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

‘Tiny! Alex! Start moving!’ Bowman roared. ‘Now!’

Loader emptied a final burst. Then he grabbed Casey by the arm and started dragging her towards the stronghold. She limped along, struggling to keep up the pace as they zigged and zagged across the front lawn. Almost at once a group of three rebels shot up from a small depression and unleashed a blitz of rifle fire in their direction. Bowman and Gregory replied with short bursts from their rifles. One rebel fighter fell backwards. His muckers hurled themselves into cover.

‘Hurry!’ Bowman thundered. ‘Come on, Tiny!’

‘To the right. The fountain!’ Gregory called out.

Bowman whipped round. He spied two rebels kneeling beside the water fountain to the north. Seventy metres away. He fixed them in his sights and fired twice, hitting one of the enemies in the guts. Gregory nailed the other guy through the head.

A grenade detonated several metres off to Casey’s right, belching smoke and fragmentation. She stumbled on, tripped, then fell. Loader stopped and reached down to help her up.

Several cracks split the air.

Loader spasmed as the bullets tore into his body. One round smashed into his face, shattering his jaw.

Bowman saw the flickering of muzzles at his ten o’clock. The two other rebels behind the depression had broken cover and aimed their weapons at Loader, riddling his body with lead.

He instantly raked the depression with gunfire, slotting both of the rebels before they could duck from view. Then he lowered his rifle and shouted at Gregory.

‘Cover me!’

He shot up from behind the pillar and bouldered down the steps. Gregory continued peppering the rebel positions, keeping them busy as Bowman sprinted across the open ground. Legs chopping, lungs burning. He reached Loader, glanced down at him. There was no need to check for a pulse. His body was in rag order. Rounds had punched through his throat and right arm, his shoulder. Half of his face was missing. Bowman looked at his lifeless friend and felt something clench around his heart.

Tiny. One of the genuinely good guys of the Regiment.

Dead.

He grabbed hold of Casey and yanked her to her feet.

‘Move!’ he screamed at her. ‘Let’s go!’

They set off towards the stronghold. Casey stumbled forward, taking in ragged draws of breath. Bowman helped her along while Gregory put down covering fire from the porch. Enemy rounds slapped into the turf, missing them by inches. Somewhere to the rear a grenade detonated. Bowman gritted his teeth and urged Casey to move faster. They ran on, hit the front steps and raced up to the front door. Gregory stayed behind the pillar until they had reached the safety of the atrium. He gave the enemy a three-round burst and hurried back inside, slamming the front door behind him.

‘Are you hit?’ he asked Casey.

She shook her head.

‘Tiny,’ she croaked. ‘They got Tiny.’

Bowman nodded. Rage and grief swirled inside his chest. There would be time to properly mourn his friend later. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now.’

‘What’s the plan?’ said Gregory.

‘We need to barricade the door. Slow these bastards down if they try to breach the building. Stay here.’

They raced off in search of heavy furniture. Casey applied a field dressing to her wounds while Bowman and Gregory carried over a table from one of the dining rooms. They jammed it against the door frame, then reinforced it with several other sturdy items. A side cabinet, a sofa, a coffee table, several chairs.

As they worked, Mallet kept them updated on the enemy movements from his position on the rooftop. The rebels were less than a hundred metres from the mansion now. Webb’s GPMG had flamed out. Both men were down to their last four clips of 5.56 ammo.

This is like the Alamo now.

Gregory closed the plantation shutters screening the downstairs windows. ‘That should keep them at bay for a while,’ he said.

‘What now?’ Casey said.

Bowman looked at her. There was blood on her shirt, her trousers. Her face and hands were caked in dirt and battle grease. Frag metal pitted her right shoulder.

‘We’ve got to sort out the back. Do you think you can hold the front?’

‘I’ll be OK,’ she replied steadily.

‘Keep away from the door. That’s where the rounds will be coming in. Stick to the window. Tilt the shutters so you’ve got a gap to see through. If you see anyone coming up the front steps, drop them.’

‘What if D Squadron doesn’t come?’

Bowman didn’t get a chance to answer. Mallet’s voice boomed urgently over the comms.

‘Rebels approaching the rear of the stronghold. Heading for the terrace. Get over there. NOW!’

Thirty-Two

Bowman spun away from Casey. He nodded at Gregory.

‘Come on!’ he roared. ‘Let’s go!’

They broke into a run, crossed the atrium and darted down the corridor leading towards the salon at the back of the house. Bowman with his Colt rifle, Gregory gripping the AK-47 he’d taken from the gun pit. Another burst of adrenaline swept through Bowman’s veins, jump-starting his shattered body. He rushed into the salon ahead of Gregory and dived across the room to the French doors. He threw the deadbolts into the locked positions while Gregory circled round to the Steinway.

‘Give us a hand,’ Gregory said. ‘Get this thing against the doors!’

They had seconds to spare. Bowman hurried over, and the two men braced their legs and pushed hard, shoving the piano across the marbled floor. They stopped just short of the back door, then pushed up at an angle, tipping the piano onto its side. It wasn’t a great barricade, and it wouldn’t stop the rebels for very long. But it was the best they could do. There was no time for anything else.

‘Take the left window,’ Gregory said. ‘I’ll take the right. Don’t let them get inside. As soon as they breach this room, we’re fucked.’

Bowman lunged over to the casement window to the left of the central doors. He raised the C8 and peered through one of the glass panels. From his position he had a clear