Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  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 the enemies pouring through the back fence.

  Bowman reached the end of the belt. He brushed away the piles of link and spent cartridges littering the cement floor. Grabbed another belt.

  ‘I’m running low on ammunition,’ he called out. ‘Three belts left.’

  ‘What have you got left, Patrick?’ Mallet asked.

  ‘Five belts,’ said Webb.

  ‘Ammo report,’ Mallet said into his mic.

  ‘Two belts,’ came the reply from Gregory.

  ‘Four mags,’ Loader said.

  ‘Five mags,’ said Casey.

  ‘We’ve got next to nothing back here,’ said Mavinda. ‘One box of two hundred.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ Webb said. ‘We’re gonna run out of ammo soon.’

  Bowman briefly scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of the dust clouds that might signal the imminent arrival of D Squadron. But the skyline remained agonisingly clear. Almost fifty minutes had elapsed since the reinforcements had landed at the nearby airfield. For the first time, Bowman started to lose faith.

  They’re not coming. We’re not going to get any help.

  ‘Rebels at our eleven o’clock!’ Webb shouted. ‘They’re in the drainage ditch!’

  Bowman swung his weapon round, focused on the ditch running south towards the corner of the ornamental garden. The rebels on the right flank were working their way down the spine of the canal, using the dead ground to sneak up close to the house. Just as he had feared. Once they reached the garden wall, it was all over. At that point the enemy would be less than fifty metres from the stronghold.

  A few more paces and they’ll be in hand grenade range.

  ‘Tiny! Enemies approaching in the ditch. About forty metres from your position,’ Mallet hollered over the comms. ‘Get ready to detonate those Claymores. On my signal.’

  Down in the mortar pit, Loader put down a three-round burst and crawled over to the clacker, staying low to avoid the rounds whipping overhead. Enemy bullets and grenade shrapnel splintered the mound of rocks around him. On the far side of the wall, the horde of rebels in the ditch crept towards the north-west corner of the garden.

  Closing in on the mortar pit.

  Mallet counted down their approach to the team.

  ‘Rebels are about thirty metres to the Claymores . . . Twenty metres . . . Fifteen.’

  Bowman and Webb blasted away at the assault groups to the north.

  In the mortar pit, Loader prepared to detonate the Claymore clacker. The enemy rounds were striking dangerously close to his firing point, chipping away at the rocks.

  ‘Ten metres to the Claymores,’ Mallet said. ‘Five . . . Fire!’

  The ditch erupted with a pair of thunderlike booms. The rebels disappeared behind a swirl of blackish smoke, earth and debris. Hundreds of steel balls smashed into their tightly packed ranks, puncturing flesh and bone. Metal fragments and dirt ricocheted off the steep sides of the ditch, increasing the lethal field of debris cutting through the men. The agonised cries of the wounded and the dying split the morning air.

  ‘They won’t be trying that again for a while,’ shouted Webb.

  ‘Aye, but it won’t stop the rest of them,’ Mallet said.

  Bowman hooked the Gimpy back round to the main assault groups and fired at the next team on the move. The rebels were still pushing forward aggressively. By this point, they had covered almost three-quarters of the ground to the stronghold. In another few minutes, he knew, they would be dangerously close to the main building.

  There was still no sign of D Squadron.

  He fired another burst. The GPMG glowed red hot, distorting the barrel and rendering the weapon useless.

  ‘Gimpy’s fucked!’ he shouted as he chucked aside the flaming machine gun. ‘Switching to my rifle.’

  Time became a blur. Minutes stretched into hours as the team kept on putting rounds round. Bowman’s eye was suddenly drawn to a puff of smoke from the rebel ranks. He saw one of the fighters launching an RPG at the rooftop and shouted a warning at his comrades. The rocket whistled just over the parapet, missing the team by inches before it self-detonated somewhere in the distance, exploding uselessly over the forest.

  ‘Christ, that was close,’ Webb hissed.

  Bowman got to the end of a clip. He fished out another from the pouch, reloaded. Then he heard Gregory’s voice in his earpiece. ‘I’m out. Repeat, I’ve got no more ammo for the Gimpy.’

  ‘We’re almost out, too,’ Loader said. ‘Down to our last mags. We’re taking a lot of incoming.’

  ‘Prepare to fall back,’ Mallet said into his mic. ‘Back to the stronghold. Josh will cover you. We’ll make our stand here.’

  He glanced to his right.

  ‘Get downstairs,’ he said to Bowman. ‘Give the others a hand. Once you’re all inside, secure the front door. Don’t let anyone get through. We’ll defend this place or die trying.’

  Bowman pulled back from the parapet. He scrambled over to the fire exit, stooping low to avoid the bullets zinging above his head. He flew down the stairs, raced across the central atrium and shouldered through the front door. Knelt beside one of the stone bases buttressing the marble columns along the porch. Brought up his rifle, pointed it through the gap betwee
n the pillars and filled his lungs.

  ‘Get back!’ he thundered. ‘This way!’

  At his twelve o’clock, Gregory began sprinting back from the gun pit, AK-47 in his right hand. Bowman supported him with sustained bursts, engaging any rebels showing an interest in his old boss. The second guy in the pit, Toothbrush, lay motionless beside the abandoned GPMG. Gregory ducked and weaved his way across the front drive, bullets sparking against the ground behind him. Like a million firecrackers going off. He sprinted up the steps and shrank behind the pillar to the right.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said between ragged draws of breath.

  ‘Thank me later,’ Bowman replied. ‘If we ever make it out of here.’

  Further away, several of the Karatandan soldiers had hastily abandoned their gun pits, sensing that the tide of the battle had turned. Some dived into bushes, others fled towards the eastern side of the estate or threw up their hands in surrender. Still Loader and Casey fought on. They were coming under heavy, remorseless enemy fire. The rebels were roughly eighty metres from the mortar pit. They were in grave danger of getting overrun.

  ‘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 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.