The American: Max Jones #4 (PAPERBACK)

The Black Hawk was a speck now, its rotor thrum fading as it banked west across the pale sky. Smoke from the burning Hilux curled upward in dirty ribbons, catching in Max’s throat. The air stank of propellant, diesel, and blood.

There was a constant ringing in his ears, and his body throbbed in slow, deliberate waves. Every nerve screamed now the adrenaline had stopped pumping through his system.

He crouched on the rooftop, breathing hard, his knees trembling. The plate carrier clung to his bare chest, slick with sweat and grime. Acrid smoke stung his eyes. Somewhere below, a man shouted in Dari. Another answered, then a gunshot cracked. More shouts followed. Engines revved, and two more shots rang out.

He had to move.

Max looked back at Khan, lying in a spreading pool of blood. The man’s eyes were wide, staring sightlessly at the sky, lips twitching as if trying to speak, but no sound came except the rattle in his chest. One last gasp rose above the shouting, and then he went still.

Max stared for a second, then a sharp pain pulled him back. It came from his leg. Not the dull, now familiar ache from the torture—this was fresh. He looked down at the crimson trail running down his calf, vivid against his soot-streaked skin. Shit. He prodded the wound with his finger. A round had passed through the fleshy part of the muscle, fortunately missing the bone. It could have been worse, but it hurt like hell now that the adrenaline was gone.

Shouts carried up from below. Closer now.

He crouched and moved away from the wall, the pain in his calf worsening with each step. He made his way down the stairs into the building. Smoke drifted through the wrecked rooms. Bullet holes pocked the concrete walls where the DShK rounds had punched through. He stepped over a guard’s body, skirted broken glass, and reached the front door.

Staying in shadow, he scanned the compound.

Bashir lay crumpled on the grass, his shattered prosthetic beside him. His head was turned away, the back of it soaked in blood. Max swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat. He looked away, forcing his gaze across the compound. Bodies were strewn across the once-pristine lawn. The Hilux lay on its side, a blackened wreck, thick smoke pouring from its burning tyres.

But there was still no sign of Maya.

His throat tightened, and his heart pounded, a blade twisting deep in his gut. She had to be out there—had to be alive. He clung to the thought even as the wreckage told him otherwise. No one could have survived the RPG blast. He knew that. Still, he took a step forward, unable to let it go.

A turbaned figure rounded the side of the house, dressed in black, his AK raised.

Max ducked back.

There was no time.

He turned, scanning the room. A row of steel armoires lined the far wall. He moved to the nearest and yanked it open. Max ignored the photo of a woman and a child taped inside the door, and pulled out a tan-colored shalwar and matching kameez. Good enough. Tearing a strip from the hem, he bound it around his calf. Blood welled through at once, but it would have to do. 

He stepped into the shalwar, tied the drawstring, then pulled the plate carrier over his head and dropped it on the floor. He shrugged into the kameez. It was snug across the shoulders, and the shalwar were a couple of inches too short, but at least he was dressed now.

He limped back to the stairs, wincing as he stepped on a shard of glass. Shoes. He needed shoes.

Back on the rooftop, he ducked low and moved to Khan’s body. The man wore a pair of soft leather slippers. Not ideal, but better than bare feet. Max pulled them off and jammed them on. They were two sizes too small, and his toes bent tight against the ends, but at least they stayed on.

A crash echoed from downstairs, and there was the roar of an engine in the compound.

Risking a glance over the parapet, he spotted another technical, a heavy machine gun mounted in the tray, bouncing across the lawn. More shouts came from below. 

It was only a matter of time before someone checked the roof.

Max grabbed the M4 and hobbled to the back of the rooftop where the guards’ quarters abutted the rear boundary wall. The slippers slid on the tiles, and he almost went over. He steadied himself, then dropped into a crouch at the edge.

A narrow strip of rough ground separated Khan’s compound from the next walled property. The slope below was strewn with broken glass and trash. Not a soft landing, especially in slippers. But it was the only way out.

Boots pounded on the stairs behind him.

He looked at the M4 in his hands, then reluctantly set it down, before swinging his legs over the edge. Gripping the parapet, he lowered himself by his hands, but even with arms fully outstretched, he wasn’t touching the ground. He took a breath and let go.

He hit the ground hard, feet sliding out from under him on the loose stones, his knees taking the impact before his chest slammed into the ground, driving the air from his lungs. Pain shot through his legs, elbows, and ribs. It was all he could do not to cry out. His cracked ribs screamed as he rolled to one side, breath wheezing through clenched teeth, eyes watering.

He pushed himself upright and limped away, each step sending fresh jolts of pain through his body. His lungs burned, raw and torn. Still, he kept going, crossing the trash-strewn ground, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Khan’s villa.

With each step, he left them further behind.

Bashir. Maya. Two of the bravest people he had ever known. Friends. A lover.

Gone.

His vision blurred. Not from grief. Not yet. Just pain. It clawed at him, rising with every breath, threatening to pull him under.

He reached the far wall, turned left, and pressed close to the next property, forcing himself upright. He had to look like he belonged. Had to pass as a local. He reached the next street, looked both ways, and crossed, then turned down a narrow side lane. 

A dog sniffed the air, growled, then moved on. A bored security guard glanced at him from behind a gate, then returned to his tea.

Grief, guilt, and despair clawed at the edges of his mind, but he shoved them down. Locked them away.

Later.

Right now, he had to disappear.