He could hear the lighter cracks of the M-16s Natalia, Cole, and the two U.S. II troopers carried. Rubenstein wasn't shooting— there wasn't the familiar 9mm burping of the German MP4O. It was a close-range weapon.
Rourke threw himself to the dirt, the CAR-15 snapping up to his right shoulder, his legs spread wide, his left hand ripping away the scope covers, dropping them as the hand settled to the foreend, the first finger of his right hand touching the Colt's trigger, the reticle settled on the glare of the scope. The rifle wasn't built for tack-driving accuracy at two hundred and fifty yards, nor was the scope.
He fired once, twice, a third time, then snatched up his scope covers from the dirt by the side of the road, pushed himself to his feet and started to run again, the heavy-caliber rifle from the water tower firing again.
The fence line was less than fifty yards and he ran toward it, glancing once behind him and to the right— Natalia and the others were running, firing, short bursts aimed at the general direction of the tower, to make the sniper hesitate before firing, to buy an extra second.
A rock near Rourke's right boot exploded, dust and rock chips flying up from it as the crack of the rifle came again. Rourke kept running, the fence now twenty-five yards.
He brought the CAR-15 up, pumping the trigger three more times, at once trying to draw fire toward himself and to pin down the sniper. The sniper rifle cracked again, Rourke feeling a searing pain in his left ear. "Shit!" he snarled, his stride breaking as he stumbled, but he caught his balance, kept running.
Natalia's voice— "John!"
"Okay," he shouted back, running, his breath coming hard now, the fence less than ten yards away. "Gotta go over the fence—"
"Electrified!" Cole was shouting now.
"Bullshit— not enough power— I hope!" He kept running, five yards remaining. "Cole— you and your men, keep that sniper tucked down— Paul and Natalia and I'll go over first."
"Barbed wire, John!" It was Paul.
Rourke didn't answer him, nearing the fence now, shifting his pack off to the ground, the rifle in his right hand shifting to his left so he could turn it around, the safety going on, his right hand grasping the assault rifle backwards, his left hand reaching out for the fence as he threw himself against it, his right boot finding a brace against the chain link, his right hand snapping the rifle up, the butt plate catching on the top line of barbed wire, Rourke hauling himself up, freeing the rifle, heavy assault rifle fire from behind him now, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the metal of the water tower, Rourke slipping his left arm from the leather bomber jacket, grasping the rifle with his left hand, hooking the pistol grip over the wire, holding now by the butt stock.
The sharp crack of the sniper's rifle— a loud pinging sound as he glanced right— the nearest vertical support for the chain link was dimpled and bright. He freed the bomber jacket from his right arm, throwing it inside out over the wire, the heavy leather of it over the barbs. "Paul!"
The younger man shouted something Rourke couldn't hear, but he could feel the fence shaking, hear the rattling sound of the chain links against one another, Rourke throwing his weight down and to the side, further compressing the barbed wire.
Rubenstein went past him, up, over, and dropping. "Shit—"
"Natalia!"
His right hand grasped at the chain links nearest him, his grip on the CAR-15's butt stock slipping a little. He could hear the fence rattle again, the woman going past him, up, over the fence. He followed her with his eyes— she landed as gracefully as a cat after the twelve-foot drop. She was already moving, her M-16 spitting fire, Rubenstein running, limping slightly.
"Cole!"
Rourke's left arm ached— the armpit burning as his muscles screamed at him. The fence shook and rattled again, then Cole was up, past him, dropping, the man after him stopping at the top of the fence, firing a burst from his M-16, more of the assault rifle fire coming from inside the compound now, but not all from Natalia and Cole. There was the lighter rattle of Rubenstein's subgun, a short burst, then another and another.
The second of the U.S. II troopers was coming, up, over the top of the fence.
Rourke threw his body weight left, his right arm reaching out, grasping at the chain links. The heavy crack of the sniper rifle, part of the chain link supporting him peeling back as the bullet sliced it.
Rourke released his grip with his right hand, throwing his hand up and out, catching again at the fence, hauling himself up, leaving the CAR-15, its sling entangled in the broken section of chain link, leaving his bomber jacket as well. He hauled himself to the top, throwing his weight over, sideways, his legs in clear air, his hands releasing their grips. He dropped, hitting the dirt hard, losing his balance, rolling.
He pushed himself up, snatching at the Detonics .45 under his left armpit and then the one under his right. He started to run. The heavy-caliber rifle discharged again, into the concrete near his feet as he hit the road again, more assault rifle fire coming from a squat bunker-like building a hundred yards distant, another heavy-caliber sniper shot, Cole cursing, "Damn— shattered my stock." Rourke didn't bother to look. There was a sentry house fifteen yards to his right and he aimed for it, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein there already, Paul firing up into the water tower with his pistol— seventy-five yards at least and useless— and Natalia pumping neat, three-round bursts from her M-16.
Rourke reached the sentry house, slamming himself against it, Natalia firing again, catching his breath. He looked at her, leaning down as he did, putting his head toward his knees.
"Are you all right— your— your ear—"
Rourke suddenly remembered it, touching at it. "Are you all right— how's your abdomen after going over that fence—"
"I can tell where your suture line from the operation was," she smiled. "But I'm all right— you're a good surgeon. Let me look at your ear—"
"No time— gotta—"
"Let me look at your ear," she ordered, stepping closer to him. "Paul!"
Rubenstein turned toward them, Rourke looking up, Natalia handing Paul her rifle.
"Try this—"
"Right," he nodded, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back off the bridge of his nose, taking the assault rifle and leaning around the edge of the sentry house. The sniper rifle fired again, the report louder this time.
"Three fifty-seven H&H maybe," she said absently.
Rourke nodded, sucking in his breath hard as she touched at his ear. "Paul— you were limping."
"I'm fine— just gave myself a little twist— worked it out when I ran."
"Good," Rourke nodded, fighting the pain again, gritting his teeth as he felt her probe the wound.
"You should have a scar— you are very lucky. Like they say in your American movies—" her voice was soft, low— a perfect alto. "Just a crease. It really was— a lot of blood, small tear in your flesh on the upper portion of the outer ear."
"The helix," Rourke corrected.
"As a doctor, you call it the helix— as a KGB major with only some first aid training, I'll call it the upper portion of the outer ear, thank you."
"Right," Rourke groaned.
"It's bled enough, I don't think there's risk of infection— medical kit is in your pack?"
"You got it," he nodded.
"I think the bleeding is stopping—"
"Probably start up again when Paul and I head for that water tower," he told her mechanically, then raised his voice, moving away from her, toward the edge of the sentry house. "Cole?"
"Here!" The U.S. II captain's voice came from behind a truck— a two-and-one-half ton— parked just beyond the second gate, the gate swung closed now but nothing locking it as Rourke glanced down the road. "Maybe three or four guys— that low building!"