Man O' War, стр. 18

Lead smashed its way through three of the remaining windows in the massive living room. It gouged into the wood of the wall behind Hawkes, shattering the picture of his parents and knocking his Nobel Prize off the mantel. As he stood his ground for the moment, held helpless by the confusion in the air all around him, another explosion, seemingly louder than all the rest, rocked the grounds. The ambassador was thrown from his feet. He landed hard on the floor, smashing his left arm against the corner of the couch. Staggering to his feet, he snarled, "Maybe I should kill some of theirs."

The ambassador headed for the back of the house, Ingram still in hand. Coming into the kitchen, he could hear rough boots hitting the porch outside. Instinct told him they belonged to the attackers. Counting off the seconds he had before they reached the door, he headed for the large butcher's block in the center of the room and plucked up the cleaver hanging from its side. As he did, the door to his left flew open. Two armed men entered, one breaking left, the other right.

And welcome to my home, you sons of bitches.

Hawkes pulled back and hurled the cleaver end over end. Before it could dig into the chest of the man to the left, he let off a burst at the man to the right. Two of the three bullets tore into the attacker, spinning him around and bouncing him off the cold locker. The other took the full force of the cleaver hit. It staggered him slightly, but that was all.

Body armor, thought Hawkes. He could see the man shaking off the blow, his arm starting to come up. As time fractured into splinters of seconds, he pulled off another burst, and then another. The man fell backward, hitting the doorway he and his partner had just demolished. The dead man stumbled out onto the porch and then toppled off it. His body fell into the yard beyond, arms and legs awkwardly tangled.

The ambassador ignored him, hunching over the body that was still in the kitchen. Like his partner, he was dressed in sterile military fatigues. No marking to identify who he was, where he was from. Worse than that, the man's face had been bubbled.

Damn! Damn, damn, damn!

Bubbling was expensive. And if he had been bubbled that meant his teeth had been melted, his fingerprints filled, his retinas painted. It meant the invading force was most likely made up of mercenaries. It also meant that someone with money was behind what was happening. More than money—power. And suddenly, Hawkes knew what kind of fight he was in.

"One I'd better win."

Picking up the man's weapon, the ambassador was surprised at its weight; it was heavier than it looked. He recognized the Heckler & Koch insignia on the stock, but not its type. Not caring, Hawkes stood up, shoved his own, smaller weapon in his belt behind his back, and then headed for the door, holding the H&K at waist-high level.

The firefight outside had slackened off considerably. The ambassador instantly understood why. The ranch's power might have gone out, but fires in two of the outer buildings were lighting the area all too well. With the element of surprise gone, the invaders were digging in, looking for cover, searching for targets.

Yeah, and I wonder who that would be?

Inching his way out onto the porch, Hawkes gave the outer yard a quick scan, then covered the same ground again more slowly, searching for targets of his own. No one was in sight-—no one was alive. He could make out nearly ten bodies on the ground within his field of vision. Sadly, he recognized far too many of them. Moving off the porch and down into the deep shadows cast by the service barn, the ambassador moved in that direction. He had a hunch he knew where at least some of the enemy were.

Setting private property ablaze was an old trick, one he had seen used on three different continents. Torch a man's house and he generally headed for a hose, not a rifle. Sizing up the angles at which the fires were set, it looked as if his attackers were looking to lure him and his people into the area near the large well in front. That meant they would be in the utility center, waiting to pick them off.

Hawkes crawled forward, toward the barn, the Ingram digging into his back with each shuffle of his legs. Drawing closer, he checked the safety on the unfamiliar weapon in his hands. As he made sure he was ready to go, gunfire erupted from the service barn. Screams of agony cut through the night. Before he could stand, another volley let loose, accompanied by more cries.

Getting to his feet, the ambassador rushed the back door. He felt his breath coming harder, could hear his heart in his ears.

Too old for this, he thought, mopping at his forehead. Supposed to be sipping my hot milk right now.

Getting to the rear of the barn, Hawkes threw himself against the wall. He pulled the H&K up against his chest and dug his back into the old wooden planks, making himself as small as possible. He inhaled deeply, bracing himself. A new explosion rocked the ground, forcing the breath from him. Taking another, he said, "All right. Let's get this over with."

The ambassador let his hand fall to the door. He was counting on the fact that the darkness had probably kept the invaders from even spotting it. Slipping the latch, he opened it quickly and threw himself inside. Ahead of him, at the edge of the barn, he spotted five, maybe six figures. All those he could see clearly were dressed like the man who lay dead in his kitchen. All stood in a row, firing into the night at the backs of his people as they tried to reach the well.

Well, when in Rome