

He spotted it, but Rickards was already rushing forward, tackling Badawi and driving him backward into the standing portion of lead wall with an audible groan.  Rickards pummeled him, landing several blows before multiple sets of hands grabbed and pulled him off, punching and pounding him repeatedly before throwing him to the ground surrounded by several men.  Everyone was shouting in Arabic and beating him with their heavy boots.

One man grabbed a large stone and fell to a knee, striking him repeatedly, forcing Rickards to curl to protect himself.  One after another, the rock struck his shoulder and then his arms as he tried to cover his head.

Over and over. The swings were relentless.  Repeated.  Methodic.  Rickards kept his focus by counting first the strikes, then the timing, until all at once, he reached out and grasped the man’s hand, holding it like a vice and forcing the man’s wrist back in the opposite direction against the joint until the man screamed in pain and dropped the rock.