Alone and Unafraid (American Praetorians Book 3) by Peter Nealen Page B

bad way.  Larry was bent over him, working fast and hard to get the bleeding stopped.
    We were well out in the middle of nowhere.  We couldn’t even see any of the Rumaylah oil rigs, which was fine with me.  We’d see anybody coming long before they were in weapon range.
    The trucks themselves were riddled with holes.  There was no way in hell that we’d be able to sneak anywhere; anyone who saw us, even leaving aside the fact that four of them were still black-and-white painted PPF trucks, was going to know that something bad had gone down, and that we were probably running from it.  The original plan had been to swap the trucks out in Ad Dayr.  That probably wasn’t going to work now.
    Jim, Hassan, and Hussein Ali joined me at my truck.  Jim had a bandage hastily rigger’s-taped to his shoulder, and had blood on his face.  Hussein Ali looked a little gray; I couldn’t tell where he’d been hit, but that he was wounded was obvious.  There was a hitch in his step as he walked up.
    “Are you all right?” I asked him.  Hassan didn’t get a chance to translate.
    “It is not serious,” he said haltingly.  “I was shot…” he pointed to his side, “…but not bad.  I will live.”
    I frowned.  I knew the guy well enough to know that he was perfectly capable of pulling a hardass act until he bled out, but for all the blood on his leg, it didn’t seem to be running out too badly.  “Any of us take a look at it?” I asked.
    He didn’t quite get that, and looked at Hassan, who asked the question in Arabic.  He nodded then.  “Larry did.”
    I stared at him for a second, trying to judge if he was telling the truth, or trying to blow me off.  Finally I nodded, accepting that he probably had let Larry look at it, and if Larry had said he’d live, he probably would.
    I pulled out my sat phone and tried to start it up.  It took me a second to notice that there was a bullet hole in it.
    Fuck.
    “Jim, have you got your phone?” I asked, as I tossed the expensive, and now useless, hunk of metal, plastic, and silicon in the back of the truck.
    He reached into his cargo pocket, pulled out the brick-shaped phone, and carefully checked it over before handing it to me.  “Hope the battery’s still charged,” he commented.
    It was.  I started it up and called Mike.
    “Send it,” he said by way of answering.
    “Change of plans,” I told him.  “Daoud jumped the gun and we had to leave early.  We got shot the fuck up on the way out of town; no way are we going to make it all the way to Ad Dayr without getting spotted and rolled up.  Half of Basra knows about the four PPF trucks that got filled with holes on the way out.  The bad guys will have spotters out for us.  I need you to bring some trucks out and pick us up.  We’re abandoning these vehicles.”
    He didn’t comment, but just asked, “Where?”
    I walked over to the back of the truck and pulled the rumpled overhead photo map of the greater Basra area out of the top pouch of my ruck.  The ruck had acquired a few new holes, and so had the map.  It was still mostly readable, though.  I spread it on the puckered hood of the truck and peered at it.
    “We’ll be five hundred meters north of the on -ramp from Highway Eight onto Highway One, heading north.  We’ll be on the northeast side.  Don’t head out here right away; we’re going to go firm until sundown, then move on foot to the rendezvous.  Be there no earlier than 0200.”
    “Roger.  Does anyone need medical attention?” he asked.
    I looked around, tempted to laugh for some reason.  “Yeah, just about everybody,” I replied.  “Almost all walking wounded, though.  We’ll be good until linkup.”  Not that we had much choice.
    “Solid copy,” he drawled.  “We’ll see you tonight.”
     
    After another check of who was hit, how badly, and how much ammo we had left, I called Alek and apprised him of the situation.  It wasn’t good, but it was far from the