Prey (39 page)

Rolling quickly to his left, Lightstone fired two rounds in the general direction of the rag-camouflaged figure, then dove forward on his hands and knees to the relative security of a nearby spruce just split seconds ahead of a second burst of wildly ricocheting copper-jacketed slugs.

Working hard to control his breathing, Lightstone tucked himself in tight against the moderately protective tree trunk as a third burst of the small but deadly 5.56mm bullets shredded brush and tree branches all around his new position.

Then the much louder
crack-pow!
of the sniper rifle echoed through the trees, and Lightstone threw himself flat and rolled to his right across rock and moss and lichen- strewn ground as a 7.62mm rifle round tore a huge chunk of wood out of the tree trunk less than two inches over his head, sending sap-filled fragments flying in all directions.

Lightstone brought the short-barreled .357 Magnum up in an instinctive point-shoulder position and fired two rounds at the running figure just as it disappeared behind a tree. Then, eyes fixed in a murderous rage on the concealing tree, Lightstone remained in his dangerously exposed, extended- arm position for two more heartbeats as the other man faked a move to his right with his back against the tree. Lightstone triggered the last two rounds at center-chest level just as the man came back around to his left with the Colt Commando automatic carbine firing in the full auto position.

Henry Lightstone had less than a second to enjoy the sight of the rag-camouflaged figure staggering backward from the double wallops of the mushrooming hollow-point slugs when the glancing impact of the 7.62mm copper-jacketed bullet knocked the .357 Magnum out of his hand.

The fourth incoming bullet from the 7.62mm sniper rifle, deflected by a mass of spruce and birch-tree branches, still had enough power to rip through the front panels of Lightstone's jacket and leave a shallow, bloody gouge across his chest in its wake.

Staying as close to the ground as possible as he retrieved his pistol, and then fumbling around in his jacket pocket for one of the remaining speed-loaders, Lightstone frantically crawled and twisted away from the explosive sprays of metal, wood, and rock fragments. He heard the crunching sound of boots moving quickly through downed tree branches and dry brush . . . and then the metallic click of the Colt Commando carbine's bolt as it ejected the last expended casing and snapped into the open position against the spring- operated feeder of the empty thirty-round magazine.

He's wearing a vest, Lightstone told himself.

Functioning now on pure training and instinct, and driven by a blinding and mindless fury, Lightstone rolled over to his side, hurriedly fed the six rounds into the empty chambers of the .357, released the speed-loader, slapped the cylinder shut, and came up firing alongside a much too narrow birch tree. He sent three rounds at the rag- camouflaged figure—who had instinctively lunged toward a much larger tree while reaching for another loaded magazines—and then three more at the wounded sniper. He reflexively dumped the expended .357 casings from the hot pistol one-handed while he reached into his jacket pocket for his last speed-loader . . . and found nothing.

Blinking in shock, Lightstone started to look around on the ground for the lost speed-loader. But then, hearing the metallic clack of a carbine bolt nearby, he dropped the useless .357 and scrambled desperately for the shale outcropping.

"Henry, he's coming, behind you!"
Thomas Woeshack yelled unnecessarily, and then sent the unarmed floatplane diving down in a low, strafing run.

But Woeshack's heroic maneuver was still effective because it caused Arturo Bolin to duck down long enough for Henry Lightstone to throw himself forward over the edge of the outcropping. He landed hard on his side against the rough-surfaced shale and was scrambling toward the sprawled body of Sam Jackson when the sound of oncoming boots and Woeshack's static-filled voice warned him.

"Henry!"

Diving forward, Lightstone was reaching for the holstered .357 on Sam Jackson's hip when the rag-camouflaged figure of Arturo Bolin appeared over the top of the outcropping.

Laughing maliciously, the professional mercenary stepped forward to the edge of the rocky cliff with the intention of immediately triggering a fatal burst of 5.56mm bullets into Henry Lightstone's exposed back when his boot came down on a loose rock.

