“Drag them out of the way!” the sec boss called, backing off, his eyes focused on the shadows beyond the circle of light.
There was no more shooting.
Both wounded men were hustled away by their colleagues, and Davichaux walked alongside the wag, gesturing to Nate Ruell to roll down his window. “Sons of bitches out yonder shooting in at us.”
“Sure it’s not stickies readying a big attack? Saw a dozen or more of them out on the track. One tried to jump us, but he fell under the fuckin’ wheels. They’re out there, all right. Only a mile or so off.”
Davichaux shook his head. “Stickies don’t use automatic blasters. Not that I heard.”
Ruell sniffed and spit in the dirt. “Mebbe. Want her fueling now?”
Before Davichaux could reply, another couple of shots clattered out, the bullets ricocheting off the metal roof of one of the huts, whining away into the high branches of the trees beyond.
“Best get under cover,” the sec boss said. “One of you go tell Wolfram we got us some company out there.”
All the sec men disappeared behind walls and huts, leaving the camp surveillance to their colleagues in the high towers, though all of them had their attention directed beyond the fence, into the darkness. They waited and watched for more shooting.
On the flatbed, between the wooden crates, Ryan Cawdor lay still and waited.
PEERING OUT FROM COVER, it was possible to take in most of the layout of the camp, including the tethered balloon that swayed gently against the trees on the far side of the fortress. The titanium-steel security mesh that protected the delicate membrane glittered coldly in the spotlights that ringed the entire camp.
Ryan waited, hearing the voices of the guards close by, unable to see any of them because of the rough wooden crates that surrounded him. His right hand held the patterned grip of the SIG-Sauer, which was cocked and ready to fire.
These were the crucial few minutes of their hastily reworked plan.
The engine of the wag was ticking over as it waited, just beyond the camp entrance. J.B. hadn’t fired again for a couple of minutes, with his badly aimed shots designed to keep the sec men jumpy and under cover, rather than trying to chill them. It was a fine balance.
A man’s voice rang out, harsh, with a pronounced Deep South accent, as if he’d just crossed over Pontchartrain with his breath reeking of gumbo and jambalaya.
“Git that fuckin’ wag all the way inside and close the damned gates. Don’t want none of them stickies slippin’ in on us. If that’s who it is.”
The engine revved and they jolted forward. Ryan’s guess put the driver crouching down below the sides of his cab, jabbing at the pedals, trying to keep out of sight of the invisible marksman in the trees.
He flattened himself, squinting out of the corner of his eye, glimpsing the tall gates closing behind them and a group of uniformed men, cowering behind a low stone wall, their leader waving an M-16 at the driver of the wag, pointing for him to bring the vehicle out of the line of fire.
The engine cut out with a throaty cough, the wag jerking forward. The driver had obviously stopped it in gear, opening his door and hurling himself out onto the ground, his feet pattering as he darted for cover.
Ryan wriggled forward, peering through the gaps between the cases, and saw that they were close to the refueling hut. The group of sec guards were all on the right side of the rig, huddled together. As far as he could see, there was nobody waiting on the other side.
He eased his way across, taking a last quick look around, finding that the coast was definitely clear to the left. Ryan rolled silently off the back of the armawag and moved along the side toward the cab. He stared around the front of the wag, then quickly cat-footed out behind the fuel hut, where he crouched and waited in a pool of deep shadow.
He heard a door crash open and the unmistakable voice of Gert Wolfram.