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

line of sight to the terrace. He could see the stone balustrade, the limestone steps leading down to the rear sloped garden. Bowman figured the distance between the steps at the end of the terrace and the salon was no more than twenty-five metres.

‘They’re coming,’ Gregory said.

On the far side of the terrace, three rebels surged into view.

Gregory crouched and took aim from the fixed window to the right of the blocked door.

Bowman lined up his first target. Two of the rebels had surged ahead of their mate, running hard as they sprinted towards the stronghold.

The clicker counter in his head told him that he’d expended three clips of 5.56 × 45 mm ammo already. Two on the rooftop, one at the front of the mansion. Which meant he had one magazine left, plus the ten bullets in the clip housed in the weapon. A grand total of forty rounds. Not much. Not against a large force of rebels. Once he was out of ammo, Bowman would have to resort to his secondary weapon. The Glock 17 pistol holstered to his belt.

We’ll be taking pistol shots at these bastards soon.

He centred the weapon on the rebel to the left, pulled the trigger. The muzzle flared. Two rounds blasted through the windowpane, shattering the glass into a million pieces before they thumped into the rebel. The man tumbled backwards, arms windmilling. Gregory fired simultaneously at the other guy, giving him a two-round burst to the face.

The third rebel ducked left and scampered towards a classical statue mounted on a stone pedestal. Bowman fired twice, missed, depressed the trigger again. The bullet struck the man in the ankle, shattering bone and ligament. The rebel screamed and crashed to the tiled floor, hands pawing at his fucked-up lower leg. Bowman permanently silenced him with a double-tap to the face.

Three enemies down.

Two rounds left in the clip. Thirty-two rounds in total.

‘How many mags have you got, Mike?’ Bowman called out.

‘Down to my last two,’ Gregory said.

‘We’re in the shit. Big time.’

‘Keep fighting. Don’t let the bastards win.’

Bowman threw a quick glance at his old OC. The guy has still got it, he thought to himself. He might be older and worn around the edges. But he’s the same tough officer I fought alongside in the Regiment. Now we’re fighting shoulder-to-shoulder again. Just like the old days.

Except this time, there’s no one to bail us out.

Another four rebels ran up the stairs to the terrace.

Bowman and Gregory opened up as soon as they popped into view. They cut down two of the enemy with surgical precision. Bowman put two bullets into the lead rebel, stitching him in the groin. The man howled in agony, hands cupping his shredded balls as he sank to his knees. The other two KUF men immediately responded with a couple of bursts of their own. Bullets smashed through several of the windowpanes. Bowman felt a searing pain as a round streaked past him, grazing his cheek. He gritted his teeth and lined up the two rebels darting for cover behind the statue. Depressed the trigger. Got the dreaded click.

He dipped his head below the window, released the empty clip. Reached for another.

‘Reloading!’ he shouted to Gregory. ‘On my last mag!’

Thirty rounds left.

He came up. Through the blown-out pane he spotted five more figures storming across the terrace. He lined up the sights with the nearest target. Double-tapped. Missed. Gregory shot a second guy through the chest. The other rebels spread out and found cover, firing at the salon from behind statues and stone ornaments. One figure bolted towards an enormous planter crowning a stout plinth. Bowman clipped him with three rounds to the guts. His body slapped dully against the floor, like dropping a bag of cement.

The six others kept up a continuous stream of gunfire, punching holes in the French doors and the Steinway. One burst struck the wooden bar on the back wall of the salon. Bowman glanced back and saw the bottles racked on the shelves exploding, spilling shards of glass and premium whisky over the counter.

As he returned fire, Bowman noticed two of the rebels were moving off to the left side of the terrace. He hooked the C8 round, but they swept out of sight before he could pull the trigger. A moment later, another three enemies sprinted up from the lower garden level to join the fight. The nearest rebels were twenty metres from the salon.

They’re almost on top of us now.

‘There’s too many of them!’ he yelled.

‘Keep engaging,’ Gregory shouted back. ‘Don’t let them get inside!’

Bowman put down another two rounds.

He didn’t think about dying. He didn’t think about anything beyond the next three seconds. He was operating on a purely mechanical level. Picking out targets, aiming, firing. Like a runner fixed on completing the next mile, the next lap, the next metre. His entire world had reduced to the twenty metres of ground in front of him.

He shot a scrawny soldier through the head as he scrambled across the terrace. The round uncorked his brains like champagne. Then Bowman heard the shrill crash of shattering glass. It came from somewhere to his left. His nine o’clock.

The room next to the salon.

‘They’re coming through the dining room windows,’ Gregory said. ‘Get over there, Josh!’

Bowman shrank back from the window, his heart hammering frantically. He scudded round to the open door on the left, past the abandoned teddy bear and the dried patches of blood marking the spot where the president’s brother and niece had been killed hours before. Bowman stopped just inside the doorway, his rifle at shoulder-height as his eyes skated across the chandeliered room. He saw a mahogany table the size of a spaceship, pictures of bare-breasted women on the wall.

He saw a rebel in wraparound shades on the other side of the room, jumping down from a broken window. A second figure was climbing through the opening after his comrade. The rebels freeze-framed at the sight of Bowman standing