another
“Shit,” cursed Lia. “What the hell — they couldn’t find them? Shit.”
“Eyes on the prize. I’m on your left.”
“Right, right — truck!”
Dean heard the vehicle and saw a pair of headlights moving well beyond the building. He moved up the alleyway to the front of the warehouse building, but he still couldn’t see the truck. Karr and Lia exchanged a terse pair of curses, then stopped transmitting. Dean pulled out one of the ear buds, listening for the truck. He heard the motor somewhere on his left, beyond a row of squat shadows that had been drawn as one-story buildings on Karr’s handheld. Then he heard something else considerably louder — the crackle of three or four automatic rifles working through their magazines.
12
Lia cursed as the bullets began to fly. The idiot Russians didn’t have a clue where they were but were putting so much lead out that sooner or later they were bound to hit something. She had gotten her knife into one of the dogs as it came at her, and used the rifle butt on the second, crushing the Doberman’s skull and killing it instantly.
Damn shame to hurt dogs. She felt like shit.
The Russians stopped firing. They had flashlights, and she saw them flickering about ten feet away, near the entrance to the fenced-in yard where she was. Then they put the lights out.
“You see where they are?” said Karr in her ear.
Something moved very close to her and she froze, not even daring to answer.
“Damn,” Karr cursed in her headset. Obviously he was pinned as well.
Okay, Marine, Lia thought to herself. This is where you show us you can live up to your re?sume?. Get your cute butt in here and show us you’re more than gray-haired eye candy, Charlie Dean.
13
Dean plunged across the large circles of gray-yellow thrown by the spotlights, running across an access road into a level field strewn with gravel and weeds. Three or four huts sat at the other end; the fenced yard where Lia and Karr had gone was just beyond it. At the near-left corner was the truck he’d heard.
What he couldn’t see were people.
So all the high-tech bullshit was just that — bullshit. It was a liability now — if one of the other team members were captured, the Russians could probably figure out how to use the gear to locate the others.
Like him.
Kneeling, Dean unclipped the mike from the collar of his shirt and put it as low as it would go on his shirt, where he folded the fabric over to cut down as much as possible on any ambient noise. He’d continue listening over the headset; it might give clues on what else was going on.
If it came to it, he’d have to take off the pants and their locator device. Stinking high-tech toy crap.
Dean took one of the extra clips from his pocket, holding it in his hand as he moved to his right, flanking the truck and the small buildings. The perimeter fence stood on his right, near what seemed to be a generator shack; a motor hummed inside it and there was a faint glow from under the door, as if a night-light were on inside. Beyond this was a lagoon of muck, which extended beyond a chain-link fence. Inside the chain-link fence sat a row of old cars.
Or not-so-old cars. They looked to be Mercedeses. Dean still didn’t have a good read on where his team members were or who’d fired the guns. He began edging toward the truck, moving parallel to the fence. Finally he saw something move on the other side of the truck and he froze.
A man with a rifle.
Short, five-six or — seven. Bulky, maybe because of a vest.
Dean watched the man walk to the front of the truck, scan down the fence line, then walk back. Thinking he might start the truck and turn on the headlamps, Dean lowered himself to the ground and waited a few moments. When nothing happened, he got up and strode as quietly but quickly as possible toward the truck, aware that he was exposed to anyone in the huts on his left.
There’d be at least one other person working with the guy at the truck. Otherwise, he would have left.
About twenty feet from the truck, Dean’s boots splashed into a shallow puddle. He stopped, leveling the AKSU slightly lower than he’d normally aim, figuring it would ride up when he fired. He was worried, too, about the vest.
But the Russian didn’t hear the noise, or at least didn’t check it. That bothered Dean — maybe the man had moved away from the truck. Dean stepped through the puddle as quietly as he could, moving into a crouch. He slid the second clip back into the back of his pants, scanned around to make sure he wasn’t being flanked himself, then edged backward, taking an elliptical approach to the rear of the truck. When he was less than five feet away, he saw the Russian standing a few feet from the tailgate, zipping up after taking a leak. The man glanced over his shoulder, then reached into his pocket to light a cigarette. He had his gun under his arm.
Dean flew forward. He was a step and a half away when the Russian heard him and started to spin around, bringing up his rifle. The short wooden stock of Dean’s AKSU smacked the Russian in the side of the skull so hard he fell out of Dean’s reach. Dean jumped after him, hammering the man’s chin with his boot but losing his balance and falling backward on the ground near the rifle the Russian had dropped. Dean rolled to his side, levering himself up and throwing out his elbow to protect against the attack, but the sentry lay limp nearby.
Dean waited on one knee, momentarily unsure of his bearings. The sketch from Karr’s handheld had shown an opening along that side of the fence, but he couldn’t remember how far up it was.
He could hear something.
Feet on gravel. Inside the fence.
Dean moved behind the truck, then circled around. He saw a figure emerge from the fence line about twenty yards up. As he brought his AKSU up he felt something sting him hard in the side, an errant fastball catching him in the ribs. He spun, catching a muzzle flash a dozen yards away. The submachine gun on Dean’s hip barked, the recoil easier than he’d thought.
Dean threw himself to the ground as the figure by the fence fired. He touched the glasses, steadying the image. The man he’d fired at had gone down and didn’t seem to be moving. As Dean twisted his head toward the other Russian, he saw a shadow retreating away from the fence.
Still on his belly, Dean began following. Before he reached the fence, two figures carrying rifles appeared on the other side, back near the truck. Dean cut them both down, aiming high enough to hit them in the necks or heads above any armor they might be wearing. As he fired, the man he’d been tracking began to shoot as well. Bullets whizzed in the dust; Dean managed to crawl into a shallow gully and reload.
He lost track of the gunman for a second as he started to crawl out. Thinking the man had retreated, Dean climbed to his feet. Almost immediately, two bullets bounced off his vest. They barely hurt, but before he could return fire he lost the man again. Dean dived back into the ditch.
Most likely the Russian had a nightscope or something similar. Dean thought of the smoke grenades Lia had given him — they’d work just as well against a night device as they would in daylight. He took one from his pocket, thumbing off the tape. As he went to toss it, the gunman began firing again, this time with a much heavier weapon.
Adrenaline screamed in Dean’s veins. He curled his body and leaped from the ditch toward the fence. The Russian had moved to a PKU machine gun a few yards from his original position. The smoke may have blinded him — his shots were wild and high — but also made it difficult for Dean to see.
Best bet, he thought, was to flank the sucker while he was focused on the smoke. Dean crawled sideways to the fence, rose, then shouldered the chain links until he got to the opening. As he dashed across, something
