gone? We've had it. Whatever they want, it's sitting in their laps now. I haven't heard any fire from the other boys for ten minutes. They've had it.'
'What they want is Dunninger,' Rick said emptily. 'He was the only one here when they came in. All the family just left for Mexico. Have you called him?'
'Hell, no. He's down there in the bomb shelter, probably shitting his pants. Damn this arm. You know, maybe Cliff had some shells left.'
Rick looked over at the body lying still where it had fallen. 'He had an assault rifle,' he said. 'The ammo wouldn't fit either of our gyros.'
Alfredo snarled, ' 'Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when you've used up your rocket shells, use his gun, I'd get it myself but you can move easier.'
Rick nodded, leaned his automatic against the metal wall, and painfully made his way over to the fallen body. There was little chance of enemy fire penetrating the two small gunports but he moved in a crouch, instinctively. The wound in his side wasn't helping any. He could have taken a syrette to localize it but he wasn't sure of the effect. He couldn't afford to have his whole right side paralyzed.
The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had insisted that their uniforms be neat and presentable. He didn't want them distracting the family and visitors with bandoliers of ammunition and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they'd had in their weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had largely used them up in the first moments of the assault on the Dunninger home. And from then on, they'd had insufficient firepower to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start. Nobody had time to make his way to the little armory for more ammo.
Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle behind him. His side was feeling worse by the minute.
He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down their mutual fear and apprehension by talk, 'What the hell happened, anyway? Who are they?'
'The Holy Mother only knows. If that stupid bastard Luca Cellini hadn't pulled the other four guys off, we would've had a chance. But eight of us weren't enough, especially with one shift sacked out when the sons of bitches hit.'
Rick said, 'Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were supposed to show up for replacements.'
'Yeah?' the other sneered. 'Bullshit. It's too much of a coincidence. Old man Dunninger's family leaves him alone here, four of his bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we're all in the dill. There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the dogs and three of the boys before we got wise. We're lucky we made it to this overgrown tin can with me covering for that fat cat Dunninger. Listen, there's not enough money in the country to pay for holding down a job like this.'
Rick said wanly, 'You should have thought of that during the two years we've been on this cushy assignment.'
'Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or, better still, the Graf himself. You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call out and tell 'em we're willing to surrender if they won't kill us. Hell, they don't want us, they want old man Dunninger.''
His companion, his side cramping up now, looked over sarcastically. 'Sure, Al. And then spend the rest of our lives on the run from the Graf. He doesn't like his boys to surrender. And what happens if we do? Not only are we on the run but that's the end of any compensation, any pension, any further credits from him at all. We'd be back on GAS and, so far as I'm concerned, I've got two kids I want to get through a good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Variable Basic Stock so they won't wind up living on nothing but GAS the rest of their lives.'
'Oh, great,' the other sneered. 'Two kids, eh? A regular one-man population explosion. Well, I'm not that far around the bend, Rick. I don't have any kids. I'm on my own. Those guys out there'll let us go. They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw the Graf. We'll worry about him when the time comes. We've both copped one, haven't we? What does he expect?'
Rick shrugged it off and peered through his gunport. He thought he could hear something going on in the house. What a sonofabitch of a pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to just wait it out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point that they couldn't resist anyway.
There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to the steel floor of the small pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sure he could move. A thin piercing tone began a steady whistle in his ear.
He called out finally, 'You all right, Al? They've got some kind of heavy weapon out there. That was an explosive shell, not just a bomb.'
'Shit! Whad'da'ya mean, am I all right? I keep telling you, we've had it! Yell to them. Toss in the towel.'
Another ear-blasting explosion whumped against the steel door. It sagged inward.
'Oh, Jesus,' Rick panted. 'Why can't those four new guards show up? Take 'em from the rear.' He struggled to work his Gyrojet automatic around.
'You stupid dreamer, you,' Alfredo got out. 'They're not coming. We've been set up. Left holding the fucking sack.'
The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing to the floor, barely missing the fallen Rick Flavelle.
'Here they come,' Alfredo snarled.
Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted en-tryway and jumped immediately to each side, crouching. They carried automatic shotguns, on the ready.
Alfredo swore, brought up his gun with his one arm, pulled the trigger, widened his eyes at the weapon's failure to fire, pulled desperately again. A shotgun blast tore his stomach away.
Rick threw his weapon aside, screaming, 'I'm out of it. Don't shoot! Give me a break!'
The first of the two approached him gingerly, covered by the second. Grimed by dirt, eyes wide with excitement and exertion, he was a good-looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more like a student than a gunman. He kicked Rick's weapon even farther to one side and shot a quick look at the bodies of Alfredo and Cliff.
He stared down at Rick and said, 'Why didn't you dizzards give up? We weren't after you. We want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You're just a couple of working men, doing the best you can to make some kind of decent living.'
'Yeah, yeah,' Rick panted. 'That's it. Don't shoot.'
The young gunman looked around at his companion. 'Call for the medic, and Ostrander.'
The second one nodded and went back to the door and shouted, 'It's secure. There's only one left and he's wounded. Where's the doc?'
A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a face at the carnage. He was middle- aged, and toted an old-fashioned assault rifle under one arm.
He looked down at Rick and said, 'Where's Dunninger? Don't make us force you to tell.'
Rick was losing most of his sudden panic but was still breathing deeply. He got out, 'Down in the bomb shelter. Over there; the trap door.'
'He armed?'
A doctor entered, carrying a medical bag. He was older, gray of hair, and obviously tired. Rick, undoubtedly, wasn't the only combat victim he had treated in the past hour of action. He shot his eyes around, dismissed the obviously dead pair, and came over to Rick.
Rick said, 'Yeah, he's armed,' to the one in command.
'That trap door locked from inside?'
'I don't know. I've never been down there.'
The doctor said, 'Shut up. Let me look at you,' and knelt down next to the fallen bodyguard.
But the commander said, 'Is there any way of communicating with him from up here?'
'That phone over there, hung on the wall.'
'Shut up,' the doctor repeated, fishing in his bag.
The commander went over to the phone, examined it briefly, put it to his mouth and ear, and activated a stud on its side.
He said, 'Dunninger? You might as well come on out of there, or we'll have to blow you out and that might
