Page 141 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
“Roger that—”
Bullets suddenly spanged against the metal trapdoor and slammed into the floor, stinging Jack’s skin with jagged shards of concrete.
Jack flung the trapdoor wide open as he aimed Aida’s pistol at the man in the corner, firing off two rounds even before he drew a bead. The first shot punched the man in the gut, the second through the heart. He thudded onto the floor on the far side of the truck, cracking his skull, but he was already dead.
Jack scrambled out of the hole and toward the big man up front, who was lunging for a rifle propped against the wall near him. Jack aimed his pistol at the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
Misfire.
He racked another round. The gun locked open. The misfire was the last cartridge.
Empty.
Jack swore and sprinted hard at the larger man, swinging the pistol in his hand like a hammer at the man’s skull, but the big Chechen lieutenant raised his rifle with two hands like a blocking guard and blunted Jack’s blow. A stinger of pain shot up Jack’s arms and his useless pistol clattered to the concrete.
Thenasheedroared in Jack’s ears. He could barely hear his dad’s voice shouting, “Jack! Get out of there, now!”
Jack grabbed the Chechen’s rifle with both hands, pumpinghis legs as hard as he could to drive the bigger man hard against the steel wall.
The Chechen laughed, flashing wide teeth beneath his hairless upper lip. He thrust his massive skull like a cannonball at Jack’s face.
Jack whipped his head to one side, avoiding the head strike, then whipped his head back to crack against the side of the Chechen’s face. But Jack’s strike was too weak and did nothing except shoot a bolt of pain through his own skull.
As if on cue, they both launched a series of hard, nasty kicks against each other, still wrestling with the gun between them. Jack’s shins screamed with pain with every blow he got and every one he gave.
Jack twisted his arms right to throw the bigger man off balance, but he barely budged. The Chechen countered by thrusting the butt of the gun with his left hand toward Jack’s gut. Jack countered him by pulling the butt hard toward him, using the man’s own strength and momentum against him. Jack twisted sideways as he pulled, finally throwing the larger man off balance and toward the hard floor.
As the Chechen fell he fought his instinct to catch himself with his hands, and instead held on to the rifle for dear life. His greater weight pulled Jack down with him, and the two hit the concrete at the same time. The Chechen crashed onto his back and Jack fell on top of him, still clutching the rifle, as the music screamed in their ears.
Jack thrust a knee into the Chechen’s groin. Dzhabrailov grunted in agony but still managed to twist the rifle hard enough to pop Jack in the jaw with the stock. The sharp crack of pain loosened Jack’s grip for a second, but not enough to give way.
Exhausted, both men kept trying to use the gun as a bludgeon against each other while throwing knees and head butts, but the strikes were weaker and weaker. After another failed swipe, the bigger, stronger Chechen changed tactics and began pushing with his legs and rolling his shoulders to drag Jack slowly back toward the manual launcher, just a few feet away.
“Jack! Sixty seconds! Run!” his father shouted.
Over the din of thenasheedmusic Jack felt more than heard the thundering beat of helicopter blades in the air. So did Dzhabrailov. The Chechen kicked and rolled harder, inching inexorably closer to the manual launcher.
Jack tried to drag his boots against the concrete and pull back with his arms, but the larger man was too strong. He had to change gears.
Jack lunged to his feet to try to use his legs to leverage the rifle out of the man’s powerful hands. Jack couldn’t stand up straight, and in his low crouch he was off balance.
The wily Chechen took advantage of it.
He shoved his boot into Jack’s gut and lifted him up with it as he pulled the rifle down to his broad chest with a berserker shout, levering Jack up in the air and over the Chechen’s head in a classic judotomoe nage.
Jack held on to the rifle, crashing hard on his back on the concrete, which knocked his breath out, stunning him.
The Chechen had the tactical advantage now. He let go of the rifle, rolled over, and leaped to his feet. The Chechen’s left foot stomped on the rifle, crushing Jack’s knuckles against the floor. Dzhabrailov planted his heavy right boot square into Jack’s chest to launch himself over Jack. He stretched out his long arms to grab the launcher dangling just beyond Jack’s boots.
Jack saw what he was doing and snagged the man’s foot and ankle with his aching hands. The Chechen fell hard, and short of the launcher, crashing between Jack’s legs, screaming with rage.
The rifle was just inches from Jack’s face, but he had to let go of the Chechen to get it, and if he did, the jihadi would squirm forward the few inches he needed to hit the launcher before he could shoot him.
“Jack! Thirty seconds!”
If he let go now, he could make a run for it and save his neck.
But then all of those people would die.
