“I’m hit!” Pollard bellowed.
“Shit!” screamed Carthew. ” Shit ! I can’t see!”
The Magistrates knew better than to dig in and return double streams of autofire. Bullets knocked up great gouts of earth from the courtyard, chewed off chunks from the half-demolished buildings all around them. Hanging out of his sheltering doorway, Kane extended his Copperhead and directed short bursts at the floodlights above him. Two of them flared up in brief novas of yellow and blue.
His teammates were trying to find their way back toward the ruins, and he continued to fire upward, covering their retreat. Pollard limped badly as he ran, and Grant and MacMurphy’s progress was slowed as they dragged Carthew along the ground. Salvo brought up the rear, firing in sweeps at the light array, hosing bullets indiscriminately and hitting only stone.
Even with the illumination from the ridge dimmed somewhat, the men were clearly visible targets for the barrage of slugs punching cross-stitch patterns in the ground all around them. Shifting position, Kane transferred the Copperhead to his left hand and stretched out his right, tensing the tendons. The Sin Eater sprang from its holster, the butt snapping down and slapping securely against his palm. At the same time, he leaped out from the doorway and corridor, both blaster barrels up and smearing the darkness with flame.
Heavy-caliber bullets pounded into the cliff rim, fragments of rock flying in all directions. Ricochets buzzed and whined through the air. Spent, smoking casings spewed from the ejector ports of both blasters in counterpoint to ripping reports of the Sin Eater and Copperhead. Sustained bursts of full-auto only wasted ammunition, but his focus was on creating a diversion, not scoring hits.
As he hoped, the blastermen behind the lights centered their sights on him. Bullets exploded dirt all around his black-sheathed figure, striking sparks from stone. Kane wasn’t really aiming, but he felt a surge of savage satisfaction when a shadowy shape pitched out of a cleft behind a floodlight to fall headlong to the courtyard.
The volume of fire from the cliff decreased in response to words shouted over the loud-hailer. Kane couldn’t make them out, but it sounded like Reeth, very upset, very angry.
The momentary lull was all the team needed to squirm past Kane into the doorway and into the roofless corridor. He joined them just as the barrage began again. A three-foot-high plume of grit erupted right where he had been standing. He recognized the rattling roar of a .50-caliber machine gun, probably bipod mounted. The steady hammering suddenly stopped.
Panting, Salvo came to his side. “Good work, Kane.”
Whirling toward him, Kane stopped short of delivering a leopard’s-paw strike to the man’s windpipe. “You bastard,” he snarled. “What the hell are we up against here?”
“You forget yourself,” Salvo snapped, shoulders stiffening. “Weren’t you paying attention at the briefing?”
“I was,” replied Kane grimly. “Milton Reeth, a smalltime slagger. He’s been smuggling outlanders into the ville for the past year, providing them with forged ID chips and work orders. Shut down his operation, you said. A simple, no-muss, no-fuss serving of a termination warrant. Strictly small-timeyou said.”
Kane thrust an angry hand toward the spotlight array. “Does this look small-time to you?”
Salvo didn’t answer for a long moment. His lips worked. Kane kept his visored eyes on the man’s half-concealed face. He knew the rest of the team was looking on, waiting for and gauging their commander’s reaction.
In a low, deadly monotone, Salvo said, “This is a hellzone. One of the first lessons you learn is to expect the unexpected in a hellzone. Now, suck it up or I’ll relieve you of your badge. Hellzone or no hellzone.”
Kane broke eye contact first, dropping his gaze and turning to look at the team. Pollard rubbed his right knee and cursed softly between clenched teeth. A ricochet had smacked him between the leg joints of his armor, and he’d incurred a painful injury but not an incapacitating one.
Carthew had been seriously stung by a steel-jacketed wasp, directly in the visor. Though the bullet had been partially deflected, the plastic had shattered, driving splinters into his eyes. His face was a wet, red smear. He was semiconscious, faint moans bubbling from his lips.
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