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

in front of the door. They stared in horror at the dark mouth of the rifle barrel.

Bowman gave them four blasts from the C8. He aimed at a third figure crawling through the next window, squeezed the trigger and got the click. He tossed the weapon aside, ripped the Glock out of the holster and put two shots into the man’s centre mass.

‘That’s it,’ Gregory hollered from the salon. ‘I’m out. Nothing left! Fall back!’

Bowman backed out of the dining room. At the rear window, Gregory retrieved a hand grenade from his pocket. He tore the pin out, posted it through the broken pane. Then he ran over to Bowman and the two men retreated towards the corridor. There was a loud bang from outside as the grenade exploded, momentarily scattering the rebels.

Bowman pushed the pressel switch attached to his vest. ‘We’re out of ammo,’ he said. ‘Down to our pistols. Rebels about to breach the back of the stronghold.’

‘Enemies are almost at the front door,’ Casey said over the team radio. ‘I can’t hold them off! Falling back.’

Bowman and Gregory ran on. They had only a few seconds before the building was overrun. Seconds to find a secure part of the building to hole up in. Retreating to the basement or the rooftop wasn’t an option. They were too far away. The atrium would be overrun with rebel fighters by the time they got there.

Gregory stopped in front of the door to the private study.

‘In here,’ he said.

They darted into the room. Gregory slammed the door shut, twisted the lock. He shouted to Bowman, and they dragged over a bulky bookcase and wedged it sideways against the jamb. The sounds of splintering glass and wood came from the other side as the rebels tried to gain entry through multiple points along the terrace and the front of the building.

Bowman stepped back. He waited in front of the barricaded door. Pistol in his hand, his clothes caked in sweat and dirt and lead particles. His adrenaline levels were through the roof. Any second now, the enemy was going to storm inside.

And then it will all be over.

‘Give us a couple of those,’ Gregory said, pointing to the grenades Bowman was carrying.

Bowman handed them over. ‘Never thought I’d die in this shithole,’ he said.

‘It’s not over yet.’ Gregory smiled grimly. ‘We can still take down as many of these bastards as possible. Let’s give them something to remember us by, eh?’

Bowman nodded. ‘I’m ready.’

They waited.

The crashing noises suddenly cut out.

Bowman stared at the closed door.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he asked after a few seconds.

‘Listen,’ Gregory said.

Bowman pricked his ears.

At first, he didn’t hear it. Then a sound came from somewhere beyond the walls of the stronghold. A noise that was instantly familiar to any seasoned Hereford operator. The deep throated bark of a Browning .50 calibre machine gun.

‘Christ, have they got more hardware coming in?’ Bowman said in despair.

Gregory crinkled his brow. ‘I didn’t think the rebels had any Brownings.’

Bowman spoke into his throat mic. ‘What’s going on out there?’ he asked.

Silence.

He tried again. ‘John? Patrick?’

Still nothing.

Then Webb came over the radio, shouting excitedly, ‘They’re here! It’s D Squadron! They’ve arrived!’

Bowman and Gregory hastily dragged the bookcase away from the door. They paused outside the study for a moment, checking for any sign of the enemy. Then they hastened down the hallway into the salon, Bowman sweeping his eyes left to right as he led the way. Gun smoke hung like a veil over the room. He hurried over to the shattered window, gazed out past the empty terrace at the rear garden.

An armoured vehicle had gone static to the east. Bowman recognised it at once. A Regiment-modified Jackal, rigged up with a fearsome amount of firepower. Twin-mounted GPMGs on the front, a belt-fed MK19 grenade launcher operated by a third man on the back. Twenty soldiers in camo kit and plate armour charged forward on foot while the bloke on the back of the Jackal pumped the grenade launcher. They were engaging the enemy using the tried-and-trusted fighting tactics of 22 SAS. The Jackal providing the heavy support fire, the men on foot sweeping forward in five-man assault groups. The soldiers blasted away with their C8s at the rebels as they bolted towards the rear fence.

Mallet had made contact with D Squadron. Bowman heard the Scot in his earpiece as he talked with the squadron over the open comms system.

‘There are friendlies in the stronghold,’ he was saying. ‘Do not engage, repeat do not engage.’

Behind the assault groups, the guy on the MK19 chugged away at the fleeing targets. Grenades churned up the earth, shovelling clumps of loose soil into the air, atomising the few rebels left standing. Within seconds, the ground to the rear of the stronghold had been almost cleared of enemy combatants.

Bowman felt an indescribable sense of relief. ‘They made it. Thank fuck.’

‘They’ll slice through this lot in no time,’ Gregory remarked. ‘It’ll be over in a minute now.’

‘Yes.’

He turned to Gregory. The two men shared a look. Something unspoken passed between them. A bond only those who had stared death in the face could understand.

‘Check on the family,’ Bowman said. ‘I’ll check on the rooftop.’

They jogged out of the salon. Back down the corridor, past the study, into the atrium. Casey appeared from a separate hallway to the left, a dazed look on her face.

‘Is it over?’ she asked in a weak voice.

‘It will be shortly,’ said Bowman. ‘The lads in D Squadron are taking over now. Our part’s done.’

‘Thank God.’

She slumped to the floor, as if her tired legs simply couldn’t support her any longer. Bowman left her by the stairs and climbed back up to the roof, his weary muscles making one last effort.

On the rooftop, Mallet was busy giving fire orders to D Squadron. Bowman heard him directing them onto targets from his vantage point high above the action. Webb crouched beside him, a blood-speckled field dressing wrapped around his head. There