"Jesus, I thought you-What's going on down there?" Woeshack demanded.
"Couple of shooters about a hundred yards south of us," Lightstone explained, watching as the rag-camouflaged figure proceeded to move in closer, covered by his wounded but still very functional partner, who had taken over the sniper rifle.
"They're both wearing military cammo gear." Lightstone spoke into the radio mike again. "One of them's armed with an automatic weapon. The other one's got some kind of bipod-mounted rifle with a scope."
"You mean they're soldiers?"
"Sure as hell look like it to me," Lightstone muttered.
There was a momentary pause.
"I thought I saw one of you guys go down," Woeshack said hesitantly.
"You did. Sam caught a round through the shoulder."
"Is he okay?"
"He's alive, but he's out cold and losing blood pretty fast," Lightstone said as he continued to watch the still-distant but rapidly approaching figure, not happy with the idea that the man really did look and act like a soldier.
"What about the suspects?"
"The one with the automatic weapon's heading our way right now," Lightstone said in a cold voice. "The other guy's staying in place with the rifle. Looks like I might have hit him. Can't tell."
"Jesus, what the hell are they-"
"Listen," Lightstone interrupted, "we're going to need some help down here. Can you contact Anchorage on that radio?"
"Sure, if I get up high enough."
"Then get up there and try to get ahold of Paul," Lightstone ordered. "Tell him to get us some backup out here, pronto. After that, come back down and help me keep track of these guys."
"That's what I was trying to tell you," Woeshack said. "I spotted Paul's plane down by that island. It's tied up in the cove on the northwest side."
"Can you see him?"
"No. I tried to raise him on the radio, but there wasn't any answer, and there's nobody back at the office."
"Shit," Lightstone snarled.
"What do I do?"
"Get ahold of the tower. Tell them to call the FBI or the Coast Guard or the goddamned Boy Scouts, for all I care," Lightstone growled into the radio mike, watching from the protective shale edge as the rag-camouflaged figure cautiously moved forward another seven or eight yards. "Just get somebody out here."
"Christ, those FBI guys are way downtown at the Federal Building. It would take them a good two or three hours to get here."
"Well, tell them to fucking hurry!"
Lightstone listened to the changing pitch of the Cessna's engine as Woeshack sent the floatplane climbing up and around the back of the island.
"Okay." Woeshack's excited voice came back on the air in less than thirty seconds. "I got ahold of the tower. They're calling the FBI and the-Hey, what's that?"
"What's the matter?" Lightstone demanded.
"Just a second. I thought I saw something," Woeshack exclaimed excitedly and then went off the air as he brought the dark orange floatplane down in a sweeping low pass across the far north side of the island.
"Woeshack, what the hell are you doing?" Lightstone demanded.
"There's somebody down-Oh, shit!"
The roar of distant gunshots almost blocked out Woeshack's panicked scream. From his position below and behind the shale outcropping, Lightstone could hear the roar of the straining engine and see the dark orange overhead wings of the Cessna wobble frantically as Woeshack sent his aircraft almost straight up in a desperate effort to escape the ballistic onslaught from the ground.
"Woeshack, get the hell out of there!" Lightstone yelled into his radio.
"Two bodies!"
"What?"
"Two- Jesus, I've been hit!"
"Woeshack, what the hell-"
Dead silence.
"Woeshack!"
"… okay… not hit… airplane's been hit," Woeshack managed to stammer out. "Jesus, they shot this thing full of holes!"
"What about the bodies?" Lightstone demanded, watching the rag-camouflaged figure carefully because he was almost close enough now.
"I saw two bodies on the ground, in a clearing near the spit," Woeshack answered in an audibly shaken voice. "I think one of them's McNulty."
"You assholes!" Lightstone whispered.
Then, after one last glance to make sure he had the approaching figure positioned correctly, Lightstone lunged out from behind the protection of the shale outcropping, dove to the ground and then rolled behind another smaller mound of rocks and brush as a jackhammering stream of 5.56mm rounds tore up the surrounding landscape.
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.