The Third Target (39 page)

I just stared at the corpse, not quite believing my eyes.

Jamal Ramzy was dead.

“We need to go,” Yael said, turning and heading back up the hall.

But I wasn’t through. I reached down and checked his pulse. Sure enough. Ramzy was gone. Then I checked his front pockets. I found nothing. I checked his back pockets. They were empty as well. I patted him down, top to bottom. There had to be something. A wallet. An ID. A plan of some kind. But Ramzy was clean. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped several pictures. This was a huge story, and I needed proof. And as I did, I noticed that Ramzy’s enormous left hand was closed tight.

“James, come on,”
Yael shouted, already at the stairs.
“We’ve got to move.”

Instead, I set down my weapon and got onto my hands and knees. I pried open Ramzy’s thick, bloody fingers, one by one. And there it was. A small cell phone. I quickly flipped it open. There was nothing in the contacts section. But the call log showed nine calls that had been made and three that had been received. I had numbers, dates, and times.

Pay dirt,
I thought.

Yael was frantic. I grabbed my gun and ran. Together, we raced down both sets of stairs and a moment later we burst out the same side door where I had entered this wing. We could see Ali Sa’id beginning to rally what was left of our group and move them from the grove of trees toward the SUVs.

“Let’s go, you two! Move!”
he yelled when he spotted us.

We retrieved our backpacks and raced to catch up. But suddenly there was another burst of gunfire from our right. I saw two gunmen emerging from the smoke near Marine One. I pivoted and fired three bursts on the run. One of the terrorists fell to the ground, his AK-47 skittering across the pavement.

The other kept running. He wasn’t shooting at us, though. He was shooting at the royal family and screaming something in Arabic. The others ahead of me were running hard, but at the rate this guy was coming, I feared none of them would make it in time. So I dove to the ground, rolled to a stop, took a deep breath, tried to steady my aim, and fired two bursts, then three more. Yael was running, but she was firing too, and a moment later the rebel fell to the ground.

“Clear!”
she yelled.

I jumped back to my feet. But then Yael yelled that rebels were coming over the wall about thirty yards to our left. I turned and saw three. One by one, they dropped to the lawn below and started racing for us, raising their weapons and preparing to shoot.

Prime Minister Lavi reacted first. Shooting from the hip, on the run, the former Israeli special forces commando must have emptied an entire magazine. It was a sight to behold, and it worked. Each of the attackers was riddled with bullets and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. They weren’t dead. But they weren’t coming at us anymore, and for now, that was all that mattered.

“Come on!”
the king yelled.
“We have to keep moving!”

I quickly ejected a spent magazine and reloaded and kept running. I could see the crown prince helping his mother while Sa’id
 
—and
now Yael and I
 
—came in behind them. We were all running as fast as we could, but the weight of the backpacks slowed us down. Yael and I were bleeding, too
 
—both quite seriously
 
—but there was no time to do anything about it.

As we approached the SUVs, however, it was a kill box. Rebels were shooting at us from all directions. One agent just ahead of me, providing cover for the queen, dropped to the ground. He’d been shot four times in the face and legs. Two more agents to my right were killed a moment later.

Terrified, yet propelled by a surge of adrenaline, I looked to my right and saw the remains of another garage. I could see one of the king’s limos ablaze, but at the moment I didn’t see any rebels. I checked with Yael and Sa’id. They didn’t see any either. But it didn’t matter, we decided. Rebels or no rebels, we had to get to the SUVs.

Sa’id suggested I fan out to the right. He would go left. Yael would go straight. I nodded and began running. Each of us opened fire and kept shooting until we reached the first SUV. While Sa’id dug through the pockets of the dead driver and retrieved the key, I reloaded, with Yael providing covering fire. Sa’id found the key a moment later, opened the front door to use as some cover, and got the queen and the crown prince safely in the backseat.

