The Lazarus Vendetta - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,145
the drifting haze of smoke, with his carbine cradled against his shoulder. He heard a metallic click close by and dropped quietly to one knee, searching ahead of him for the source of the sound.
A guard loomed up out of the slowly clearing pall. His hand was still on the firing selector for his German-made assault rifle, switching it from single-shot to fire three-round bursts. His mouth dropped open when he saw the Englishman aiming at him.
"Very careless," Peter told him softly. He squeezed the trigger.
Hit by all three shots fired at close range, the guard crumpled into the blood-soaked grass.
Peter waited a few moments longer, allowing the smoke to clear. It rolled west toward the ocean, slowly shredding in the light wind. He scanned the open ground stretching before him. Nothing moved.
Satisfied, he turned and trotted back toward the helicopter.
White-faced with pain from her broken arm, Randi prodded her prisoner toward the waiting Black Hawk. She stumbled once and Hideo Nomura glanced swiftly back at her, with hatred written all over his face. She shook her head and lifted the M4, aiming right at his chest. "I wouldn't try that. Not unless you really believe you can rise from the dead. Even one-handed, I'm a very good shot. Now hop in!"
The man who had called himself Lazarus turned and scrambled in-
side the helicopter. Standing by the door, Randi motioned him into one of the forward-facing rear seats. Scowling, he obeyed.
Peter loomed up beside her. He peered into the troop compartment at her prisoner. His eyebrows rose. "Nicely done, Randi. Very nicely done indeed."
Then he looked around in growing unease. "But where on earth is Jon?"
Chapter Forty-Eight
Smith sprinted toward the four gunmen advancing alongside the rolling drone aircraft. They were still moving in pairs. At any given moment, two of them were prone - ready to provide covering fire for their comrades. Most of their attention was focused on the battle raging around the grounded Black Hawk, but they were sure to spot him soon enough.
The back of his mind yammered that this headlong charge was a particularly stupid form of suicide, but he furiously shoved those doubts away. He did not have any other options. He had to hit this enemy team quickly, before they spotted him, pinned him down with suppressive fire, and then came in for the kill.
His only real chance against these men was to seize the initiative and hold it. Their tactics showed that they were professionals, probably more of the veteran mercenary soldiers recruited to do the dirty work for Nomura's Lazarus operation. In a set-piece skirmish Smith might be able to take out one of them, possibly even two - but trying to fight all four of them at once would only be a good way to die quickly. Still, he knew that
it was the presence among them of the third of the Horatii that tipped the scales toward this seeming recklessness.
Twice before Smith had gone up against one of those powerful and deadly killers. In both fights he had been lucky to limp away alive and he was not going to be able to rely on stumbling into good fortune again. This time he needed to make his own luck - and that meant taking chances.
He ran on, with his feet flying through the tall grass lining the eastern edge of the runway. The range to the oncoming drone and the four enemy gunmen was closing fast - falling rapidly as they moved toward each other with increasing speed.
Two hundred and fifty meters. Two hundred. One hundred and fifty meters. Jon felt his lungs laboring under the strain. He brought the M4 up to his shoulder and sprinted on.
One hundred meters.
The flying wing came whirring along the runway toward him. All fourteen of its propellers were spinning now, carving bright flashing circles in the air.
Now!
Smith squeezed the trigger on the M4, firing short bursts on the move - walking his rounds across the tarmac toward the startled enemy gunmen. Pieces of concrete and then tufts of grass flew skyward.
They dropped prone and began shooting back.
Jon swerved left, zigzagging away from the tarmac. Bullets tore through the grass behind him and cracked past his head. He dived forward, hit the ground, shoulder-rolled back onto his feet, and kept running. He fired again, then swerved right.
More rifle rounds screamed past, reaching out to tear him apart. One tore through the air