National Security

CHAPTER 47

Bo’s BlackBerry squawked from the holster on his belt, freezing everyone in place and buying the young Arab a moment of reprieve. A gravel voice with a thick Texas accent suddenly broke squelch.

“Bo, this is Ugly,” the voice said. “We got a towel-head in a light blue Pontiac rental car coming up the road. He’s eyeballin’ that gal’s house pretty hard. Looks like he’s your guy. He’s missing a couple of fingers… Wait, I think he’s stopping…”

“Watch yourselves,” Bo warned, clenching the grip of the pistol in his fist.

“Hang on, Bo,” Ugly said. “Watch him, Jim! Shit, he sees us—”

Ugly’s voice stopped abruptly, covered by the staccato sound of gunfire both over the phone as well as outside and up the street.

“Talk to me, Ugly.” Bo rushed toward the door, gun in hand.

Jericho went after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Wait!” he said. “Don’t just rush out headlong. We don’t know how many there are out there. Our lives aren’t the important thing here. We have to do this the smart way.”

Bo shrugged away, using the barrel of his gun to push aside the window blinds. “Shit! I can’t see anybody. They must be just over that rise.”

Jericho stood to his left, scanning up and down the road. “Nothing,” he said through clenched teeth as more gunfire erupted outside.

“Ugly! Jim!” Bo snapped. “What the hell’s going on?”

He was met by nothing but silence. “Dammit!” Bo hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna go check on them.”

“I’ll come with you.” Jericho stepped to the door. “Remember, no matter what else happens, we can’t let Zafir get away.”

A deadly look clouded Bo’s face. “I hadn’t planned on it, brother.”

Ugly’s gritty voice popped across the radio again, broken this time and higher in pitch. “Jim’s down! He took a bullet in the guts… The son of a bitch shot me, too, but I think I got him…”

Jericho’s heart raced. “Bo,” he snapped. “You tell him to watch out! This guy’s not dead until he’s DRT.”

“Okay, boss…” Ugly’s voice came back across the radio before Bo could issue the warning. It was still high-pitched, but slower, calming down. “Yeah, I got the bastard. Looks like he’s dead—”

The pop of small-arms fire peppered the air again, followed almost instantly by the roaring slap, slap, slap of an American motorcycle engine.

“Hey!” It was Ugly’s voice again, screaming, panting as if he was running down the road. He kept the mike keyed as he moved. “Boss! You better get out here! He’s getting away… Hey, get off my bike!”