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The two vehicles from the enemy convoy that had gone airborne didn't land cleanly. In fact, they rolled across the African savanna in spectacular fashion—crashing and flipping with a level of cinematic flair rarely seen outside a Hollywood stunt reel.

And the rest of the convoy? They scattered like frightened pigeons to avoid the wreckage, swerving wildly to dodge the tumbling hulks of metal.

Honestly, these black drivers had better reflexes than movie cops. In films, the first flipped squad car usually triggers a chain-reaction pileup. But in real life, these seasoned locals—who drove on the savanna daily—skillfully avoided disaster. Sure, they sacrificed a bit of speed, but it was a small price to pay to avoid flipping like their less fortunate comrades.

That chaotic moment bought the fleeing Land Rovers a critical advantage. As the convoy scrambled, Mark's team, acting as the rear guard, finally got some breathing room.

Moments ago, their vehicle had been half-surrounded, bullets spraying in from all directions. It had been hell.

Now? The enemy was lagging behind, and the bullets barely reached them—scattered and harmless.

Catching their breath, Sam and Old Bernie each emptied a magazine and ducked inside to reload. Sam muttered, "Looks like they can't catch up anymore. Unless they find a shortcut and cut us off ahead."

Mark still didn't have the bandwidth to speak. Old Bernie responded instead, "Cutting us off only works if there is a shortcut between us and the airport. As long as the lead vehicle's heading the right way—going straight for the airport—they won't get another chance to intercept."

"So we're just putting all our faith in Henry not screwing up?" Sam asked, uneasy.

"Yeah. That's all we can do," Bernie replied, pulling a few hidden grenades from the bottom of their weapons crate.

Sam's eyes lit up. The two men didn't need to discuss it—they each grabbed a few.

They pulled the pins, popped the safety levers, counted down in sync, and gently dropped the grenades out the windows. No need to throw them—the grenades detonated right in the path of the enemy convoy, sending up dirt, shrapnel, and confusion.

The pursuers couldn't afford to tailgate anymore. So Sam and Bernie simply began tossing grenades farther. And thanks to their training, they could make them explode exactly where they wanted, further delaying the enemy's chase.

Their precision made it clear how solid their military background was—especially when it came to grenade timing.

That said, frag grenades weren't exactly vehicle killers. This wasn't Hollywood. Even if one blew up directly under a truck, it might just cause a jolt. Unless key components were damaged, the vehicle could keep moving.

But at high speed, even a single jolt could cause chaos.

One unlucky bastard happened to drive straight over a detonating grenade. The truck bucked violently, throwing a few men from the open bed before finally regaining control—now trailing far behind the rest.

High on adrenaline, Sam shouted, "Let's do that again! I'll blow these bastards back to the Stone Age!"

"We're out. That was the last of the stash," Bernie said, shrugging helplessly.

"F**k. That's all you brought?"

"She didn't let us bring more," Bernie said, referring to Audrey. "If she hadn't stopped us, we'd be unpacking RPGs right now."

They had smuggled in some heavier toys for another mission, but all of that had already been delivered to their intended recipients.

"F**k!" Sam swore again, grabbing his rifle and poking half his body out the window. One leg was wrapped around the seatbelt to keep himself stable as he opened fire behind them.

Bernie wasn't nearly that bold. He simply stuck the barrel out and tapped off a few bursts, focusing on the vehicles that had managed to get the closest.

Neither of them was under the illusion they could wipe out the entire convoy by themselves. Historically, in Vietnam, the average number of rounds required to kill a single enemy soldier was over 70,000. With that in mind, their current ammo load was laughably insufficient.

The U.S. military had always operated on the doctrine of volume of fire—pouring bullets to achieve strategic goals. Killing wasn't even the top priority.

Right now, their goal wasn't to eliminate the pursuers—it was to survive long enough to reach the airport and get on that plane. The score with these bastards could be settled later.

Thanks to Henry's insane driving in the lead and Mark's death-defying pursuit in the rear—with Sam and Bernie creating chaos from the windows—the two Land Rovers finally began to leave the pursuers in the dust.

But the jeep driven by their former guide was still out there, and that meant the enemy knew exactly where they were going. Even if they couldn't see their tail anymore, they couldn't let their guard down.

Sam and Bernie returned to the cabin, taking a moment to check their gear and reload any spent magazines.

If the firefight dragged on, they'd eventually run dry. Even if one shot while the other reloaded, the moment they lost a gun in the fight, they'd start to lose ground. It was only a matter of time.

It was then they noticed just how fast their vehicle was moving—and how tightly wound Mark was. The man was holding the steering wheel like it owed him money.

"Brace!" Mark shouted suddenly.

Sam and Bernie dropped everything and grabbed onto the car's frame and side handles, locking themselves in.

Just in time.

The Land Rover hit a bump so hard it momentarily lifted off the ground before landing with a heavy thud.

They'd made it back to the highway.

Sure, Somali roads weren't exactly well-maintained, but compared to the open savanna, it was heaven.

This meant two things: one good, one bad.

The good? They were getting close to the airport—assuming they'd taken the correct road.

The bad? If the pursuers also made it onto the highway, Henry's route-planning advantage would disappear. From then on, it would all come down to vehicle performance.

Mark saw the rear door of the lead car swing open. Brian leaned out, motioning for them not to follow directly behind, then shoved a few crates out onto the road.

He shouted over the wind, "Lighten the load! We're not taking any of this with us—we don't need dead weight in the car!"

The message was clear. Sam scrambled into the cargo area, opened the back door, and prepared to start dumping boxes—only for Bernie to stop him.

Bernie pulled out a spare fuel canister and poured gas over one of the crates, then tossed the whole thing out.

Sam immediately understood and fashioned a quick ignition rig before giving the crate a final push.

The box burst open on the asphalt, the ignition catching quickly. Ammunition inside began to cook off like a string of firecrackers.

The enemy wasn't close enough yet to be hit, but the roadblock would definitely slow them down.

They tossed out a few more partly-used ammo boxes, creating a series of hazards along the road—some burning, some not. Then the two Land Rovers sped away, disappearing down the highway.

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