He didn’t hesitate but fired again and again, pumping four bullets into the jostling men. Aiming, as he’d been told by his father, a little above the belt buckles.
“That way you should manage to hit something kind of important. Only person tries to aim for the head is the real amateur… or the real professional.”
Above the thunder of the big handgun, there was screaming, yells of pain and shock.
And, Jim noticed in passing, fear.
It made him feel good.
Someone shouted, above the panic. “Get the hell out of here!”
There was a trampling of feet and the lights disappeared, leaving the room in total darkness.
Jim stood up, the warm gun steady in his right hand. There was someone moaning close by the door. A bubbling, pitiful sound, like a kid blowing down a straw into a strawberry milk shake.
Words were frothing through the cries, but he couldn’t understand any of them.
He was tempted to reload the Ruger, but he had the uneasy feeling he might drop the ammunition. It still held two full-metal-jacket rounds, one nestling snugly under the hammer.
Keeping the gun in his left hand, Jim stopped and fumbled for the straps of the heavy pack. He picked it up and moved cautiously across the room, heading for the passage leading toward the air lock and the hidden exit, and his seven companions.
There was a burst of gunfire from behind him, but he didn’t hear any shots come even close to him. He guessed they were wild shots triggered by panic.
The longer the hunters stayed outside and blasted pointlessly into the darkness, the better the chances of escape.
Now, ahead of him, Jim could hear the others, voices snarling in suppressed anger. One was Mac, and the other sounded like Jeff Thomas.
Taking a chance that the pursuers weren’t close, Jim called out. “What’s going on?”
Carrie answered first. “Jeff’s on the ladder and he can’t open the locking wheel and he won’t move to let Mac try it.”
“I can do it!”
“He can’t.”
Jim felt someone directly ahead of him. “Who’s this? Pete?”
“No, Kyle.”
“Let me through.”
The tension of having just killed was getting to him, and he had an insane urge to start giggling. But he swallowed it down and pushed past into what he could feel was a confined space.
“It’s me, Mac,” said the bulky figure directly in front of him.
“You get anyone?” asked Jed Herae from the left side of the air lock.
Jim didn’t answer. He still held the revolver in his hand, the pack slung on one shoulder. “Get off and let Mac do it, Jeff,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
“I’ll do it soon.”
“Get down now.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. We’re back on land, your mandate expired.”
“Now, Jeff, or I’ll put a .44 up your ass.”
There was a moment of infinite stillness.
“A dozen men are out there gunning for us. I killed four of them, and that leaves two bullets in the chamber. I won’t tell you again. Down now, or you’re dead.”
The journalist couldn’t conceal his dismay. “You’d really do it, wouldn’t you, Hilton?”
The click of the hammer coming back was surprisingly loud in the stillness.
“All right, I’m coming. But it’s jammed tighter than a nun’s—”
“Now,” said Jim.
There was a scuffling noise as Jeff slid down the iron ladder. Mac handed his pack to Pete Turner and climbed up, feeling in the pitch dark for the locking ring.
“Don’t forget your gear,” said Jim, quietly letting the hammer down on the revolver.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Had no choice, Jeff.” Jim added, wishing that he didn’t feel the moral weakness of his position quite so strongly.
“Look good when the story breaks in the West American, won’t it, Captain?”
“From what General Zelig said, there might not be too many editions of your paper around right now.”
“Probably just blowing in the wind, Jeff,” said Carrie Princip.
“How is it, Mac?”
“Hasn’t been opened in a year or more.” He grunted with the effort. “But I’m trying…”
Smugly Jeff Thomas said, “Told you. It’s jammed tight.”