Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

boom of the .50 cal as Mallet popped off two rounds at the shooter. The latter replied with a frenzied burst. Mallet fired a third time. The rebel machine gun still kept on peppering the rooftop. Mallet fired and got the dead man’s click as he reached the end of the ten-round clip. He set the weapon down, grabbed his rifle. Shouted into his mic.

‘Alex, stick an RPG in! Right of the arch. Corner. Engage!’

Bowman glanced down at the mortar pit, fifty metres to the north-west of the mansion. He spied Casey breaking cover from behind the rock wall, the RPG-7 launcher propped up on her right shoulder. She knelt down, took aim at the spot Mallet had identified next to the archway. Fired.

Flames gushed out of the flared opening at the back of the tube. The grenade whooshed across the front grounds of the estate and slammed into the turf next to the arched entrance, flattening the sentry box and another section of the fence.

‘Throw another one in there,’ Mallet said to Casey. ‘He’s still firing. Wallop the bastard!’

Bowman looked down. Casey was beside the mortar pit, jamming the stem of a second rocket into the tube. A handful of the rebels concentrated their fire at her, spattering the nearby wall with lead. Casey held up the RPG in spite of the rounds flying past her, aimed at the archway through the launcher’s flip-up sights. She fired again. The missile hissed across the front drive and smashed into the base of the archway with a crashing boom, burying the technical beneath an avalanche of rubble.

The shooter fell silent.

Then Bowman became aware of a movement at his ten o’clock, at the periphery of his vision. He saw a couple of figures kneeling beside the nearest assault team, their rifles elevated at angles as they popped off rounds from their under-barrel 40 mm grenade launchers. Aiming them directly at the mortar pit, two hundred metres away.

He screamed over the radio at Casey.

‘Alex! Incoming! Get the fuck down!’

Fifty metres away, Casey turned and ran towards the mortar pit.

The first grenade fell twenty metres short, splashing into the soft grass twenty metres north of the mortar. The second detonated to the south, ten or twelve metres from the edge of the pit. Outside the kill radius of a Russian grenade. But well within fragging range. The force of the explosion lifted Casey off her feet and threw her to one side, spraying her with fragmentation as she slammed head first into the garden wall. She crumpled to the ground beside Lanky’s ragged body.

Mallet instantly got on the radio. ‘Alex, are you there?’

No response.

‘Shit,’ Webb said.

Mallet tried again.

Nothing.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Loader ditched the GPMG, seized his rifle and the medical rucksack dumped near the skylight.

‘I’m going down,’ he said.

He set off across the roof before anyone could argue with him. Rifle in one hand and the medical rucksack in the other. He barrelled through the fire exit, disappeared down the stairwell.

‘Patrick, get on that Gimpy,’ Mallet ordered.

Webb snatched up the spare machine gun. He swept aside a pile of rubble blocking one section of the parapet, stabbed the barrel through the hole. Bowman refocused on the battle, looking for targets.

By now the main assault was in full swing. Less than three hundred metres separated the rebels from the mansion. From the rear of the estate came the crackle of small-arms fire, and Bowman knew the enemy must have sent a force round to that side.

They’re hitting us from all angles, he realised.

We’re in fucking trouble.

Immediately below, Loader sprinted out of the building.

Then Bowman glimpsed a blur of movement to his left. He jerked the GPMG across, saw a handful of rebels in the nearest assault team rising up from the dead ground. Their rifles trained on Loader. Going for the easy kill. Bowman depressed the trigger, lighting them up. Webb gave them another two bursts with the other Gimpy. More rebels kept popping into view, firing at the Welshman as he scrambled towards the mortar pit. Loader ducked and dived across the open ground, his short legs pumping madly, the earth fountaining all around him. He neared the pit and launched himself forward, diving behind the garden wall moments before a flurry of rounds thwacked into the grass behind him.

Keeping his head below the mortar pit wall, Loader deshouldered the medical rucksack and quickly checked on the bodies.

‘One man down,’ he said via his tactical radio. ‘The lanky fella’s dead.’

‘And Casey?’ Mallet said.

‘Concussed. Taken a couple of frags in her shoulder and arm. But she’ll survive.’

‘We’re taking incoming fire to the rear,’ Mavinda screamed over the comms. ‘Rebels have cut through the fence. I’ve got three men down.’

‘Hold that line,’ Mallet ordered. ‘Major, don’t let them get near the building.’

‘What the fuck is taking D Squadron so long?’ Webb snarled. ‘They should’ve been here ages ago.’

Bowman said, ‘We need to speak to Hereford. Get them to send a message to D Squadron. They need to know we’re in the shit.’

Mallet reached for his phone. One last desperate call. Bowman heard the Scot shouting down the line, identifying himself to the operator in Hereford. Telling them to get in touch with D Squadron and pass on the message. Hurry up. We’re about to get overrun. Then he hung up, retrieved his rifle and joined the others at the parapet.

The rebels were now two hundred metres inside the estate. Halfway to the grand prize. At that range, the two guys on the Gimpys didn’t need sniper spotters. Bowman and Webb were simply putting down frantic bursts left and right. The defenders were fighting manically to stem back the rebel tide. Loader was firing his C8 through a hole in the garden wall. Casey lay slumped in the mortar pit, clutching her bloodied shoulder. Gregory operated the Gimpy in the gun pit to the north. The staccato crack of gunfire echoed from the ground to the rear of the mansion as Mavinda and his men engaged