assault rifle cycled dry. Frustrated as the caravan men continued to rise, he dropped the AK-47 and gave ground before them.
“Faisal! To me!” Yaqub drew the Russian Tokarev holstered at his hip and fired it dry too, but by then, four men were almost on top of him.
“I cannot!”
A glance in the man’s direction showed that Faisal was in danger of being overrun as well. He, too, had dropped his rifle and was pulling his pistols.
Beseeching God, calling for holy wrath, Yaqub freed the pesh-kabz at his waist. The thick blade was broad at the hilt but tapered down to a near-needle point. In its initial design, it had been forged to penetrate armor, capable of sliding between the rings or the plates and plunging into the man under the defenses. Permutations of the knife had been carried for centuries.
The knife remained deadly in the hands of a warrior who knewhow to use it. Yaqub had learned his martial skills from his father, but several warriors over the years had contributed to his acumen.
Keeping the knife hidden at his side till the last moment, Yaqub continued stepping back before the onslaught of caravan warriors fleeing for their lives. Then he whipped the knife up into the nearest man’s throat, feeling the warm blood spill over his hand and run along his arm to his elbow.
Fear and the knowledge of his unavoidable death widened the man’s eyes. Setting himself, Yaqub put his weight behind his knife arm and pushed forward again, breaking the advance of the men. Yaqub grabbed the dying man’s coat in his free hand and whipped him to the left, into the path of the man on that side, as he slid the knife free.
Twisting, stepping back again, Yaqub looked at the warrior on his right. The knife got the man’s attention at once, and he brought up the American semiautomatic pistol. Fearlessly, Yaqub stepped forward into the man as his opponent’s arm extended, getting inside the instinctive response. Yaqub set his feet even though the pistol blasted almost in his ear, swiveled his hips, and drove the pesh-kabz into the man’s stomach.
Mortally wounded, the man folded over Yaqub’s out-thrust arm. The dying man’s hot breath and plaintive moan pushed into Yaqub’s ear.
“Death is upon you, you weak, traitorous dog!” Yaqub plucked the pistol from the man’s nerveless fingers, shoved his chest against the falling man to knock him away, and dragged the knife free as he raised his captured weapon.
Three men ran by Yaqub, avoiding the battle he waged upon them. He fired into their backs, emptying the pistol. They stumbled and fell, dead or dying, and he didn’t care. A short distance away, Faisal was desperately fighting to stay on his feet. Gunshots rang out between him and the men trying to barrel over him.
One of the men fell as Yaqub let go of the pistol and steppedtoward the scuffle. He moved in behind another of the men and thrust the long knife between the man’s ribs. He shuddered and went down. Striding over the corpse, Yaqub grabbed the beard of another warrior, yanked his head around, and pierced the man’s chin.
The next man turned to face Yaqub, whipping his rifle around, but the al Qaeda leader ducked beneath the blow and hacked at the inside of the man’s back leg with the knife. The blow caused the man’s leg to go slack. Yaqub grabbed the rifle and yanked it from the fallen man.
Managing the rifle one-handed, Yaqub aimed the weapon at the next man staggering up from the passage, then pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Snarling an oath, Yaqub flung the rifle at the man and went to meet him.
The man came to a stumbling stop, though, and fell forward on his face, shot by another of Yaqub’s warriors.
Breathing hard, the back of his throat alternately feeling frozen and too hot, Yaqub bent down and retrieved his rifle. He sheathed the pesh-kabz through his belt and shoved a fresh magazine into the AK-47. He walked to the edge of the passageway, knowing from the sporadic gunfire
“Faisal! To me!” Yaqub drew the Russian Tokarev holstered at his hip and fired it dry too, but by then, four men were almost on top of him.
“I cannot!”
A glance in the man’s direction showed that Faisal was in danger of being overrun as well. He, too, had dropped his rifle and was pulling his pistols.
Beseeching God, calling for holy wrath, Yaqub freed the pesh-kabz at his waist. The thick blade was broad at the hilt but tapered down to a near-needle point. In its initial design, it had been forged to penetrate armor, capable of sliding between the rings or the plates and plunging into the man under the defenses. Permutations of the knife had been carried for centuries.
The knife remained deadly in the hands of a warrior who knewhow to use it. Yaqub had learned his martial skills from his father, but several warriors over the years had contributed to his acumen.
Keeping the knife hidden at his side till the last moment, Yaqub continued stepping back before the onslaught of caravan warriors fleeing for their lives. Then he whipped the knife up into the nearest man’s throat, feeling the warm blood spill over his hand and run along his arm to his elbow.
Fear and the knowledge of his unavoidable death widened the man’s eyes. Setting himself, Yaqub put his weight behind his knife arm and pushed forward again, breaking the advance of the men. Yaqub grabbed the dying man’s coat in his free hand and whipped him to the left, into the path of the man on that side, as he slid the knife free.
Twisting, stepping back again, Yaqub looked at the warrior on his right. The knife got the man’s attention at once, and he brought up the American semiautomatic pistol. Fearlessly, Yaqub stepped forward into the man as his opponent’s arm extended, getting inside the instinctive response. Yaqub set his feet even though the pistol blasted almost in his ear, swiveled his hips, and drove the pesh-kabz into the man’s stomach.
Mortally wounded, the man folded over Yaqub’s out-thrust arm. The dying man’s hot breath and plaintive moan pushed into Yaqub’s ear.
“Death is upon you, you weak, traitorous dog!” Yaqub plucked the pistol from the man’s nerveless fingers, shoved his chest against the falling man to knock him away, and dragged the knife free as he raised his captured weapon.
Three men ran by Yaqub, avoiding the battle he waged upon them. He fired into their backs, emptying the pistol. They stumbled and fell, dead or dying, and he didn’t care. A short distance away, Faisal was desperately fighting to stay on his feet. Gunshots rang out between him and the men trying to barrel over him.
One of the men fell as Yaqub let go of the pistol and steppedtoward the scuffle. He moved in behind another of the men and thrust the long knife between the man’s ribs. He shuddered and went down. Striding over the corpse, Yaqub grabbed the beard of another warrior, yanked his head around, and pierced the man’s chin.
The next man turned to face Yaqub, whipping his rifle around, but the al Qaeda leader ducked beneath the blow and hacked at the inside of the man’s back leg with the knife. The blow caused the man’s leg to go slack. Yaqub grabbed the rifle and yanked it from the fallen man.
Managing the rifle one-handed, Yaqub aimed the weapon at the next man staggering up from the passage, then pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Snarling an oath, Yaqub flung the rifle at the man and went to meet him.
The man came to a stumbling stop, though, and fell forward on his face, shot by another of Yaqub’s warriors.
Breathing hard, the back of his throat alternately feeling frozen and too hot, Yaqub bent down and retrieved his rifle. He sheathed the pesh-kabz through his belt and shoved a fresh magazine into the AK-47. He walked to the edge of the passageway, knowing from the sporadic gunfire
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