to kill or simply to frighten. Were these some of the same men who had already tried to kill him? Or allied to them? Or were they regular CIA personnel or private security guards roped in by Burke to guard his property?
Their sudden movement attracted the attention of one of the gunmen moving down the hill. He froze. "Contact, front!" he yelled in heavily accented English. Then he opened fire with his submachine gun, spraying a hail of 9mm bullets toward the two kneeling men.
Smith's doubts dissolved as the incoming rounds snapped and whined through the air around him. These guys were mercenaries, and they were not trying to take prisoners. He and Peter fired back, squeezing off a series of aimed three-round bursts with their MP5s - walking their fire from opposite ends of the enemy skirmish line toward the middle. One of the five gunmen screamed suddenly and folded over, hit in the stomach. The other four dived for cover.
"Let's go!" Peter said sharply, tapping Smith on the shoulder.
Both men jumped to their feet and sprinted off into the darkness, angling north, well away from the county road. Again, the Englishman led the way, but this time he did not waste any time trying to find easier paths through the tangle of brush and brambles. Instead, he crashed right through even the densest briar patches at full bore. Stealth was out in favor of speed. They needed to cover as much ground as possible before the surviving gunmen recovered from their surprise and started shooting again.
Smith ran fast, his heart pounding as he followed right in Peter's wake. He kept his gloved hands and the submachine gun out in front of him, trying to keep his face from being lacerated by the welter of splintered branches and sharp-edged thorns. Brambles tugged and tore at his arms and legs, jabbing and slashing right through the thick cloth. Sweat trickled down his forearms, stinging like fire when it mingled with his new puncture wounds, cuts, and scrapes.
More gunfire erupted behind them. Rounds zipped through the thick undergrowth on either side - clipping off leaves and twigs and spattering the fragments in all directions.
The two men threw themselves down and wriggled round to face the way they had come, seeking cover in a slight depression worn away by runoff from the hill above them. "Determined bastards," Peter commented coolly as rifle bullets and submachine gun rounds ripped past right over their heads. "I'll give them that." He listened intently. "That's only two men firing. We hit one. So where are the other two?"
"Closing in on us," Smith said grimly. "While their pals cover them."
"Quite likely," Peter agreed. He smiled suddenly. "Let's teach them that's not such a good idea, shall we?"
Jon nodded.
"Right," Peter said calmly. "Here we go."
Ignoring the bullets still tearing up the brush around them, both men reared up and began firing - again sweeping three-round bursts back and forth across the field in front of them. Smith had a quick impression of startled yells and barely glimpsed shapes diving behind clumps of tall weeds and brambles. More weapons opened up with a stuttering, clattering roar as the gunmen they had driven prone began shooting back.
Smith and Peter dropped back into the shallow drainage ditch and crawled rapidly away along its meandering trace. It fell away to the east, following the slight slope of the long-abandoned field. After moving about fifty yards, they risked poking their heads up for another quick look. One of their pursuers was still firing short bursts in their general direction in an
effort to pin them down. The other three gunmen were in motion again, but they were also heading east - rapidly deploying into a dispersed firing line across the width of the forty-acre field.
"Damn it," Peter said under his breath. "What the hell are they up to now?"
Smith's eyes narrowed. Their enemies no longer seemed interested in closing with them. Instead, the bad guys were setting up a cordon that would effectively cut them off from the road and from the vehicles they had left hidden in among the trees still several hundred yards away. "We're being herded!" he realized suddenly.
The Englishman stared at him for a second or two. Then his jaw tightened and he nodded abruptly. "You're right, Jon. I should have seen it sooner. They're acting as beaters - setting up to flush us out for the rest of the shooting party." He shook his head in disgust. "We're