Thunderstrike in Syria by Nick Carter Page A

thought I was slicing through a hardening mush; yet I knew in that instant that I had hit the target and that the Arab was only seconds away from oblivion.
    I hadn't missed the Arab to my right either, my
Shuto
sword-hand chop smashing into his throat. He gagged in agony, dropped the machine gun as his wind pipe started to swell shut, and began to sink to the floor.
    Simultaneously, Sahl employed a top of the foot
Kogan geri
kick to wreck the sex department of one of the guards in front of me and Risenberg gave the fourth terrorist a lightning quick side-thrust kick to the belly and grabbing the man's PPsH machine gun with both hands.
    The fifth guard leaped forward to crack open the side of Risenberg's head with the barrel of his PPsH. I made a mess of his plan by seizing the weapon with both hands and, as I twisted the barrel toward the ceiling, kneeing him in the groin as hard as I could. As I had anticipated, the explosion of pain made him release the sub-gun which I let fall to the floor. I slammed him across the side of the head with my right hand, then grabbed his shirt front with my left hand, slid my right hand between his legs, lifted him up and pitched him head-on into the sixth guard who was charging through the door. The unconscious body of the man I had laid out crashed into the big Arab, who let out a yell of rage and fell backward through the door, the weight of the other man forcing him to the floor, and startling the two men who had been in the doorway of the guardroom.
    I scooped up the fallen machine gun just in time to see the man with the UZI and the two thugs from the guardroom getting to their feet. The three terrorists didn't know it, but they were as close to eternity as they would ever get without being dead. The man with the UZI was jerking up the barrel as I pulled the trigger of the Russian chopper, the series of staccato explosions deafening. At this close range, I could see the hot projectiles ripping off tiny pieces of cloth and particles of burned flesh as the Spitzer-shaped bullets bored all the way through their bodies, making them jerk like monstrous marionettes before finally flopping to the floor.
    Sahl, cursing the Syrians in Hebrew, rushed to the aid of Risenberg who was engaged in a tug of war over possession of a machine gun.
    Risenberg was much faster than Sahl. He jumped up, jammed his feet into the Syrian's midsection and fell backward, pushing out with his legs as his body landed on its back. The Syrian went flying over Risenberg's head, but it was Risenberg who retained the machine gun. The other Israelis, grabbing the weapons of the defeated terrorists, dodged and the Syrian hit the floor with a thud.
    "Snap it up," I said. "That blast I let off has to have warned the whole damn camp! Two of you watch the south side door while Risenberg and I secure the guardroom." My eyes shot to Risenberg, who had gotten to his feet and was ready with the PPsH in his hands, and he nodded.
    We rushed through the prison room door, our foot sliding for a moment on the widening pools of blood spreading from underneath the three corpses. Already hundreds of flies were buzzing over the dead men, and only then did I notice that the Israelis being tortured under the arbor had stopped screaming. Either the Syrians had killed them or had taken them down.
    Risenberg and I darted across the south side doorway and I motioned to him to take a position to the left of the guardroom entrance. I'd been in scores of firefights and experience had taught me that wise gun fighters stay calm, lay low and wait for the enemy to come to them.
    I took one last look behind me and saw Cham Elovitz picking up the UZI and John Ivinmetz and Martin Lomsky grabbing the PPsH chatter boxes from the two other corpses. Lev Wymann and Hymie DuSold, each armed with an AK-47, were on either side of the southside door.
    Grateful that Risenberg was a trained fighter, I looked over at him as he crouched by the doorway. I saw only