Everything Burroughs had heard about the man indicated the truth of those words. Still, it didn’t ease what felt like a twisted knot of stainless-steel wool in the pit of his stomach. “You’ve been out here a long time,” he said. “I was hoping we could perhaps help each other.”
“Do what?”
“Rebuild.”
Ryan’s eye narrowed as if he hadn’t heard right. “Rebuild what? This installation?”
“These are hard times, Mr. Cawdor. Hard times require hard men making hard decisions. This country still has enemies.”
Ryan shook his head. “You aren’t making any sense.”
“There are a lot of people out here who need guidance,” Burroughs said. “Haven’t you ever wished for more than what this place has to offer?”
The suspicious glint in the man’s single eye was unmistakable. “Sounds to me like you’re all set up to carve a ville out for yourself and set yourself up as a baron. Mebbe you can do that, and mebbe it’s for you. Me, I’ve had enough of politics to last me a lifetime and then some.”
“More than a ville,” Burroughs said. Maybe if he got Cawdor to understand, the man would be more willing to listen to reason. The unit didn’t need Cawdor specifically. There were others who could be used, but having Cawdor would be a big step in the right direction. Some villes were remnants of cities, set up to barter and trade around specific areas. From what he’d seen and heard of them, the major knew they’d sprung from an old feudal way of society. “Those places are founded on strength and domination, and driven by visions of lust and greed. I can offer more.”
“Then again,” Ryan said, “considering the current situationmebbe not.”
Burroughs felt the back of his neck burn, and not all the heat was coming from the sun. “You pull back inside the building, there’s nowhere to go.”
Ryan smiled mirthlessly. “Just because you give a man no place to go, doesn’t mean he’s going to go nowhere.”
Burroughs steeled himself. There was no way he could simply let the man and his group walk away. “You know what a bluff is?”
A thin smile tugged at Ryan’s lips. “Sure. Question is, are you running one? Or mebbe you figure I am? I’ve got no problem with shooting you down where you stand.”
“I also notice you’re standing in the middle of that door,” Burroughs said. “You’re probably hard to shoot around.”
There was a tense silence, then a woman’s voice called, “Ryan.”
“Mildred,” he acknowledged.
“He’s going to need some convincing.”
The radio squealed in Burroughs’s ear, almost painful in its intensity.
“Major?” Kennedy asked over the headset.
“Stand down,” Burroughs ordered. “Not a damn move until I give the order.”
“Yes, sir.”
Burroughs watched Ryan, expecting the big man to be the one to make the first move. Instead, an impact slammed into his right thigh, followed immediately by the sharp report of a pistol. He’d been struck with enough force that at first he’d thought he’d been shot. Pain spread up and down his thigh. Out of reflex, turning on his left heel and bringing his right leg back to present a profile target, he reached for the .45 in the counter terrorist drop holster. Only the gun wasn’t there.
Already in motion, Ryan threw himself back into the opening.
More bullets plucked at Burroughs’s clothing, snapping through the sharp crease of his shoulder seam and whispering past his face, ripping through the loose folds of his shirt collar and making it stand out. None of them ever found the Kevlar body armor he wore. Whoever was shooting at him didn’t mean him any harm. Yet.
Burroughs went to ground and hit the button activating the communications link. “Fire,” he roared. “Hit the front of that building now.” He drew the other .45 from its shoulder rig as the sound of heavy machine gun fire ripped across the stillness of the desert. A cold numbness had settled into his leg. A quick glance showed him that the thigh holster had been neatly sheared away and hung upside down by the lower thigh strap. The markswoman had been a damn fine shot.