“You know what I think?” Paul said.
“We go in and kill them.”
Paul glanced at Romo. The man looked tired, with hollowness around his eyes. “First, we only have one weapon and I only have three magazines for it. Second, there could be Mexicans in the house, and I have no intention of killing them.”
Romo shook his head. “Chinese vehicles are there, meaning Chinese soldiers lived in the house. The Mexicans were driven out long ago. And we have two weapons, as I have a knife.”
“Okay, three weapons then. I have a knife, too. Are you sure no Mexicans are in the house?”
“I am positive,” Romo said. “Come, we will surprise the Chinese.”
“Unless there’s a dog in the house,” Paul said. “I’m surprised there aren’t any dogs out here.”
“They say Koreans and some Chinese eat dogs.”
Paul had heard the same thing. Who would eat a dog? That was barbaric. Yeah, he could believe it, though. Food was scarce behind enemy lines; at least that’s what he’d heard. That might cause some soldiers to butcher animals for the pot. Would they have butchered all the Mexican dogs?
Paul studied the barn, the back yard and the ranch house. The grass in the yard looked trampled. The dirt around the barn had a hundred tires tracks and now that he looked closely, he saw the barn had several scrapes as if brushed by heavy vehicles.
“They must have kept troops here,” Paul said. And those troops had eaten the dogs, which was a good thing for the two of them. A dog would have sniffed them out or heard them by now and started barking.
“Why are those two vehicles still here?” Romo asked.
“A thousand reasons,” Paul said. “Maybe one of the trucks had engine trouble and they stopped here. Maybe someone got sick. Maybe they were supposed to pick something up here. Maybe there are whores in the house and they wanted a quick one before heading out to battle.”
Romo stared at the two vehicles. “I doubt the truck is a troop transport. It looks like something is in the truck.”
A back door in the ranch house opened and three Chinese soldiers exited. One of them was talking and gesturing. Finally, the other two began laughing. A fourth man came out of the house. Instead of a helmet, he wore a hat with a single red star on it. He shut the door and inserted a key.
“He’s locking up,” Paul said.
Romo gripped Paul’s shoulder. “Kill them.”
“They’re too far for me to hit all of them.”
“I watched you in battle. You’re a good shot. Kill them and we’ll take the vehicles.”
“And then?” asked Paul.
“No more talking. You must kill them. Look, the one is beginning another joke. The officer appears interested. You must take them out, as we don’t have time to get closer. Besides, they’ll see us if we try that.”
Paul didn’t like it. It was too far to take out four Chinese soldiers. Yeah, he could take out one maybe…if he had a sniper rifle and time to settle down for a good shot.
“Now,” Romo urged him.
Resting the barrel of the assault rifle on a branch, Paul sighted the enemy. It was ninety yards, almost the full length of a football field. He had three magazines and that was it. Then he would be down to a knife just like Romo. If he took out the officer first—
Paul withdrew the assault rifle from the tree branch. It would be safer to let the Chinese leave. Afterward, they could break in and get some food.”
“What are you doing?” Romo asked. “We must kill them and take their vehicles. We cannot hope to remain hidden more than a day or two. We may not get another chance like this.”
Paul thought about that: take the vehicles. Yeah, that was a good idea. He watched the four Chinese soldiers. The joke-teller had gotten into his story. The other three watched him. The two enlisted men stood close. The officer—the man with the hat—stood farther away.
Taking his assault rifle, Paul began walking through the orchard. He didn’t head toward the enemy, but moved parallel to them. He wanted the barn between them and him.
“This is risky,” Romo said. He didn’t run, but walked beside Paul.
Paul was through talking. The tingling in his arms had begun. Five more steps put the barn between them.
“Better hope there’s no dog around,” Paul said.
As he reached the back of the barn and ran for a corner, he heard muffled laughter. Paul skidded slower and pressed his back against the barn. He peered around the corner. The back ranch yard wasn’t visible, at least the part the four Chinese soldiers stood on wasn’t. He probably didn’t have much time left.
There was a scrape of leather against wood. He glanced the other way and saw Romo sliding along the barn with him.
“You should have stayed in the orchard,” Paul said in a low voice. “That way, if I fail, you could get the heck out of here.”
“And leave my blood brother?”
Paul glanced into Romo’s eyes. That wasn’t a joke. The man was dead serious. Dead—
Taking a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, Paul pushed off the barn and walked for the ranch house. He passed the last corner of the barn. The four Chinese soldiers were splitting up, two walking toward the military truck and the officer and other enlisted man heading toward the Chinese Humvee.
Paul lifted the assault rifle, aimed at the officer and pulled the trigger. The butt slammed against his shoulder. The officer went down and the others turned in surprise. Paul fired again and hit the joke-teller, making the man stagger. Paul shot a third time, putting the jokester down. The two Chinese who had been heading for the truck stared at him. One clawed for his pistol. The other whirled around and sprinted for the truck. Paul shot him in the back, putting three bullets into him. The soldier lifted off his feet and smacked his forehead against the cab of the truck. He sagged, his chin striking the truck before he rolled onto the ground. An enemy bullet ricocheted off gravel, puffing dirt twenty feet in front of Paul. Pistols were terrible at range. They were even worse when caught by surprise.
“Drop your gun!” Paul shouted.
The Chinese soldier brought up his other hand, clutching his pistol two handed, aiming at Paul.
“Drop it!” Paul shouted.
The soldier fired. This time there was no ricochet. Instead, wood splintered in the barn. A quick-glance showed a bullet-hole ten feet up. The man had aimed far too high.
Paul fired, putting several slugs into the soldier’s chest.
Romo clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Excellent.”
Paul almost turned on him with a snarl. Instead, he nodded, feeling hollow inside. Those four, they never had a chance. They weren’t all dead yet, but they were all down.
Romo strode for the four. Paul watched him. After Romo reached halfway, Paul realized what the man was going to do.
“Wait!” Paul shouted.
Romo never even turned around.
Paul wondered if he should do anything to stop Romo. This was war, right? The Chinese were invading America. They were heading for LA. They had to be. He hadn’t started this. Then again, neither had those four started the war. He doubted they had any or much say in where they had ended up. Now it was over for them and over for their jokes.
Almost, Paul turned away. He stood there, holding his assault rifle as Romo checked each Chinese soldier. With two of them, Romo cut their throats, using his weapon, his knife.
The Chinese had stolen Romo’s country. There was no pity in the man. Paul wondered what he would feel like if the Chinese, if the Pan Asian Alliance, the South American Federation and the German Dominion, conquered America. Maybe he would cut every enemy throat he could by that time. What had happened to Romo? Had he lost
