Persian Betrayal by Terry Brennan

Author:Terry Brennan
Format: epub

“Some of the runners are breaking out.” Hernandez again. “Headed west.”

Withering fire was shredding the truck and tearing up the street.

“Can’t stay here,” Levinson said over the comm link.

Mullaney chanced a flash peek around the edge of the truck. What he saw tripped a memory from the movie Heat, with Robert De Niro and Val Kilmer, where a gang of bank robbers—heavily armed and oblivious to the police confronting them—slowly walked down a wide, three-lane street jammed with abandoned cars, laying down a murderous fusillade of automatic weapons fire that was shredding every vehicle in the street and wiping out every cop who made himself visible.

In his quick look, while there were still active shooters in the livery building, Mullaney saw at least six to eight men, heavily armed with rapid-fire assault weapons, weaving their way through the growing carnage on Malan Street—to the east, away from Mullaney and Levinson on Nakhali’el Street toward the car blocking the exit on Yehya Kapah Street. Like municipal workers spraying for mosquitoes, these men were sweeping the street, spewing bullets as they advanced toward the intersection.

“They’re trying to break out to the east too,” Mullaney transmitted, “where we’re weakest.”

Levinson had six men, including himself. Mullaney watched as Levinson looked to his left.

“Three … the building,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the livery. He turned back to the right. “The rest with me. Hernandez … we need you on the east end of Malan. Go!”

With that, six agents tucked their submachine guns against their shoulders and came out of the shelter of the truck, their fingers glued against the triggers.

Mullaney ran down the right side of Malan Street, ducking behind restaurant tables and delivery vans, stopping, firing, waiting for the next agent to work his way past, then up, firing, looking for his next safe haven. An explosion rocked the livery building to the left, blasting smoke and debris out of the building’s windows and onto the street below. The shooters went silent.

“Grenade,” said Levinson. “Let’s go!” And he was up and running down the middle of the narrow street, firing at the backs of the men who were rapidly closing on the Shin Bet blockade at the east end of Malan Street. Mullaney was on his feet, weaving down the right side of the street, two other agents now running down the left side.

Two or three of the enemy had reversed course and were returning fire toward Levinson’s group. A flurry of bullets slammed into the Israeli agent just in front of Mullaney, picking him up off his feet and blowing him backward into a wall.

For a heartbeat, Mullaney stopped, thinking about going to the agent’s aid. But as if a giant hand had grabbed a fistful of the back of his shirt, Mullaney felt himself being flung behind a dumpster, the bullets clanging off the heavy metal like so many BB guns at a carnival shooting gallery. Before he took his dive, he could see the escaping killers

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