The ISIS rebels continued firing back. Agents were dropping all around me. We weren’t going to make it. Not like this. I finished reloading and saw several terrorists moving through the flames of the garage. I opened fire. A split second later, Sa’id was at my side, firing back as well. But when he asked me where the king was, I realized I had no idea. The last time I’d seen him, he was on the other side of this SUV. Was he already inside? And for that matter, where was President Taylor? Where were Lavi and Mansour?

“Ali, go find them!”
I shouted.

Yael and I kept returning fire. I certainly wasn’t the most accurate shot of the group, or what was left of it, but all I was trying to do
was buy time until everyone could get safely into the vehicles and we could get out of there.

Suddenly I heard Ali yelling for me to get over to him right away. I fired two more bursts, emptying my magazine, reloaded, and quickly worked my way around the back of the truck while Yael covered me. I could hear bullets whizzing over my head. I could hear them smashing into the side of the armor-plated trucks. I could see round after round hitting the bulletproof windows, though fortunately they refused to shatter. But as I came around the far side of the Suburban, I froze in my tracks. Prime Minister Lavi and President Mansour were lying side by side, surrounded by several more dead agents.

The king was crouched over them. I couldn’t see what he was doing. Was he trying in vain to revive them or just mourning over them? Either way, it was no use. They were gone. Nothing was going to bring them back. We had to go. We couldn’t stay out in the open like this.

At that moment, I went numb. I could feel myself beginning to slip into shock, and I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it.

And then, as if through a tunnel, I thought I heard the sound of someone calling my name.

“Collins, they’re alive!”
the king yelled.
“They’re unconscious, but they’re still breathing. They both have a pulse. But we need to get them into the Suburban. Cover us!”

I couldn’t believe it. They weren’t dead? They looked dead. They weren’t moving. But at the very thought, I snapped to.

Sa’id opened the back of the truck and put down the rear seat to make space while Yael covered his right flank. Then Sa’id helped the king lift Prime Minister Lavi and gently set him inside the SUV.

Reengaged, I pivoted hard to my left and followed my orders. Firing short bursts in multiple directions, I had no illusions I was going to kill many rebels. But I was determined not to let them get to the king or his family or these other leaders. All I had to do was buy time. The question was whether it would possibly be enough.

As the king and Sa’id put President Mansour in the back, I continued firing. Then I heard one of the other SUVs roar to life. For a moment I stopped shooting. I looked to my right and saw two American agents peeling off without us.

“That’s President Taylor!”
the king yelled as he covered the limp body of the Palestinian leader with a blanket.

He was right. It was Taylor in the other truck. It had to be. The Secret Service wasn’t waiting. They’d gotten their man into a bulletproof vehicle and now they were getting him to the airport.

We had to move too, and fast.

“Ali, you drive,” the king ordered as he closed up the back. “Yael, you ride shotgun. I’ll sit behind you and work the phones. Collins, get in the back with Lavi and Mansour and cover my family.”

It was a good plan, and I was prepared to follow it. But as the king disappeared around the other side of the truck to get in behind the front passenger seat, Sa’id was shot multiple times. He cried out in pain. I turned and saw two masked rebels running at us through the smoke. I ducked, aimed, and unloaded everything I had.

Both men dropped to the ground.

“Go, Collins!”
Sa’id shouted with the last breath in him, stumbling backward.
“Don’t wait. Take the king and go!”

I hesitated. I couldn’t leave Sa’id behind. He’d already saved my life countless times, starting with getting me out of the courtyard before the missiles hit and the F-16’s kamikaze attack. But he wasn’t long for this world
 
—he knew it, and he was right. I had to go. I had to save the king’s life.

Sa’id fell. I went to my knees to reload. When I was done, I checked his pulse, but Sa’id was gone.

Yael was now climbing into the passenger seat. She was yelling at me to hurry. As quickly as I could, I pushed Sa’id’s body out of the way of the truck. I grabbed the keys and satphone from his hands, and his MP5 as well. It felt cruel. It felt callous. But I had no choice and no time.

I opened the truck door, but before I could jump into the driver’s seat, I lurched forward. I’d been hit
 
—not once but multiple times. I couldn’t believe it. I’d felt the impacts, but I wasn’t in pain. Not yet. But that had to be the adrenaline. I’d feel it soon, and then what? Was this it? Was I dying?

