Just then the door opened, and Covington came in. Vega was circulating about, kicking the weapons away from every body, and after five seconds shouted: "Clear!"
"Clear!" Pierce agreed.
Andre was outside, in the open and all alone. He turned to look up at the castle.
"Dieter!" Homer Johnston called.
"Yes!"
"Can you take his weapon out?"
The German somehow read the American's mind. The answer was an exquisitely aimed shot that struck Andre's submachine gun just above the trigger guard. The impact of the.300 Winchester Magnum bullet blasted through the rough, stamped metal and broke the gun nearly in half. From his perch four hundred meters away, Johnston took careful aim, and fired his second round of the engagement. It would forever be regarded as a very bad shot. Half a second later, the 7-mm bullet struck the subject six inches below the sternum.
For Andre, it seemed like a murderously hard punch. Already the match bullet had fragmented, ripping his liver and spleen as it continued its passage, exiting his body above the left kidney. Then, following the shock of the initial impact, came a wave of pain. An instant later, his screech ripped across the 100 acres of Worldpark.
"Check this out," Chavez said in the command center. His body armor had two holes in the torso. They wouldn't have been fatal, but they would have hurt. "Thank God for DuPont, eh?"
"Miller Time!" Vega said with a broad grin.
"Command, this is Chavez. Mission accomplished. The kids uh oh, we got one kid hurt here, looks like a scratch on the arm, the rest of 'em are all okay. Subjects all down for the count, Mr. C. You can turn the lights back on."
As Ding watched, Oso Vega leaned down and picked up a little girl. "Hello, querida. Let's find your mamacita, eh?"
"Rainbow!" Mike Pierce exulted. "Tell 'em there's a new sheriff in town, people!"
"Bloody right, Mike!" Eddie Price reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe and a pouch of good Cavendish tobacco.
There were things to be done. Vega, Pierce, and Loiselle collected the weapons,safed them, and stacked them on a desk. McTyler and Connolly checked out the restrooms and other adjacent doors for additional terrorists, finding none. Scotty waved to the door.
"Okay, let's get the kids out," Ding. told his people. "Peter, lead us out!"
Covington had his team open the fire door and man the stairway, one man on each landing. Vega took the lead, holding the five-year-old with his left arm while his right continued to hold his MP-10. A minute later, they were outside.
Chavez stayed behind, looking at the wall with Eddie Price. There were seven holes in the corner where the kids had been, but all the rounds were high, into the drywall paneling. "Lucky," Chavez said.
"Somewhat," Sergeant Major Price agreed. "That's the one we both engaged, Ding. He was just firing, not aiming-and maybe at us, not them, I think."
"Good job, Eddie."
"Indeed," Price agreed. With that they both walked outside, leaving the bodies behind for the police to collect. "Command, this is Bear, what's happening, over."
"Mission accomplished, no friendlies hurt. Well done. Bear," Clark told him.
"Roger and thank you, sir. Bear is RTB. Out. I need to take a piss," the Marine told his copilot, as he horsed the Night Hawk west for the airfield.
Homer Johnston fairly ran down the steps of the Dive Bomber ride, carrying his rifle and nearly tripping three times on the way down. Then he ran the few hundred meters to the castle. There was a doctor there, wearing a white coat and looking down at the man Johnston had shot.
"How is he?" the sergeant asked when he got there. It was pretty clear. The man's hands were holding his belly, and were covered with blood that looked strangely black in the courtyard lighting.
"He will not survive," Dr. Weiler said. Maybe if they were in a hospital operating room right now, he'd have a slim chance, but he was bleeding out through the lacerated spleen., and his liver was probably destroyed as well… And so, no, absent a liver transplant, he had no chance at all, and all Weiler could do was give him morphine for the pain. He reached into his bag for a syringe.
"That's the one shot the little girl," Johnston told the doctor. "I guess my aim was a little off," he went on, looking down into the open eyes and the grimacing face that let loose another moaning scream. If he'd been a deer or an elk, Johnston would have finished him off with a pistol round in the head or neck, but you weren't supposed to do that with human targets. Die slow, you fuck, he didn't say aloud. It disappointed Johnston that the doctor gave him a pain injection, but physicians were sworn to their duty, as he was to his.
"Pretty low," Chavez said, coming up to the last living terrorist.
"Guess I slapped the trigger a little hard," the rifleman responded.
Chavez looked straight in his eyes. "Yeah, right. Get your gear."
"In a minute." The target's eyes went soft when the drug entered his bloodstream, but the hands still grabbed at the wound, and there was a puddle of blood spreading from under his back. Finally, the eyes looked up at Johnston one last time.
"Good night, Gracie," the rifleman said quietly. Ten seconds later, he was able to turn away and head back to the Dive Bomber to retrieve the rest of his gear.
There were a lot of soiled underpants in the medical office, and a lot of kids still wide-eyed in shock, having lived through a nightmare that all would relive for years to come. The Rainbow troopers fussed over them. One bandaged the only wound, a scratch really, on a young boy.
Centurion de la Cruz was still there, having refused evacuation. The troops in black stripped off their body armor and set it against the wall, and he saw on their uniform jackets the jump wings of paratroopers, American, British, and German, along with the satisfied look of soldiers who'd gotten the job done.
"Who are you?" he asked in Spanish.
"I'm sorry, I can't say," Chavez replied. "But I saw what you did on the videotape. You did well, Sergeant."
"So did you, ah?…"
"Chavez. Domingo Chavez."
"American?"
"Si. "
"The children, were any hurt?"
"Just the one over there."
"And the-criminals?"
"They will break no more laws, amigo. None at all," Team2 Lead told him quietly.
"Bueno. " De la Cruz reached up to take his hand. "It was hard?"
"It is always hard, but we train for the hard things, and my men are-"
"They have the look," de la Cruz agreed.
"So do you." Chavez turned. "Hey, guys, here's the one who took 'em on with a sword."
"Oh, yeah?" Mike Pierce came over. "I finished that one off for you. Balky move, man." Pierce took his hand and shook it. The rest of the troopers did the same.
"I must-I must-" De la Cruz stood and hobbled out the door. He came back in five minutes later, following John Clark, and holding-
"What the hell is that?" Chavez asked.
"The eagle of the legion, VI Legio Victrix, " the centurion told them, holding it in one hand. "The victorious legion. Senor Dennis, con permiso?"
"Yes, Francisco," the park manager said with a serious nod.
"With the respect of my legion, Senor Chavez. Keep this in a place of honor."
Ding took it. The damned thing must have weighed twenty pounds, plated as it was with gold. It would be a fit trophy for the club at Hereford. "We will do that, my friend," he promised the former sergeant, with a look at John Clark.
The stress was bleeding off now, to be followed as usual by elation and fatigue. The troopers looked at the kids they'd saved, still quiet and cowed by the night, but soon to be reunited with their parents. They heard the sound of a bus outside. Steve Lincoln opened the door, and watched the grown-ups leap out of it. He waved them through the door, and the shouts of joy filled the room.