crested morions pulled low-swept out of the Palazzo Giove, ignoring the crowd to the south of the doorway, and smashing through the stragglers to their right, to the north.
Six, Juliet counted: no, eight. And behind them, firing occasionally to rout those who did not flee fast enough, were foot soldiers. Who also turned north as one body.
Toward the fountain and the shattered gateway into the embattled courtyard of the Palazzo Giacomo.
They knew we were coming, Juliet realized, knew it all along. And they fooled us; they fooled me.
Suddenly gripped by terror-more because she had been outwitted than in response to the peril at her heels- she turned and ran for her life.
Sherrilyn handed Felix off to Donald as they got back behind the roof peak. Matija, bleeding from a through- and-through gunshot wound in the upper left arm, hooked a thumb at the belvedere. “I think we got one. Their fire has dropped off.”
Donald almost fell when Felix lost all strength in his legs and collapsed. And Sherrilyn could see why: what she had first thought was a belly wound had actually been a little higher than that. The bullet might have clipped the lower periphery of the right lung.
“What now?” Ohde asked as Paul came over to support Felix.
Sherrilyn shook her head. “We’re pulling out.”
Matija was dumbfounded: “We’re-?”
“Look, if we stay on the roof, we’ll still get sniped at. Harry’s got no angle on their shooters in the belvedere, so no help there. The hole Gerd’s package blew in the roof is too small and the Spanish are all over it, so we can’t get in fast enough, even if we wanted to. And it sounds like the courtyard has become a shooting gallery, with the bad guys doing almost half the shooting. So we’ve got only one option left: we run like hell.”
And they did.
John O’Neill, looking up, saw no immediate progress at Frank Stone’s window. His gaze turned to the empty pepperbox revolver in his hand, and he realized the moment of truth had come: reloading. Under pressure. In combat.
However, the weapon had made a fine mess of the Spanish who had been in the loggia. Particularly since the Wild Geese had loaded their first cylinders with double shot. The two Spaniards who survived the subsequent swordplay-the ones closest to the door-had darted through and barred it.
So, staring at the pepperbox as if he might bend it to his will, John O’Neill began the reloading process. He snapped the locking cap into the “off” position, thumbed the hinge release and broke the weapon open. Well, not so bad so far…
Don Vincente reentered the room and nodded to the hall behind. “Ezquerra, I think they have abandoned their attempt to come through the roof. But oversee the guards in the adjacent room. And mind: the up-timer weapons shoot through these walls. With great effect.”
Ezquerra, suddenly neither lethargic nor incompetent, nodded, but paused. “Don Vincente, if I am no longer by your side-”
Vincente held out his hand.
The sergeant gave him a well-oiled leather case of some length.
Vincente nodded his thanks and moved slowly in the direction of the window.
John O’Neill slid a new cylinder out of its pouch and tapped off the wooden band that kept the preseated percussion caps snugly in their places. Then he started sliding the cylinder down the axial arm.
Next to him, Gerald Fitzgerald nodded upward. “Movement overhead, Lord O’Neill. Near the window. But it doesn’t look like-”
A long muzzle flash jetted from between one of the ground floor windows’ shutters. As if side-kicked by the accompanying roar, Fitzgerald fell over with a groan, the shot having punched clean through his buckled cuirass and the buff coat beneath.
John, with the practicality born of long battlefield experience, accepted that Gerald was dead and there was nothing to be done but to reload before the Spanish bastard did.
With the cylinder securely seated on the arm, he snapped it back up into position. Almost ready. And if the first fellow who appeared at the window overhead wasn’t Frank, John would have a nice surprise waiting for him…
Don Vincente had opened the leather case and removed an up-time shotgun.
Frank gaped. “That shotgun. That’s mine. From the bar.”
“Yes.” Vincente cycled the action expertly.
Frank pushed Giovanna away, while squirming back against the wall and holding up his hands. “Hey, now wait a minute-”
But Vincente did not bring it up or even aim it in his general direction. Instead, he walked briskly to the window.
As Owen helped up the last of the lefferti, he looked backward through the courtyard gate into the piazza. The once-bold rioters were fleeing past, running for their lives, no doubt driven off by the huge volley he had just heard from farther down the street. Damn it, there was no doubt left: the rescue attempt had been expected and was a failure. Now the only question was if they could escape before it became a full-fledged disaster.
Unfortunately, Owen had been hearing telltale signs that such a dire outcome might indeed be imminent. The discharges of the Wrecking Crew’s up-time arms were no longer coming from inside the Palazzo Giacomo, nor even near their planned entry-point on the roof; instead, they were dwindling, going back the way they had come.
Owen, knowing he’d get an argument he didn’t have the time for, turned to tell John the fight was over, and that he’d bodily drag the earl to safety, if he had to.
That was when Owen saw that the window above John O’Neill was opening. “John!” Owen shouted, and sprinted in his direction.
John replied with an annoyed “What?” Damn it, why does Owen have to start fussing at me while I’m loading this contraption? I just have to snap down the-there, locked. And loaded. As Harry always liked to say.
Finished, and feeling a great sense of pride, John swung the weapon upward-just in case the movement Gerald had seen at the window was something other than a prelude to the escape of Frank and Giovanna…
A figure was already in the window above. From which bright thunder roared down at the earl of Tyrone, the same kind of thunder that Harry’s shotgun made.
Driven down to his knees by a torrent of crushing, searing hammers that cut through his body in a dozen places, John O’Neill almost fell, but pulled himself upright again. He raised the pepperbox Another yellow-flaring thunder-bolt struck him down from above; the brief burst of excruciating pain it caused became sudden numbness.
So, John thought as he collapsed forward, that fellow in the window wasn’t Frank, after all.
Owen felt his throat constrict as he saw one of the last two princes of Ireland smashed to the ground by a second full load of double-aught buckshot from overhead. He emptied three chambers at the window-just as the dim figure there jerked back sharply.
Owen arrived at John’s side, already shouting orders. “Synnot, get over here. The rest of you, cover us.” With Synnot’s help, Owen got the mumbling, bleeding John O’Neill up off the ground. “We’re leaving,” he ordered through his tears. “Everyone: fighting withdrawal.”
Harry, blood coating his burning shoulder, noticed that the stock of the Remington was sticky and wet. As was his shirt. And the table upon which the rifle was resting. And the sandbags upon which it was stabilized. “Signor Lefferts, you not look so good,” said Benito.
Harry nodded, waved him toward the signal building. “Go over there. Tell them, ‘lights out.’ Send runners to order withdrawal.” After a moment, he gestured at the one remaining lefferto. “You go with him.” There was no point risking another youngster’s life by keeping him up here, since he didn’t really need spotters anymore.
As the two young men’s feet pounded down the stairs, Harry swayed back into the firing position, gritting his teeth as he set the stock into his brutalized shoulder. Through the scope, he could see Juliet running with the rest of the fleeing rioters but, being heavily built, she was quickly falling to the rear of the crowd.
Juliet was pumping her legs as fast as she could when there was a blast behind her. She went down, her left buttock apparently aflame. But no, it was just a pistol-shot through the thick of the flesh. Flesh, she allowed, of which she had plenty to spare. She struggled back to her feet, her lungs burning almost as badly as her rear end, and tried to resume running.