“Get in, get in!”
the king yelled.

Dazed and confused, it took me a moment to get my bearings. I thought briefly of just slumping back to the ground. I didn’t want to hold the king and his family back. He could drive this thing better than I could. But Yael was screaming at me to stay focused and get in. And somehow
 
—I’m really not sure how
 
—I managed to climb into the driver’s seat and pull the door shut behind me.

The king then hit a button and locked all the doors.

“Where is Ali?” he asked.

“I’m afraid he didn’t make it, Your Majesty,” I said.

The king just looked at me for a moment, a thousand emotions in his eyes.

“You’ve been hit too?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

But as Yael helped me remove my backpack, handing it to the king to get it out of my way, she noticed something. “Look,” she said.

I looked where she was pointing and saw that five rounds had hit the pack, but none of them had penetrated. Yael told me to turn so she could check my back. She looked me over quickly, as did the king, but they found nothing.

“You’re okay,” she said.

“It’s a miracle,” the queen said.

I couldn’t believe it. “Really? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Collins,” the king said. “But you need to floor it, or none of us is going to make it out of here alive.”

I turned the ignition.

The engine sputtered but wouldn’t catch. I tried again, but still nothing.

“Hurry,”
Yael cried.

“I’m trying
 
—it won’t start,”
I said as I tried again and again.

“Collins, let’s move; they’re coming,”
the king shouted.

But nothing was working.

Through the smoke I could see rebels running from all parts of the compound. They were firing everything they had at us. We could hear and feel the rounds hitting the truck. We could see the windows splintering. They had not yet shattered, but it was only a matter of time.

Over and over I turned the key but to no avail. I began to panic. Once more I could feel myself slipping into shock. My hands were shaking and my body felt numb. My throat was dry. My eyes were getting heavy and everything was blurring. I could hear the king shouting at me, but it was as if he were far away. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I tried to say something. I tried to explain what was happening. But my brain couldn’t quite send the proper signals to my mouth.

Then finally the engine roared to life. I didn’t know why or how but I didn’t care either. I hit the gas, and we were moving.

I’d never driven an armor-plated SUV. But two things became instantly apparent. First, because the engine was powerful, I had all the horsepower I needed. But second, because it was so incredibly heavy, it didn’t handle like a normal truck. I flicked on the lights to find my way through all the smoke. I hit the windshield wipers to clear away at least some of the soot and ash. I was terrified of hitting someone. I knew they were enemies. I knew it was either them or us. But I still didn’t want to plow anyone over.

The king was my navigator. He gave me directions, guiding me around obstacles even as he powered up the satellite phone and dialed his brother. A moment later, he was shouting in Arabic. I didn’t understand more than a few words. I heard
safe
and
family
and something like
the palace is gone
. I was pretty sure I heard the names Lavi and Mansour mentioned too, but he was talking too fast for me to get much else, and I had to stay focused.

We hit a speed bump
 
—I hoped it was a speed bump
 
—going almost fifty miles an hour and suddenly we were airborne. I struggled to maintain control as the heavy vehicle crashed back down.

“There, through that hole!”
Yael shouted.

“Where? Where?”
I shouted back.

“There
 
—on the right!”
she yelled.

Finally I saw it. There was a massive breach in one of the concrete walls that surrounded the perimeter of the compound. It didn’t have a road leading to it. It was in the middle of a large lawn at the bottom of an incline. But I could see the tracks of another vehicle. I had to assume President Taylor and his team had gone this way as well. The only problem was the hole was guarded by at least a dozen rebels, and they trained all their fire on us now. But there was no other way out.

I gunned the engine and made for the hole, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my fingers and knuckles were white. I forced myself
not to duck, not to cover my eyes. We couldn’t stop. We couldn’t go back. We couldn’t look for another way out. There might not be one, and we didn’t have time to try. The moment the Secret Service got the president to the airport, Air Force One was going to take off, with or without us. The only chance we had was to catch up.

