Black Rain

Hawker braced the rifle for a shot. “Stay to the right of my line.”

Verhoven got in position to run, and the two men waited in silence for the mercenaries to fire again. A full minute ticked by and then another, but the radio and the German guns remained idle.

“Come on,” Hawker whispered.

“Maybe they’re done,” Verhoven said.

That was a possibility Hawker didn’t want to consider. He tightened his grip on the rifle, and squinted through the scope. The figures at the defense console were close to the screen, leaning into it, examining it carefully. He could hit them with ease, but in the silence of the night that would have given them away.

The silence lingered and Verhoven shook his head. “We’re going to need a new plan.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know but this isn’t—”

Beside them the radio squawked and Verhoven pushed off, just as the guns began shredding a new section of rainforest.

Hawker braced the rifle, exhaled calmly and squeezed the trigger.

The first bullet hit one target square in the chest, eight inches below his Adam’s apple. The man collapsed backward without a sound, just as Hawker fired again.

Running hard, Verhoven heard the second bullet whistle past. He saw the target fall and an instant later he was on them. He recognized Devers rolling on the ground clutching at a shoulder wound and the man who’d called himself Kaufman leaning over the body of one of his mercenaries, desperately trying to pull a rifle out from underneath the dead man.

At Verhoven’s approach, Kaufman turned, only to be pistol-whipped across the side of the head. He fell awkwardly, stunned and moaning, only semiconscious.

Beside him, recognition hit Devers like an electric shock. Bullet wound and all, he lunged for the defense console where his own weapon lay, but Verhoven blocked him and shoved him back to the ground. He aimed the .45 at the linguist’s head. “That’s right, boy,” he said. “This is going to be a bad night for you.”

The firing in the distance stopped, perhaps saving Devers’ life, and Verhoven heard Hawker come running up. He pointed to Kaufman. “You missed one.”

“Looks like we both need to work on our counting,” Hawker replied.

Verhoven turned to survey the field. From where they stood, a direct line could be drawn to each of Kaufman’s foxholes, like spokes emanating from the center of a wheel. Leaving out the bunker they had just come from, there were five manned foxholes, with two mercenaries in four of the five and a solitary soldier in the fifth. The battle was far from over, but he and Hawker now held the advantages of surprise, position and control. Only the numbers were still against them, and that was about to change.

“They’re still watching the trees,” Verhoven said. “Waiting for the natives to come screaming through the forest like the bloody Zulus.”

Verhoven’s hand floated over the defense console as he waited for Hawker to get ready. “Too bad for them,” Hawker said, steadying his rifle.

With the barrel of the .45, Verhoven casually flicked a switch and the world around them turned to daylight. In the same instant, Hawker drew a line and began to fire.

Kaufman’s mercenaries were suddenly exposed, caught against the far walls of their foxholes and looking into the distance, their backs to Hawker and Verhoven. They heard firing but no orders, and they were confused by the sudden use of the floodlights.

They scrambled around, some of them reaching for their radios, others firing in various directions—out into the trees and across the clearing, almost everywhere but toward the center. Those who did turn around saw only the blinding glare of the spotlight. And in the swirling confusion they fell in rapid succession.

Hawker aimed and fired and retrained his rifle, turning rapidly from bunker to bunker. In ten quick seconds, four of the bunkers had gone silent. But before he could draw on the fifth, a spread of shells ripped through the equipment lockers beside him. He and Verhoven scrambled for cover.

“North side,” Verhoven shouted. “That’s all that’s left.”

Hawker ducked, turned and fired back.

The men in the bunker popped up and fired again, the bullets kicking up dirt and splintering part of a wooden crate. A stone hit Verhoven, stinging his neck. He put his hand to the spot to make sure he hadn’t been hit, then fired back angrily as Hawker changed his position.

“Two at least,” Verhoven shouted.

Amid the carnage, Kaufman began to move. “No,” he growled, semicoherent and trying to stand. “No. You don’t realize what you’re doing.”

Verhoven kicked him back to the ground as more bullets whipped past, blasting out one of the floodlights in a shower of embers. Hawker’s return fire was more accurate and the mercenary who’d taken the shot fell, dead. The other soldier ducked back into the bunker.

“Listen to me,” Kaufman begged. “We can stop this.”

“Shut up!” Verhoven shouted.

It was too late. The last of Kaufman’s men took a chance that he shouldn’t have, stepping up for a shot.