Barging from an alcove, Ryan and the others crossed the top of the stairs and entered the east wing. Almost instantly, they dived for cover as a score of volleys flew toward them.
“Fireblast,” Ryan cursed behind a credenza, the heavy oak sideboard shuddering from the impact of bullets, the ancient china plates stacked neatly inside shattering at every strike. “The son of a bitch has got half his troops here!”
“Good!” J.B. shouted as he stood and threw a gren down the long hallway. The firing stopped, and one man dived from cover to grab the explosive and lob it straight through the stained-glass window at the end of the hall. One moment later, the predark window shattered from the outside blast, spraying rainbow glass everywhere.
“Do it again,” Ryan ordered, firing blindly around the credenza. “Shorter fuse.”
“Can’t,” J.B. grunted, dropping the AK-47 and pulling the Uzi around to his front “That was my last gren.”
“Doc?”
“The same, my dear Ryan.”
“Me, too,” Dean reported, firing controlled bursts from underneath an ornately carved mahogany chair. Then his longblaster stopped, and he tossed it aside, drawing his Browning Hi-Power. He worked the slide and clicked off the safety in the same move, and commenced firing again. But much more carefully, placing his shots instead of just banging away at anything that moved.
Safely ensconced behind heavy steamer trunks and from inside doorways, the company of blue shirts down the hallway sprayed streams of bullets at the companions. The fusillade chewed a path of destruction along the walls, destroying priceless family portraits, mirrors and vases. Swords and riddled shields tumbled to the floors, flattened rounds ricocheting randomly, pounding on the doors and clearing tables of candelabra and oil lanterns. Several lanterns burst into flames, the spreading pools of burning oil generating volumes of thick black smoke.
The head of a sec man appeared above the top step of the stairs, his eyes darting about, only the tip of his weapon in sight. Dean waited until he rose a little higher and shot him in the ear as he turned. Limply, the dead man tumbled from sight.
Staying low, Doc crawled along the hallway, grabbed two more lanterns and threw them toward the sec men and down the stairs. Both of the lanterns crashed into fireballs, blocking any possible attacks from that direction for a few minutes. The blue shirts shot at the overhead rafters in reply with no appreciable effect, the bullets burying themselves in the massive oak timbers.
Dropping the exhausted AK-47, Ryan checked the Steyr and worked the bolt. This sally was a total failure. He had hoped to catch Overton unprepared and end the fight in the ville quickly. But Overton had expected such a risky plan, and while he didn’t have them trapped yet, two directions were already cut off, and there was no doubt the other hallways would soon be sealed also.
“Enough of this crap,” Ryan declared, firing and smoothly working the bolt action on the Steyr as fast as he could. A sec man in a doorway jerked and fell, but another filled the post, his AK-47 firing steadily. “First chance, we head for the southern parapet!”
“Regroup?” Jak demanded, sliding his last clip into the hot belly of the Kalashnikov.
“Retreat,” Ryan corrected, jerking the bolt to clear a misfire.
“We’re going to the parapet?” J.B. asked, peering owlishly through his glasses. “You’re out of your mind, Ryan. That’s a dead end!”
“Not for us,” Ryan said, raising the longblaster and shooting at the ceiling. The support chain of an unlit chandelier snapped, and the massive fixture dropped, crushing four sec men.
“Charge!” he barked, starting in the other direction.
As the sec men prepared for a rush, the companions hastily ran through the alcove.
Nearby, a door opened a tiny crack, and a man wearing a blue shirt peeked out. Ryan almost fired, but stopped himself just in time when he realized it was the steward from the dining hall in a denim nightshirt.
“They’re on the roof,” the man mouthed, then closed the door.
Maintaining cover fire with the Steyr, Ryan appreciated the warning. Once outside, they would have to keep moving or else get caught in another deadly bottleneck. Just how many men did Overton have, anyway? Ryan had to have chilled twenty already just by himself.
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