Lightstone heard the cold laughter, the clatter of dislodged rock, and then the grunt of surprise as Arturo Bolin winced in pain, trying to regain his balance. Lunging forward, Lightstone wrapped his fingers around the black rubber grip of Sam Jackson's pistol, pulled the weapon loose, rolled onto his back, and instinctively fired three rounds up at the greenish-brown blur. Then he twisted desperately away from the jackhammer roar of the automatic carbine and stared up wide-eyed as the lifeless body of Arturo Bolin pitched forward and struck the rocky base of the outcropping.

Gasping for breath as he lay on his back, Special Agent Henry Lightstone tried to blink the sweat and dirt out of his eyes. Then, straining to listen over his own labored breathing, he heard a strangely quiet and muffled voice coming from . . . somewhere. It took him almost thirty seconds to locate the commset that had been knocked loose from Arturo Bolin's bleeding head. He picked up the still-functioning earphones, wiped off some of the blood, and listened for a brief moment to the voice of Roy Parker, who first demanded to know what was going on, then called for additional backup in a distinctly cold, furious, and professional voice.

Jarred by the prospect of more assailants, Lightstone took the nylon harness containing the loaded magazines for the carbine from Arturo Bolin's lifeless body and snapped it around his own aching chest. He scooped up the automatic weapon, loaded it with a full thirty rounds, and confirmed that a round was in the chamber and that the selection switch was set to auto.

Then he reached over then and picked up Jackson's scarred but still functional radio.

"Woeshack, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you!" the shaken special agent-pilot answered. "Jesus, I thought you guys were—"

"Good. Pick us up at the water, by the cove," Lightstone interrupted. "Right now."

"Is Sam—"

"He's still alive, but he isn't going to be much longer if we don't get him out of here."

"I'm on my way in," Woeshack said quickly. "But listen, there's another plane heading our way that won't answer my calls. And there's a boat—"

"Woeshack, I don't give a shit if the fucking Spanish Armada is out there. Get that plane down on the water and meet me at that cove!"

"Ten-Four, on my way."

Muttering to himself, Lightstone fit the radio into one of the empty ammo pouches, then slung the Colt Command over his shoulder. He reached down, scooped up the limp, unconscious Sam Jackson in both arms and started to carry him down through the brush toward the distant cove.

From way out to his left, he heard an airplane engine and saw a flash of blue metal low on the horizon. But Lightstone didn't care about other planes right now. He was determined to get Sam Jackson into the Cessna Skywagon and out of the area as quickly as possible.

Halfway down to the rocky shoreline, Lightstone thought he could hear voices near the outcropping. He propped Jackson up beside an uprooted birch tree and paused to listen. But the echoing roar of the Cessna Skywagon's single engine prevented him from hearing anything as Special Agent-Pilot Thomas Woeshack banked the floatplane around in his approach for a water landing.

Lightstone scanned the wide overhead expanse of rocks and trees and brush, searching for any sign of movement. When he didn't see anything, he reached down and picked up Jackson one more time, then stumbled the rest of the way down to the rock-strewn cove, where he found Thomas Woeshack, waiting for him on shore, and Marie Pascalaura.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Lightstone demanded in a voice that was hoarse and fdled with disbelief. Shaken by his narrow escape from death, and nearly exhausted from his awkward and painful descent down the cliffs, Lightstone could only consent as Woeshack and Marie ran forward and took the still-unconscious refuge officer from his aching arms.

"I heard you call for help on the radio, so I got in the boat and came back," Marie said matter-of-factly as she and Woeshack put Sam Jackson down on the rocky shore. Then Marie looked at the blood that had soaked through the front of Lightstone's torn jacket.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Lightstone rasped, looking back over his shoulder at the surrounding cliffs. "But—"

"Well, Sam's not," she said firmly. "We've got to get him to a hospital."

"The controllers at the Kenai Tower picked up my call to Anchorage," Woeshack said, looking up. "They're sending a paramedic team and state troopers from Soldotna out to the docks right now."

