Free Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) by Mark Terry Page A

when Hammond said, “You can stop.”
    Looking up, he saw Hammond, face gray, his ear to the man’s chest. “He stopped breathing a couple seconds ago. No heartbeat.” He raised the man’s shirt to show where he had been stabbed repeatedly.
    “What did he say? There at the end?”
    “Nazif will hunt us to the ends of the earth. That the Sheikh tortured and killed his brother, killed his son, and will kill us. And for Allah to have mercy on our souls.”
    Gunfire rattled, followed by an explosion nearby.
    Derek quickly searched the bodies, looking for car keys. He found a set that had Fiat stamped on it. Creeping to the café’s windows, he looked up and down the street. There were half a dozen cars and one of them was a faded blue Fiat.
    “Ready to go?” he asked Hammond.
    “I can’t walk to Turkey.”
    Derek held up the keys. “Let’s go.”
    They were halfway to the car when a truck roared around the corner. In the back stood two men with AKs. Seeing Derek and Hammond, the truck raced toward them. The men in back fired, bullets chewing at the dusty air.
    Both Derek and Hammond turned and returned fire, backing toward the Fiat. Through the truck’s windshield Derek thought he recognized Sheikh Nazif. He took careful aim at the man, firing. The truck swerved and the men all piled out, hiding behind the truck.
    Derek and Hammond ran as fast as they could—which wasn’t very damned fast at all—to the Fiat. More gunfire erupted. Out of the corner of his eye Derek saw Hammond fall.
    Turning, he emptied the AK , aiming not at the shooters, but at the truck. Spinning, he crouched next to Hammond. A bullet had punched through Hammond’s shoulder. “Leave … me.”
    “No.” Dropping his empty rifle, Derek grabbed Hammond by the collar and dragged him twenty feet to the Fiat. It was unlocked. Bullets whined around him. Three men ran toward them, firing. With a heave, Derek pushed Hammond into the car and dived behind the wheel. Derek jammed the key in, praying they had the right car. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died.
    “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” He cranked it again, pedal to the floor.
    The rear window exploded in a million cubes of safety glass. Bullets pocked into the frame of the car. Something nipped at Derek’s ear. Something smashed into his head and he snapped forward. The windshield shattered. A hand to his skull, he pulled away blood.
    The engine caught, revved, and the tires bit at the pavement. With a screech they peeled into the street. Gunfire chattered behind them. In a moment, they were headed north.
    “They back there?” Derek asked.
    No answer.
    Turning, he saw Hammond slumped in his seat, blood oozing from the wound.
    “Hang on, buddy.”
    He drove like a mad man.

13
    Head pounding, Derek skidded around corners, skirting around the Citadel mound, trying not to get sidetracked away from getting out of the city. The Fiat was a junker, blowing smoke, now nearly windowless, rattling and chugging, straining as he urged it on as fast as it could go.
    Seeing a tank, he skidded the car left, desperate to avoid the Syrian Army. He sideswiped a street sign, almost lost control of the car, saw a clearing, and gunned it.
    The car coughed, hesitated, caught and leapt forward.
    Twenty-five minutes later he was out of the city on an empty highway heading north. At the first chance he pulled the car to the side of the road and checked Hammond. Unconscious, he’d taken a bullet in the left shoulder, which had punched out the front, taking a chunk of flesh and bone with it. The wound bled heavily.
    Taking off his one of his shirts and scarf, he pressed them into the wounds, and bound them in place with his makeshift sling. Hammond didn’t make a sound. His pulse against Derek’s fingers was steady, but slow.
    Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw that his own head and neck were covered with blood. Turning, wincing, he fingered a groove in his skull. It bled like a sonofabitch, but