The slug, traveling at 3,260 feet per second when it left the muzzle, cored Alf Richardson’s head from front to back before Alf could blink. It entered squarely in the center of his forehead and burst out the rear of his cranium with such explosive force, much of his skull and a lot of his brain were splattered over the rampart. The last sound he heard was the thunder of the shot.
The last sight he saw was the gray sky as his head was snapped back.
Patrick Slayne dived flat, rolled, and came up into a crouch with the MP5 tucked at his side. He didn’t need to aim. He fired on full auto and stitched the man from crotch to throat.
Another rifle opened up, from a corner of C Block, and then two more, from behind other bunkers.
Slayne dived flat again, swearing at himself for his carelessness.
He’d liked the simple, sincere, and eager-ro-please Alf. It was why he hadn’t tossed Alf out of the Hunster that first day in New York City.
A slug whined off the wall, reminding Slayne he couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice. He wondered where Soren Anderson had gotten to and hoped the man wouldn’t do anything stupid like rush out into the open and get himself shot. He frowned as he remembered that Soren had chosen a shotgun. Shotguns were fine at close range but as useful as slingshots at any great distance. He risked a peek to see if he could spot Soren and nearly lost an eye.
One of the hostiles could shoot.
At that moment, Soren was sprinting back along the north arm of the moat. He didn’t know what was going on. At first he had thought it was Alf, shooting for some reason. But then he heard the submachine gun and more rifles. A pitched battle was taking place. But who was the enemy?
Soren gave no thought to his safety. His friends needed his help. He was staring toward the bunkers and the west wall of the moat, and he almost missed spotting the man in a flannel shirt crouched behind an oak not thirty feet away. He threw himself headlong just as the bolt-action rifle the man was aiming went off.
Soren cut loose with the Mossberg, pumping twice. The slugs hit the tree, not the man, but caused him to jerk back. Soren heaved to his knees to take better aim. He saw the man tugging frantically at the bolt.
His rifle had somehow jammed.
Soren acted without thinking. He let the Mossberg swing at his side by the shoulder sling, and was up and running toward the stranger, as fast as he could run. As he charged he yanked Mjolnir free of his belt and held the heavy hammer in both hands.
The man was still tugging. He heard Soren’s footfalls and glanced up.
“No!”
By then Soren was on him. He swung Mjolnir in an arc. Flesh and bone were no match for metal; a third of the man’s skull became pulp.
Soren didn’t linger. He raced toward the Blocks and spotted another man at the rear corner of C Block, firing up at the west wall. The man’s back was to him.
Soren pumped his legs, hoping the boom of gunfire would drown out the slap of his boots.
The shooter had a lever-action rifle and was firing spaced shots.
Suddenly he stiffened and half turned.
Soren had only ten feet to go. He covered it in two long bounds. The rifle went off, but if he was hit he didn’t feel anything. He swung at the man’s forearm and heard a crack. The man screamed and sought to flee, but Soren swung again, slamming Mjolnir against the side of the man’s head.
There was no need to confirm the man was dead, not when one eyeball was where his nose should be.
Soren ran on, but cautiously. As best he could tell, two more riflemen were firing from somewhere south of him. It puzzled him that he didn’t hear Alf and Slayne shoot back. He came to the far corner of C Block, stopped, and peeked out.
Up on the rampart, Patrick Slayne had set his gun selector from full auto to three-round burst. Now he reared up just high enough to trigger a trio of leaden hornets at a man who had been shooting at him from behind B Block.
The man ducked back, and Slayne dropped flat again. Soren realized Slayne and Alf had been pinned down.
One hundred yards separated C Block from B Block but Soren didn’t hesitate. He raced toward B Block. The rifleman was at the far end, the south end, so there was every chance the man wouldn’t spot him. Still, he prickled with the expectation of taking a slug. Relief washed over him when he reached the north wall. As careful as could be, he peered around the corner.
The man was at the other corner, looking up at the west rampart, his back to Soren.
Soren went to teach for the shotgun but changed his mind. Mjolnir hadn’t failed him yet. With a silent prayer to Odin, he slipped from concealment and ran in a crouch.
The man fired another shot.
Soren was close enough to see him clearly. An older man, hair streaked with gray, his chin covered with stubble. Around his waist was a cartridge belt. The rifle was another bolt-action. Soren had no idea what kind it was.
Up on the wall, the SMG burped.
Soren shut all thought from his mind and firmed his grip on Mjolnir.
Moving slowly now, making no sound whatsoever, he came up behind the man and raised Mjolnir over his head. He almost uttered a war cry but remembered that there was at least one more enemy to deal with.
Instead, he said quietly, “Give my regards to the Valkyries.”
The man glanced around. Fear twisted his features, and he tried to bring his rifle to bear.
Soren swept Mjolnir down with all his might. The splat, the blood, the dead husk at his feet
