"It's too quiet," Mike whispered at last. "They're planning something."
Suddenly a burst of gunfire came from the young policeman behind them.
They're coming!" he yelled, firing again and again.
Mike bolted.
"Come on!" she shouted at Carter.
Carter started to rise but thought better of it and dropped flat again.
"You go!"
She ran through the jail and flattened herself down next to the policeman. Carefully choosing her shots, she fired. It didn't sound like a major attack.
Carter slid to the side of the hole, his body hidden behind the ragged remains of the cell wall. He counted the seconds. If it was going to happen, it would be soon.
His sharp eyes studied the wavering darkness. Nothing. They were a gutsy group, the attackers. And they'd come prepared in dark clothing that blended with the night. They had accurate weapons, and there was something — or someone — in the jail that they wanted. Dead. They weren't fools. Carter couldn't believe that they would be so stupid as to…
Then he saw them. Four, spread out. Creeping toward what they hoped was an abandoned entrance. Then, with no bullets coming at them, they ran, confident, a coalescing juggernaut. The group on the other side of the jail that Mike and the young policeman fired at were a diversion. This small group before Carter was the one that expected to conquer the jail.
With the remarkably rapid reflexes mat the Killmaster was legendary for — and that he hoped would keep him from getting killed — he leaned out beyond the ragged edge of the wall.
He aimed at the figure coming from his blind spot, and fired.
The body flew back into nothingness.
Carter ducked back.
Three bullets bit into the wall around Carter's head. Splinters flew. He jumped up and came out from a new spot. Bullets pummeled the spot where he'd been.
Quickly he aimed and fired twice.
Two more fell, as dark as coal against the black ground shadows.
A bullet sang into the wall, then another. Wood dust stung his eyes and he closed them, waiting for the soothing tears.
"What's going on?" Mike shouted from behind.
Carter knelt. He heard the feet pounding, light, but a heavy body that couldn't disguise its mass.
"Slay where you are!" Carter called back to Mike.
"They're hidden!" Mike said. "We can't get any of them. It's like shooting at ghosts'"
The attacker lunged through the door.
Carter's eyes flew open, his vision blurry. His eyes burned like fire.
The gun was a wavering black stick in the attacker s hand.
Carter rolled into the legs.
The gun came down, slicing the air.
Carter leaped up.
Armed for the belly, kicked.
Missed, smashed the gun across the cell.
"Get out of the way, Nick!" Mike yelled, worried. "I can't get a clear shot!"
The big hands slashed toward Carter's neck. He saw the hands clearly. Thick hands with broad fingers accustomed to heavy work.
Carter reared back and smashed his elbow into the attacker's chest.
Ribs cracked. The attacker grunted and stepped aside.
Carter pulled back a fist that had power enough to flatten a gorilla. This man he'd take alive, then question.
The shot rang out.
"No!" Mike shouted. "Nick had him!"
The attacker's belly erupted. A volcano of blood spewed out. The blackened face of the attacker looked down at himself, stunned. Suddenly the jail and surroundings were quiet. He seemed to listen to the silence, then he pitched forward onto his knees, wobbled, and lifted a foot to stand. Helplessly Carter watched. The man was already dead. At last he acknowledged his end. He sank onto the floor in a sea of blood.
"Dammit, Perry," Mike complained sadly to the young policeman. "We could've questioned him."
Behind Mike the full moon hung fat and low on the horizon, illuminating an irregular patch inside the jail where she stood glaring at the young man.
The policeman named Perry looked at her blankly. He wiped the palm of one hand on his pant leg, over and over, while the other nervously tapped the barrel of his gun against the other leg. It had been his first gun battle. He'd be jumpy for days.
Mike sighed, then patted his back.
"It's too late now," she said. "Forget it."
Carter walked to her. Perry stared at him, miserable.
"The others disappear?" Carter asked.
She nodded. "Just stopped. They didn't get what they wanted."
"I'd better check outside," he said. "Come on. Perry. Let's see what we can find."
The young man stared at him, the pocks deep on his face in the gloom.
"When you're scared, it's better to do something," Carter said kindly. "You've got a bullet burn on your forehead. You've already been wounded. The worst is over. Don't you want to know where your chief is?"
The youth's eyebrows suddenly shot up. He crossed the room in long strides and exited through the hole in the jail wall where Carter had been.
Carter smiled briefly.
I'll be back," he told Mike, leaving her to check the dead attacker on the jail floor.
He slipped past poor Harry and into the fresh night. The smell of gun smoke tainted the mountain air. Slowly the birds began to sing again. The tall firs swayed overhead with the sinning wind.
Silently padding, gun safely in his hand, Carter moved around the perimeter of cleared land behind the rough jailhouse. Pine needles brushed his cheek. Dried duff softened the ground beneath his feet. He quickly found where the attackers had hidden during the last diversion. A thick log was piled high with branches. Behind it, grass was matted, duff kicked into piles where bodies had sprawled to fire at Mike and Perry.
He walked on, listening for human sounds in the forest. Altogether he found seven dead bodies, some close to the woods, others near the jail. They were dressed in black jump suits. Caucasians, their laces blackened for camouflage. All carried new Soviet 5 45mm AK-74 Kalashnikov assault rifles, smaller caliber versions of the traditional 7.62mm AK-47 model. The new models were light, tough, and easy to shoot, ideal for the Russian style of fighting that called for bursts of sustained fire rather than carefully aimed shots.
He returned to the jail. The lights were on once more. Villagers moved quietly toward the building, hesitant, not talking. Some earned hunting rifles.
Inside, Chief Merritt sat on a stool while a doctor tended a bullet wound on his arm His leathery face was pasty, drawn. Villagers examined the blasted walls and conferred softly. Perry leaned against cell bars, his body stiff and wooden. A pall hung in the violated jail.
Mike had stripped the attacker that Perry had killed. He lay naked, pale as bleached bones, on the floor. He, too, had a Soviet gun. He also had a tattoo on the top of his left thigh. It was a small bird in flight. Beneath it were the Russian words Serebryanyi Golub, Silver Dove.
Mike looked up at Carter. He gestured for her to follow him. They went out, carrying a flashlight.
Each of the bodies had the same tattoo on the left thigh.
"A conspiracy," Mike said softly, her face worried as they trudged to her car.
"It doesn't look good," Carter agreed solemnly.
Mike's car was an Australian-made Holden Camira 1600, a small car specially equipped with an outsize motor. She drove it easily along the winding mountain road, past boulders and pines and cabins that were only small distant lights. She banked the curves expertly. Overhead, stars twinkled among narrow moving clouds.
"Arc you sure you're not here for AXE?" she asked at last.