At the last moment, the rebels dove out of the way.
So much for being martyrs for Allah,
I thought. They’d had a chance to save their own skin, and they’d taken it.

We barreled through the hole and spilled out onto a side street. I slammed on the brakes, but not in time. We smashed into two parked cars on the other side of the street, sending all of us lurching forward. The steering wheel stopped me. But Yael slammed into the front windshield. The gash over her left eye reopened and blood poured down her face.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, seeing the distress in my eyes. “Just get us out of here.”

“Which way?”

“Right,” the king said. “Go right.”

I jammed the truck into reverse, did an awkward K-turn, and hit the gas. We were moving again.

“Left at the light!” he ordered.

I made the turn, barely, though for a split second I thought we were going to spin out or roll over. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if the king and his family were okay. He ordered me to keep my eyes on the road and not worry about them
 
—they’d be fine
 
—so that’s what I did.

For the next few blocks, we barreled down empty streets, cleared by security for the peace summit. Soon, however, we reentered the crush of daily life in Amman. I was weaving through traffic at forty and sometimes fifty miles an hour. The king insisted I not stop for anything, so I blew through traffic lights praying we wouldn’t be broadsided.

For a man who probably hadn’t driven himself through the streets
of Amman in twenty years, if ever, the king seemed to know the roads like a taxi driver. When we hit traffic, he started telling me to take this side street or that, apparently determined to keep us off the main boulevards and thoroughfares. It worked for a while, but all good things come to an end.

“Uh, Your Majesty, we’ve got a problem,” I said, glancing in my rearview mirror.

Yael looked in her side mirror. The king and his family craned their necks to see what was happening.

We had company. A pickup truck filled with masked rebels had picked up our scent and was following us. Not just following
 
—gaining on us. With all the bullet marks, I couldn’t see out the back window too clearly, but I was pretty sure at least one of the rebels had a shoulder-mounted RPG launcher.

Yael unbuckled her seat belt, rolled down her window, took her MP5, and began firing at our pursuers, but they immediately moved to their left and out of her view.

“Climb into the backseat,” the king told her. “Collins is going to let these guys catch up a bit. Then we’ll lower the rear window ever so slightly, and you’re going to fire everything you’ve got at the driver. Got it?”

“Absolutely,” Yael said.

Careful not to disturb the Israeli and Palestinian leaders lying bleeding and unconscious in the back, Yael got herself into position, on her knees
 
—her back leaning against the middle row of seats to provide a measure of stability, however small.

“Ready,” she said.

I eased up on the gas. The pickup truck surged closer.

“Wait for it,” the king said.

I glanced back and could see the rebels closing the gap. This had better work, I realized. And then I saw one of the jihadists raise the RPG and prepare to fire.

“Lower the window, Collins!” the king ordered.

I did.

The king gave the order to fire.

Yael obeyed. She unleashed an entire magazine into the front windshield of the pickup. I tried to keep my eyes on the road ahead of us, but I couldn’t help but glance back several times. I could see the driver behind us being riddled with bullets, and then the truck swerved wildly out of control until it finally careened off the road and plowed into a petrol station.

The explosion was enormous and deafening. I could feel the heat on the back of my neck. I quickly raised the rear window as the king directed me onto Route 40
 
—the Al Kodos Highway
 
—heading southwest out of Amman.

We were now going nearly a hundred miles an hour, and we had a new problem. The king was back on the satphone with his brother, who informed us that there was a police checkpoint at the upcoming interchange with Route 35, the Queen Alia Highway. The checkpoint itself wasn’t the issue. The problem, the king said, was that it had apparently been overrun by ISIS rebels, and they were waiting for us with RPGs and .50-caliber machine guns.

“How long to the interchange?” I asked.

“At this rate, two minutes, no more,” the king replied.

“What do you recommend, Your Majesty?” I asked, not sure if I should try to go any faster or slow down.

“Do you believe in prayer, Collins?” he said. “Because now would be a good time to start.”