holes in several of the cinder-block huts inside the village. Alexander could smell vegetables boiling and fresh fish sizzling on the fire.
McPherson checked by radio with his men. No sign of enemy patrols. No hint that they had been detected.
Shamar was in council with the rebel leaders and the traitors within the government who were in league with the rebels.
He touched Alexander on the shoulder. Cole jerked as if a hot ember had seared his skin.
"It's time," McPherson said.
Alexander nodded, his lips pressed to a bloodless tight line. "Okay," he said, with a firmness he did not feel. "Let's get it done."
McPherson thumbed his palm-sized radio again. "All units—attack!"
And they were up and running toward the village. It was not walled; it was nothing more than a roughly circular collection of the cinder-block buildings, none of them more than a single story high. Alexander held his submachine gun in both hands, felt the weight of the grenades on his chest, the pistol flopping in its holster at his hip, the bulky electronic binoculars pressing against the small of his back.
On both sides of them other men in jungle green and floppy hats, guns held level, were racing across the clearing between the forest and the outer ring of huts.
McPherson sprinted a few steps ahead of Alexander and dashed in between the two nearest huts. No one else was in sight except his own mercenary soldiers.
But then a burst of gunfire off to his right. Alexander saw McPherson skid to a stop on the dusty bare ground and flatten out along a cinder-block wall. He did the same.
A soldier in a dirt-caked steel helmet popped out of a doorway and squirted a burst of semiautomatic fire at them. McPherson threw himself to the ground and fired back in one motion. The soldier screamed and fell back into the hut.
"Come on!" McPherson yelled. Alexander followed him on legs suddenly gone rubbery as the New Zealander raced to the hut and threw a grenade into the doorway.
It exploded almost immediately. Smoke and screams billowed out the doorway.
"Squirt 'em!" McPherson commanded, already heading for the next hut.
Alexander ducked into the smoky doorway, coughing as he pointed his gun inside the hut. Squinting, he saw a tangle of bodies huddled next to a small table splintered by the grenade's blast. He knew what he was supposed to do: spray the bodies with bullets, make certain no one would stagger out of that hut to shoot them in the back.
His finger froze on the trigger. They're all dead. Have to be.
One of the bodies moaned and writhed in pain. A woman, her colorful skirt smeared with blood.
Alexander doubled over, fighting down the bile that was surging into his mouth. He backed out of the doorway, took a gulp of fresh air, and saw that he was alone.
Gunfire deeper in the village. The crump of a grenade.
Men's deep voices shouting and cursing. Screams, high-pitched with terror and agony.
He ran down the crooked lane between huts and saw several of the green-clad mercenaries blazing away at the rooftops. Chunks of cinder block flew in all directions, but no one seemed to be up there. Then the black oval shape of a grenade arced against the flaming sunset sky and exploded between the men. Their bodies were flung like rag dolls, smashed against the cinder blocks.
A fragment caught Alexander, nicked his shoulder and spun him halfway around.
He saw three men with assault rifles coming up toward him. No, two men and a woman. Ragged clothes, but the rifles looked polished and new.
He could not fire at them. He knew he had to kill them or they would kill him. He commanded his finger to squeeze the trigger. He silently raged at his hand to do what it had to do. Yet his finger would not move a millimeter.
The woman shot him, a single round, straight at his chest. Alexander felt a tremendous hammer blow slam him down into the ground. The blood-red sky went dark. The last thing he heard was a man's voice bellowing angrily over the sound of more
McPherson checked by radio with his men. No sign of enemy patrols. No hint that they had been detected.
Shamar was in council with the rebel leaders and the traitors within the government who were in league with the rebels.
He touched Alexander on the shoulder. Cole jerked as if a hot ember had seared his skin.
"It's time," McPherson said.
Alexander nodded, his lips pressed to a bloodless tight line. "Okay," he said, with a firmness he did not feel. "Let's get it done."
McPherson thumbed his palm-sized radio again. "All units—attack!"
And they were up and running toward the village. It was not walled; it was nothing more than a roughly circular collection of the cinder-block buildings, none of them more than a single story high. Alexander held his submachine gun in both hands, felt the weight of the grenades on his chest, the pistol flopping in its holster at his hip, the bulky electronic binoculars pressing against the small of his back.
On both sides of them other men in jungle green and floppy hats, guns held level, were racing across the clearing between the forest and the outer ring of huts.
McPherson sprinted a few steps ahead of Alexander and dashed in between the two nearest huts. No one else was in sight except his own mercenary soldiers.
But then a burst of gunfire off to his right. Alexander saw McPherson skid to a stop on the dusty bare ground and flatten out along a cinder-block wall. He did the same.
A soldier in a dirt-caked steel helmet popped out of a doorway and squirted a burst of semiautomatic fire at them. McPherson threw himself to the ground and fired back in one motion. The soldier screamed and fell back into the hut.
"Come on!" McPherson yelled. Alexander followed him on legs suddenly gone rubbery as the New Zealander raced to the hut and threw a grenade into the doorway.
It exploded almost immediately. Smoke and screams billowed out the doorway.
"Squirt 'em!" McPherson commanded, already heading for the next hut.
Alexander ducked into the smoky doorway, coughing as he pointed his gun inside the hut. Squinting, he saw a tangle of bodies huddled next to a small table splintered by the grenade's blast. He knew what he was supposed to do: spray the bodies with bullets, make certain no one would stagger out of that hut to shoot them in the back.
His finger froze on the trigger. They're all dead. Have to be.
One of the bodies moaned and writhed in pain. A woman, her colorful skirt smeared with blood.
Alexander doubled over, fighting down the bile that was surging into his mouth. He backed out of the doorway, took a gulp of fresh air, and saw that he was alone.
Gunfire deeper in the village. The crump of a grenade.
Men's deep voices shouting and cursing. Screams, high-pitched with terror and agony.
He ran down the crooked lane between huts and saw several of the green-clad mercenaries blazing away at the rooftops. Chunks of cinder block flew in all directions, but no one seemed to be up there. Then the black oval shape of a grenade arced against the flaming sunset sky and exploded between the men. Their bodies were flung like rag dolls, smashed against the cinder blocks.
A fragment caught Alexander, nicked his shoulder and spun him halfway around.
He saw three men with assault rifles coming up toward him. No, two men and a woman. Ragged clothes, but the rifles looked polished and new.
He could not fire at them. He knew he had to kill them or they would kill him. He commanded his finger to squeeze the trigger. He silently raged at his hand to do what it had to do. Yet his finger would not move a millimeter.
The woman shot him, a single round, straight at his chest. Alexander felt a tremendous hammer blow slam him down into the ground. The blood-red sky went dark. The last thing he heard was a man's voice bellowing angrily over the sound of more
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