Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Return fire from the End-Timers kicked up dirt around them now, pinged off the rocks. One of the colonel’s men must have been hit, howling in pain. Rakkim scrambled to another position about twenty yards away.

…taking casualties…

…keep killing them, but…just keep…who are they?

The Colonel’s men fired a barrage of mortar rounds, balls of fire erupting in the trees below. Rakkim blinked, kept shooting. Mortars were a lousy tactical trade-off-the blasts wouldn’t deter fanatics like Crews’s End-Timers, and anyone on the plateau wearing night goggles would be blind for minutes. He slapped in another magazine.

The Colonel moved nimbly over the rough terrain. “Never did talk to you about that Fedayeen prisoner. I felt bad that you had to be the one to put him out of his misery.”

“He was ruined,” said Rakkim, watching the underbrush beside the trails. “It was the only kindness I could give him.”

“Right through the heart.” The Colonel shook his head. “Happened so fast I didn’t even see it. None of us did.” The wind stirred the grass. “Redbeard must have been-”

…overrun here, Tiger Six, southwest perimeter…multiple penetrations…

“Fall back, son,” the Colonel said gently, “gather your men and rally along the heavy-equipment depot. I’ll send a reaction force.”

Rakkim sighted on a skeleton man he remembered from Crews’s church, ugly bastard waving a copperhead. Before he could get a shot off, the man ducked behind an outcropping of rock. Rakkim held the shot, finger curled on the trigger, sight centered on the last place the man had been.

…bandits in the wire!

Rakkim squeezed off a round as the skeleton man peeked from behind the rock, sprayed the boulder with pink.

Heavy gunfire roared from the heights around him as the End-Timers launched waves of attacks, dozens and dozens of them clawing their way straight up the slope. The machine guns on the heights opened up, swept back and forth across them, and the End-Timers broke and fell back, disappeared into the trees. Some of the Colonel’s men started after them, but the Colonel quickly put a stop to that, said he’d shoot anyone dumb enough to leave the high ground.

…still looking for those reinforcements, Tiger Six.

The Colonel raced ahead of Rakkim, the two of them sprinting across the camp. The Colonel stopped three times to check on his men, offering encouragement, giving orders. At the heavy-equipment depot, they dove behind a twelve-ton earthmover, bullets slamming into the sides, then crawled to a gigantic bulldozer that the ranking officer had turned into a command post.

The southwest perimeter was a mess, men strung out without regard to the fields of fire. The lieutenant and both sergeants were dead. A big blond corporal with pimples and a belly wound had assumed command and was directing the holding action against the End-Timers. He had dug his men in, sent runners for ammunition; from the shelter of the bulldozer he directed return fire, and did his best to secure the perimeter before he bled to death. According to the Colonel’s palm display, over a hundred of Crews’s men were KIA, but at least that many were still putting pressure on the unit.

“Sorry…sorry, sir,” gasped the corporal. “We keep killing ’em, but…they don’t care.”

“No cause for apology,” said the Colonel, gently applying a pressure bandage to the corporal’s wound. Blood continued to leak out the sides.

Rakkim set himself up behind the blade of the bulldozer, started taking down End-Timers who ventured into view. They seemed more cautious now, eager to hunker down and seek cover. Precisely the wrong tactic. Once they had cracked the Colonel’s defense perimeter they should have launched an all-out assault. If the southwest perimeter collapsed, the whole camp was at risk of being overrun; the Colonel’s remaining forces would suffer attack from inside and outside the line. Yet the End-Timers seemed listless and burned out, either awaiting orders from Crews or a resupply of bathtub meth.

I sent four of my boys to your house, Tiger Six, said Gravenholtz. Figured the missus might need a little extra protection.

“Appreciate it.” The Colonel sent runners to redirect the troops to a drainage ditch, allowing them to put the End-Timers in a cross fire the next time they charged the yard. They waited, listening to the sound of scattered gunfire and war whoops, and the groaning of the wounded. “I know your secret, Rikki,” said the Colonel.

“Yeah?”

“It’s my secret too.” The Colonel moved closer. “The secret of every warrior who ever lived. Battle is a frightening thing, a terrible thing, but once you develop a taste for it…nothing else comes close. Men like us weren’t meant to die in bed.”

“Well, I was kind of hoping,” said Rakkim.

The Colonel rested his hands on his pistols. “You’re a fine young killer, destined for better things. Don’t look so glum…I meant it as a compliment.”

“We winning, sir?” said the corporal.

“We’re holding our own,” said the Colonel. “Thanks to you.”

An hour passed. Then another. It was almost 2 a.m., darker than ever.

Rakkim slid into the brush, listening; he worked his way deeper behind enemy lines, trying to see if the End-Timers were massing for another rush. They lay clustered under the shelter of the trees, must have been over a hundred of them, passing around jugs of moonshine or turpentine, waving their weapons. He got a glimpse of Crews, striding among the trees with reinforcements; the men cheered, fired into the air, and in the sudden flash of gunfire, he saw the shekel of Tyre on a chain around Crews’s neck, the coin swinging back and forth with every step. Rakkim raised his rifle, but Crews stumbled as Rakkim squeezed the trigger, the skeleton man beside him knocked backward. Rakkim got off three more shots, but Crews cowered behind a tree as his men opened up on Rakkim’s muzzle flash, leaves drifting down around them from their concentrated fire. Rakkim retreated back to the heavy-equipment yard.

“Crews is leading a force of around a hundred and fifty men,” Rakkim said to the Colonel, “but they’re more of a mob than a military unit. Give me a dozen men, Colonel, and we’ll infiltrate the woods and circle behind them.”

The Colonel shook his head. “Can’t risk it.”

“I just need-”

“I said no.” The Colonel jabbed a finger at his palm display of the battlefield. “We’re getting more pressure from the north and south. I may have to shorten our skirmish line here and send reinforcements to the other sectors.” He glared at Rakkim. “And don’t tell me what I would have done when I was younger. This is now. And I have to protect the weapon.”

“COLONEL!” The amplified voice boomed out of the forest. “MALCOLM CREWS HERE. YOU GOT SOMETHING BELONGS TO ME, YOU HEATHEN FUCK.”

The corporal raised himself up on one elbow, frightened. The Colonel eased him back down, then ordered another mortar barrage into the forest, trees exploding in all directions, until one by one the mortars fell silent, out of ammunition.

Crews’s laughter echoed from the forest. A single shot boomed out, a 50-caliber rifle from the sound of it. Boom. Boom. Boom…

One of the eight-ton trucks used as a barricade exploded. Then another, as Crews’s 50-caliber marksmen found their gas tanks, the heavy slugs cutting right through their light armor. Rakkim fired back at the muzzle flashes, silenced a couple of the shooters, but there were too many of them. A bulldozer lifted six inches off the ground as its tank went up. A front loader blew up, fell over on its side. Crews’s men had the range now, set off two trucks to the rear of the Colonel’s line of troops. A backhoe erupted next, sent flames high into the sky. They were surrounded by flames now, illuminated by the spreading fires, perfect targets. A few of the Colonel’s men broke ranks, headed for the darkness, but were cut down before they went more than a few feet.