Hawkes lifted the heavy weapon, squared it off at mid-chest height, and then opened fire at the left end of the row. He had meant to swing along the row and mow all of the gunmen down, but he had not reckoned on the weapon's recoil. The H&K had been modified to fire explosive shells, rounds that threw out an enormous back kick. The ambassador was able to keep his finger wrapped around the trigger only long enough to fire twice before being thrown backward, out of the barn.
The three invaders in the center of the line were instantly blown apart. The one to their right was thrown sideways, with gaping shrapnel wounds in his arm and thigh. The fifth escaped harm, however.
Taking advantage of the sudden drop in the volume of fire coming from the utility barn, several of Hawkes's wranglers triggered off again. The last of the five withdrew his position quickly, deciding to take his chances with whoever had attacked from the rear than with the men advancing on his position.
He hit the back door long before Hawkes had regained his footing. The ambassador had landed on his back. The blow had knocked the air out of him. The Ingram had torn into his spine, shooting stars of pain through his skull. Groping wildly, half-blind with pain, he was only halfway up when the fleeing soldier came through the door. The soldier spotted him instantly.
At once, the mercenary gripped the weapon tighter, swinging it around for a good shot. Hawkes desperately tried to do the same. Every move he made was far too many seconds behind his opponent, however. He was still trying to stand, still trying to bring his captured weapon around even as his enemy's trigger finger was tightening.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Disraeli hit the soldier solidly on the side, sending him flying. The man's machine gun discharged, barely missing Hawkes. The soldier hit the ground clumsily, landing hard on his side, cracking his head.
Wasting no time, the large black Labrador bit at the man's face, tearing his nose clear away from his head.
Ignoring the wild, blubbering screams erupting from his victim, the dog drove his teeth into the man's neck, crushing his windpipe. Blood gushed from the wound. Not troubled by the warm spray, Disraeli bit harder, then jerked his head upward. A large chunk of the man's throat came away with the motion. The air filled with blood.
Holding his side, the ambassador looked down at the retriever and whispered, "Damn good dog."
And then gunfire erupted from the back door of the barn. The shooter toppled back inside, thrown over by his weapon's recoil. Several yards from Hawkes's feet, Disraeli lay still, cut in two pieces—dead instantly.
The ambassador stood frozen; his eyes stretched wide. Inside, he understood what had happened: the shooter who had been aiming for him hadn't understood his weapon any better than he had the H&K. The recoil had thrown his shot wild, killing Disraeli instead of Hawkes.
His teeth grinding together, his eyes unblinking, his body trembling from rage, Hawkes started for the barn. He entered without caution or subtlety, immediately spotting a figure moving several feet inside. He came up to it and stood over it. The man was unarmed, not even able to hold on to his weapon when the recoil had caught him.
The ambassador lowered his weapon to fire, and then something the back of his mind had noticed forced him to stop. To look—to see that whoever had killed the faithful retriever was not dressed as the others. He wore regular clothing, clothing that Hawkes was startled to find he recognized.
"No."
Tossing aside the H&K, the ambassador reached down and jerked Daniel Stine to his feet. Holding him by his shirtfront, Hawkes spun the corps-appointed aide backward and slammed him against the side wall. Inside his head, a thin voice of reason whispered to him, pleading incessantly, Don't kill him. He knows who did this. He knows why it happened. Where it came from. Don't kill him. Don't kill him. He can tell us what's going on. He knows. He planted the bomb. He knows. Don't kill him. He knows—he knows—he knows.
Hawkes did not care. It did not matter what the man hanging from his fists knew. The ambassador grabbed Stine's head in his hands and smashed it against the wall. Once, twice, as hard as he could. Again and again.
For twelve years he had one friend, one confidant, one being in all the universe he trusted. Now he had no one.
Hawkes roared from deep within his chest, a numbing, echoing bellow that tore his lungs and bloodied his throat. Still screaming, he jerked Stine away from the wall and pitched him forward, toward the front of the barn. The aide stumbled blindly, flopping wildly in the flickering shadow-light cast by the fires.
The ambassador ran after the younger man, stepping on him when he finally fell. Hawkes let his heel dig into the man's chest, trampling him as hard as he could. In the back of his mind, common sense still raged at him: Don't kill him—don't kill him—
The ambassador's eyes cleared for a moment. In the background, over the last of the gunfire, he could hear the roar of the blaze taking his home to the ground. He could make out the voices of some of his people trying to control the fires, trying to help the injured. He could hear others crying, screaming as their pain pounded its way out of them, spiraling up into the night sky.
And then, out of all he could hear, his imagination created a noise for him, a sound resembling one of a tortured hound, dying by inches.
Without hesitation, Benton Hawkes reached behind his back, pulled his Ingram out of his belt, and fired, emptying his clip into the man on the ground before him.
8
THE NEXT MORNING FOUND HAWKES IN LITTLE BETTER shape than when the fighting had ended the night before. In many ways, he
