been firing at oncoming VC from a spider hole he'd found, but they just kept coming. The stack of belts at his feet was diminishing. He aimed a head shot at the enemy charging at him, and his M-16 jammed. Dropping down into the blackest corner of his hole, he'd feverishly broken his weapon down, trying to unjam the firing mechanism. He was halfway through, screaming in frustration and rage, when a VC came over the top firing. At the advice of a special forces cowboy he'd met one night in a hot tub in Saigon, Carey whipped a deadly knife out of his shoulder sling. He caught the attacking Charlie just under the rib cage with his blade and ripped him in half clear up to his head.
The assault had abruptly ceased moments later, as though Carey's victory had signaled retreat.
Shoving the magazine into place, he shook the disturbing images aside. Forcing away the bloody sights of death, he felt pleased Rifat's men had chosen a Kalashnikov. They never jammed.
Egon saw the small flurry of movement first. Molly nodded as he silently pointed out its location. “See them?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I'll take the last one, you take the other.”
Their rifles poised and tracking, they followed the slight stirring as a branch shifted and a shrub quivered.
Carey was just rotating the selector to full automatic when Deraille and Reha opened fire on him. He rolled away from the rounds kicking up the lawn around him, scrambling backward and shoving the indicator onto automatic
If he'd taken a second longer in his reloading, he would have been too late to see Ceci step out of the bushes behind Carey.
Egon's scream tore through the sultry night like a machete through gauze, a high-pitched, piercing wail of rage and appeal. “No-o-o-o!” And it echoed above the report of his rifle shots as he ran across the open lawn firing.
Ceci swung round at the cry and aimed automatically at the running figure, allowing Carey the split second he needed to redirect his weapon at Reha and Deraille as they came out of the woods at a run. It was his nightmare over again, and he held his finger solidly on the trigger as they came at him-a VC flashback of death and terror.
Egon staggered backward. Hit in the shoulder, the bullet had passed through his lung with the impact of a freight train. His arms flew outward as he slammed into the ground as if he'd been thrown by some giant hand.
Molly watched in horror as the man behind Carey who had just shot Egon, took careful aim-this time at Carey.
Focused on Deraille and Reha's assault, firing at the two killers who seemed to keep coming at him despite an onslaught of bullets, Carey was unaware of Ceci's objective.
There was no time for finesse or even thought; she barely had time to superficially sight in. Not realizing she was shrieking above the deafening roar of gunshots, Molly fired.
He fell, but like a marionette on strings, he pulled himself jerkily upright and stumbled back into the black shadows of the trees. She emptied her rifle into his back, but he wouldn't fall. Like a scene from a horror movie where ghoulish creatures survive every conceivable means of death.
When her ammunition ran out, she finally halted her own shrill cry. The silence was almost more ghastly than her wild howl.
Egon was spread like a crucified Christ on the manicured lawn, the bloody wound on his chest visible even from her position yards away.
There was no sign of Carey.
No sound.
And Rifat's men could be waiting in the trees.
Gulping back the suffocating sob caught in her throat, she forced herself to reload her rifle.
She counted her remaining magazines aloud in a low murmur to still her fear, as if the sound of her voice was protection from the danger surrounding her, as though the sound of her voice would guarantee Egon wasn't dead and Carey wasn't dead and nothing she saw would be real. She could create her own reality with her voice and ignore the one before her eyes.
As she counted the six remaining magazines, she looked up briefly to steady her nerves. Her fingers were shaking. She saw the pale glisten of Carey's head slowly appear above the automobile hood.
Dropping the rifle, she ran toward him without thought or consideration, without heed for his shouted cry, “Go back!”
Carey hugged her back with one arm only, with the other he slowly swept the foliage with his assault rifle.
“You're alive,” Molly whispered between sobs and tears and damp kisses. “You're alive!”
“You took a helluva chance,” he murmured gruffly. “We don't know where they are.” Carey was cold-eyed and tensely alert, though the feel of Molly next to him was sheer heaven.
“Egon's shot,” Molly said, her voice suddenly unsteady. “He may be dead.”
Carey didn't answer, his gaze still on the trees. Were Rifat's killers waiting for them to stand up and become better targets, or were they dead or wounded? His decision to stay quiet a few moments longer reminded him of all the rotten choices he'd been obliged to make day after day in Vietnam. They were wretched choices like this, selfish and cruel and pragmatic. The kind that kept you alive.
“In another minute I'm going to stand up very slowly and we'll see if they're dead or gone or still around.”
“Don't,” Molly pleaded.
“I'll take it real slow. We've got to help Egon… he saved my life.” Carey hadn't seen Ceci until Egon's scream warned him, and without that alarm he'd have been cut in two with rounds. Taking a deep breath, he slid his arm from around Molly's shoulder. “Don't move,” he cautioned. And very slowly, inch by inch, he raised himself from the ground until he was standing. “Stay here,” he ordered, “while I check for bodies.” And in the shuddering aftermath of the nightmare she'd just lived through, Molly didn't raise her voice in dissent.
Carey had to be sure. Even though Egon may be bleeding to death, he couldn't take a chance they were using Egon for bait. He stepped into the shadows of the trees and disappeared.
The minutes Carey was gone seemed like a thousand terrifying lifetimes as Molly sat huddled by the car, alone in the silent, moonwashed night. She strained her ears to catch some sound of Carey's direction, but it was as if he'd left her alone in an alien world, and she felt fear creeping closer like an unseen enemy.
It seemed like terrifying hours, though it was only minutes later when Carey reappeared, carrying two extra weapons. “Two dead,” he said, “and a trail of blood down the mountain. The third man.”
Egon felt like he was suspended in air, his whole body floating somewhere above his head. His collapsed lung only allowed slow little sucks of breath, and he waited for the blackness to descend-the kind he'd always heard described before death. The low murmur of Carey's voice drifted across the lawn. He tried to shout to him, but he couldn't draw enough air into his lungs. Then, as he lay there waiting to die, and no blackness or dazzling light appeared, it occurred to him that perhaps he wouldn't die. And a spirit of hope possessed him. He moved his hand slightly, feeling the damp grass. But when he tried to move his legs, they wouldn't move, and the effort brought choking blood into this throat and mouth. He thought with despair:
He closed his eyes. When he looked up again, Carey was kneeling over him, his face a mirror of despair.
“I can't feel my legs,” Egon said, but his voice was so weak Carey had to put his head next to his lips to hear him.
“It's all right, Egon,” Carey said. “You're going to be all right.” And he looked away so the lie wouldn't show in his eyes. Egon's right shoulder was torn apart, and the sound of his lungs was like so many he'd heard in Vietnam before the blood choked off all the air.