The Savage Horde

Chapter 2

Rourke edged along the rise through the tree line. The two brigands who sat above the rest in the shelter of a pile of rocks were within fifty yards of him now. There were two alternatives—attempting to take out the brigands one at a time through stealth, or sniper fire. The first possibility—because of the sheer weight of numbers and the immediacy of the brigands' opening fire on the six military personnel moving through the valley—was something he decided to rule out.

Rourke shrugged, flattening himself in a solid prone position along the tree line with an outcropping of rocks affording cover against returning fire. He telescoped the CAR-'s stock, settling the metal buttplate against his right shoulder in the pocket, the Colt scope's reticle settling, too—on the spinal column of the nearest brigand. One of the two men in the higher rocks had to be the leader.

His thumb worked the safety to off, the first finger of his right hand touching the trigger.

"Good-bye," Rourke muttered, then began the squeeze, the rifle recoiling against his shoulder, its sharp crack loud in the otherwise still countryside.

He rode it out, the .'s recoil mild enough, the scope showing his work—the brigand holding the binoculars to his eyes slammed forward, up and over the rocks behind which he had hidden himself, the body rolling downward.

The man who had been beside the first man turned around, his mouth opened as if to scream. Rourke shot him in the neck, the body toppling back across the rocks and staying there, the arms flapping up once, then still.

Rourke tucked down, gunfire slamming into the rocks near his position, bullets biting into the tree trunks, bits of bark spraying him as did chips of rock. He pulled back. And there was gunfire now from the six men on the valley floor.

Rourke pushed himself up, the rifle swinging onto targets of opportunity among the brigand band. Two round semiautomatic bursts—one man down. Another target—male or female. Rourke wasn't sure.

There was more answering fire, automatic weapons chewing whole pine boughs from the trees surrounding him, pine needles showering him. Rourke pulled back.

Moving along on knees and elbows, he drew away from the rise, then pushed himself up into a Low, running crouch, starting through the tree line. He stopped, rising to his full height beside a greater in diameter than normal pine, shouldering the CAR-, firing another two round burst. A brigand with what looked like an M-was running up the hill toward him, the brigand's body lurching backward, doubling up like a jacknife, then seeming to hesitate in mid-air for an instant, then going down.

Rourke ran on, diving to cover in more of the low rocks as heavy automatic weapons fire tore into the trees.

He pushed up, snapping off a fast two-round burst with the CAR-, missing, then another two-round burst—a man with a shotgun, one of three men racing up the hill. This time Rourke didn't miss.

He shot a quick glance into the valley—there was fire still coming from the six military personnel in the valley, but seemingly having little effect.

Rourke pushed himself to his feet, backing off into the

trees, spraying a succession of two-round bursts from the hip toward the advancing brigand fire team, nailing one more of them and dropping him, the third man going to cover, but spraying automatic weapon fire into the trees. The tree trunk nearest Rourke erupted with the impact, huge chunks of bark and slivers of green wood pelting at Rourke's face.

Rourke buttoned out the nearly spent thirty-round magazine, ramming a fresh magazine from his musette bag into the well, then firing two more two-round bursts.

He started running laterally again, along the tree line, to give the brigands a moving target, to give the six men in the valley time to close up toward the base of the hill. Fire and maneuver—he hoped as he ran that they were thinking the same thing.