Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“ Don’t ,” Constance said again, in a voice that would freeze steel.

“I knew it,” Kormann said, spitting at Pendergast’s feet. “You’re her sugar daddy. A sugar daddy who likes his pussy extra sweet .” And he drew his hand back for another blow.

In a blur of motion, Constance raised one hand — the gleaming tip of her stiletto appearing between her fingers — and whipped the knife at him even as she appeared to drop straight down and out of sight.

There was a moment of stunned disbelief, a fresh rattling of weapons, several shots fired into the darkness where Constance had stood. And then silence. Nothing seemed to have happened — until Kormann staggered slightly and made an odd gesture, lifting his hand to his throat. And it was only then Coldmoon made out the handle of Constance’s stiletto. It was buried to the hilt in Kormann’s neck, just beneath the jaw.

Kormann tried to speak, but only a gurgling noise emerged. He took one step and crumpled onto the stone floor of the courtyard.

Then all hell broke loose.

Instantly, the soldiers opened fire at the spot where Constance had been, all their attention focused on the archway. It gave Pendergast and Coldmoon a split-second opening. Pendergast grabbed Alves-Vettoretto and yanked her toward the broken wall, while Coldmoon followed, all of them diving over it and taking cover behind.

The courtyard was a scene of mass confusion, the soldiers firing indiscriminately through the archway as they rushed forward. But then, to Coldmoon’s infinite surprise, the M240 suddenly opened fire, its bark deeper and slower than the chattering assault weapons of the defenders. It enfiladed the courtyard, mowing down some and sending others into a panic, diving and scrambling for cover, including two who, mortally shot, tumbled over the low wall and almost into Coldmoon’s lap.

He seized one of their weapons and poked his head up. To his right he could see Constance flat on the ground behind the machine gun, in a depression that gave her cover, gripping the weapon with furious purpose, her entire body shaking as the disintegrating links of the belt-fed cartridges flew away in a gathering pall of smoke. In a flash, he realized that Constance, while pretending to lose her grip and drop the gun, had instead contrived to set it atop a hummock that acted as a natural revetment, exposing only its barrel and bipod. He and Pendergast, who had grabbed the gun from the other dead soldier, fired from behind the wall, further decimating a panicked mob of soldiers within, running and scrambling in every direction as, one after another, they were shot to pieces.

But many other soldiers had taken cover and began shooting back in a more organized fashion. Coldmoon could see that Constance, with the barest of cover, wasn’t going to last long against the increasing rain of fire.

It seemed Pendergast realized the same thing, because he locked eyes with Coldmoon, then glanced over their covering wall. Immediately, Coldmoon understood. They leapt over the wall together, firing across the courtyard to where the soldiers were taking cover behind pallets of bricks.

They divided, and Coldmoon ducked down behind a pile of stones just as a series of high-velocity rounds ricocheted past him. Constance apparently took notice, because the deep thunk of her weapon turned his way and he saw a fusillade of 7.62 mm NATO rounds stitch a line along the wall about five feet from him, cutting down two soldiers who’d been aiming in his direction. They fell to the ground, jerking like spastic marionettes as the bullets tore through them. Another soldier rose to return fire, only to get torn apart by the M240, blood and brains mushrooming against the courtyard wall.

“This way,” he heard Pendergast shout, barely audible over the din.

They dashed across an exposed area to another pallet of bricks about twenty yards from the archway. Together, they rose just high enough to see over the pallet, then sent off twin bursts of fire at the soldiers, dropping two more.

Coldmoon noticed that Constance was firing in bursts, pausing every few seconds to choose a new target before firing again. Now and then, a tracer round from her gun flashed across the courtyard. Consciously or not, she was pacing her shots; but even so, he knew the barrel of her weapon would overheat within minutes. The soldiers were firing at her now in a more coordinated fashion, bullets striking all around her, throwing up gouts of dirt. Coldmoon heard one round ricochet off the half-empty cartridge box.

A few more bullets whined over his head, hitting the pallet of bricks. Pendergast popped up and fired off several bursts of his own, suppressing their fire. The incoming rounds stopped, but now Coldmoon could hear fire from somewhere else, above, pattering around them like hail — the tower. Pendergast turned and fired upward, burst after burst, and it abruptly grew darker as some of the klieg lights were shot out. Finally, with another burst, darkness fell completely, the only light now coming from the indirect glow of the complex.

Coldmoon risked another glance over the bricks. The courtyard looked like a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay everywhere: sprawled over terraces, slumped against walls. Blood ran in rivulets across the old stones. A soldier was dragging himself through the courtyard, crying out for help.

Suddenly, the deep bark of Constance’s weapon ceased. For a second, Coldmoon heard the patter of spent casings falling in the foliage around her. Then that, too, stopped. For a moment, he thought she’d been killed. Then he realized what had happened: she’d expended her two-hundred-round belt, and the ammunition box was empty.

Quickly, he glanced back over the courtyard. A dozen, perhaps more, soldiers were out of commission. But there were still several who were taking advantage of this pause to find better defensive positions — almost all of them behind and atop a stone parapet on the far side of the courtyard. With its advantage of height, and crenellations for shelter, that wall made for a formidable firing position.

Constance was almost entirely obscured by smoke, but Coldmoon could just make out movement. She had risen from her prone position and, as he watched, he could see her — barely more than a shadow — open the weapon’s cover assembly, sweep out the feeding tray, then start loading in a fresh ammunition belt from the second cartridge box. She botched it and, with an impatient gesture, started trying to feed it in again. If he could only get around to help her... but there was open ground between them, sure suicide.

A burst of fire came from the broken wall, more gouts of dirt spitting up all around Constance as she struggled with reloading. The remaining soldiers were organized — and they were shooting from an elevated position at the increasingly exposed figure fumbling with the gun.

“Cover me,” Pendergast said.

Coldmoon laid down suppressing fire while, in a sudden break, Pendergast ran at a crouch across the courtyard to get a better line to the parapet. Rising himself, Coldmoon also took aim at the parapet. The shooting from the soldiers temporarily abated while Constance cleared the feed tray and succeeded at reseating the belt. Out of the corner of his eye, Coldmoon saw her close the cover and yank the charging handle into position. A moment later, the deep, powerful cadence of her weapon began raining death upon the parapet. Huge pieces of stone fell from its walls, like an exhalation of ruin, a web of cracks spreading as the wall itself began to crumble. And then, abruptly, the entire structure collapsed, sending soldiers and stones alike down into a cloud of brick dust and powdered mortar.

“ Move ,” said Pendergast. They both leapt up and, trading off suppressing fire, ran along the edge of the courtyard until they reached the ruins of the archway, then took up positions on either side, flanking Constance.