"Okay," Lightstone nodded weakly as he forced himself to start moving again. "Then let's hurry up and load him in the plane. We've got to get out of here before—"

"Uh, I think we've got a problem," Woeshack interrupted.

"What's that?"

"I don't think we can take off with four people on board."

"There're four seats in the damn thing. Why the hell not?" Lightstone demanded, looking over his shoulder again as he slid his right index finger over the trigger of the automatic carbine.

For a brief moment, he thought he'd seen something move near a large bolder up on the cliffs, but now he wasn't sure.

"We got a bunch of bullet holes in the floats, and some of the chambers are filling up with water," Woeshack explained. "The plane's still floating now, but if we don't—"

Crack-pow!

Lightstone had just turned around to look at the bullet holes that seemed to pockmark the dark orange floatplane when the 7.62mm bullet whipped past his head and exploded through the right-side bubble window of the Cessna Skywagon.

"Shit!" Lightstone cursed as he triggered a long, piercing burst of 5.56mm rounds into the trees surrounding the boulder where he'd sensed movement. Expended casings flew over his shoulder, and Marie Pascalaura screamed and dropped to the rocks. Woeshack rolled to the ground and fumbled for his shoulder-holstered .357 Magnum.

"Get that prop going!" Lightstone yelled at Woeshack. Then he and Marie dragged Sam Jackson over to the water and up into the boat.

"What do I do?" Marie Pascalaura yelled as she fumbled with the starter and got the outboard running, while Lightstone spun around and emptied the rest of the carbine's magazine in the general direction of the distant boulder.

"You still have the radio?" he asked as he turned to push the open aluminum boat out into the water.

"Yes."

From behind his back, Lightstone heard the Cessna Skywagon's starter whine as Woeshack tried again and again to kick the engine over. Finally the floatplane erupted into a loud, rumbling roar.

"Then go like hell for the dock, and let them know you're coming. State troopers should be on their way," he yelled over the deafening sounds of the plane and the outboard motor as he replaced the short-barreled carbine. "We'll meet you there."

"But—"

"Get going!" he ordered as he aimed and fired another short burst at a sudden movement of green camouflage next to the distant boulder and then ran toward the plane, vaguely aware that his lower legs had started to turn numb in the icy water.

Lightstone pulled himself into the front passenger seat, yanked the door shut, and began to put on his headset when the sharp crack of a high-powered rifle echoed across the water once again. He started to duck down, but then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a broad splash of water about ten feet to the far side of Marie Pascalaura's rapidly accelerating patrol boat.

"Goddamn it!" Lightstone screamed. "Those sons of bitches are shooting at
her!"

Then he turned to Woeshack, his eyes widened with rage.

"Get this thing between her and that boulder,
right now!"
he yelled as he pulled himself into the narrow backseat area, braced himself against the right side of the plane and used both feet to kick out the left-side rear Plexiglas window.

As Special Agent-Pilot Thomas Woeshack throttled the dark orange floatplane forward, Lightstone switched the Colt Commando carbine over to single shot, aligned the open sights of the short-barreled weapon as best he could inside the bouncing and vibrating plane, and began to methodically fire round after round at the pair of cammo- clad figures barely visible on one side of the tree-covered boulder.

He completely ignored the loud clatter of torn metal as an incoming stream of 5.56mm bullets ripped into the floatplane's left pylon, and the loud
clang!
as another 7.62mm bullet punched through the thin-skinned aircraft in the space equidistant between Lightstone's stomach and the back of Woeshack's pilot's seat.

Thomas Woeshack continued to accelerate the bouncing and rattling floatplane in an effort to keep up with the rapidly moving patrol boat. He had to leave the Cessna's wing flaps locked in the full-up position to keep the plane down on the water.

But all too soon, the forward speed of the plane, the bullet damage to the waterlogged floats, and the counteracting force of the wind against the torn metal fabric started a rattling vibration that threatened to tear the small plane apart.