firing high, over their heads, so as not to hit their boss.
Caine rolled onto his back, his Ml opened up on full auto, spraying the leafy shrubbery with a steady rain of lead that momentarily
silenced the other gunfire.
Hawkeye reached down and grabbed the unconscious Ruiz as he had before, pulling the disheveled guy around to the other side
of the rocks, where Caine had moved to give cover fire.
This side of the cluster of rocks left them exposed to those reinforcements bumping in about a quarter-klick away.
Caine ceased firing to reload, the echoes of the gunfire echoing away to nothing.
“Senors,
you are surrounded. Throw down your guns. All we want is El Gato! I, Felipe Gallegos, assure you you will not be harmed—”
Hawkeye aimed across the rock at the source of the sound and fired.
He was rewarded with a death grunt, and one dead Felipe Gallegos toppled into view and somersaulted down the hill until a
big rock stopped him.
While the other riflemen up there resumed an automatic fusillade down upon Hawkins’ and Caine’s position, the air filled with
the crackle of their weapons, the whistling of projectiles coming too close and ricocheting, and now the engine sounds of
the Jeeps from their rear.
The Texan looked sideways at the Englishman, there where they knelt beneath the cluster of boulders. “Uh, y’know, tea bag,
maybe you’re right; maybe it is time we gave up this bounty hunting.”
Caine aimed the big Ml around on the approaching Jeeps.
“Maybe it’s bloody well time to die,” he grunted, raising the scope to his eye.
He pulled the rubberized eyepiece away as a sudden new sound boomed into the montage of war in the desert; the unmistakable
choppa-choppa-choppa
of a helicopter rotoring in low and fast from the north—at the moment blocked from sight by the butte.
Then the chopper thrust into view; a big single-engine jet-turbine Bell Ulti-D “Huey” boasting, Caine’s trained eye spotted
at a glance, 40mm cannons and 5.56mm machine guns mounted externally on turrets, the cannons stabbing geysering explosions
that loudly chomped up the earth behind the high-ground ridge as the warbird flew by low overhead.
Two bodies flew out, hurled under the impact of the flesh-eating detonations.
The third Mexican drug hood charged blindly out into the clearing to escape and walked into a round from Hawkeye’s .44 that
messily lifted off a quarter of his skull and whatever brains went with it.
The Huey continued out, banking gracefully above the three Jeeps that were slowing down in confusion.
Hawkins wheeled around to watch the sight and so did Caine.
“Now who the hell could that be?”
“I don’t know,” muttered the Brit, raising the sighting scope back to his eye, “but I damn well intend to give him some help.”
Cody worked the Huey’s controls, easing the chopper around into a strafing run at the Jeeps on the ground as the drivers tried
to separate—but not fast enough.
The gunship zoomed by overhead, its miniguns yammering now, the lines of pounding bullets pulverizing the desert floor, tracking
across two of the filled-to-capacity Jeeps, brutally pulping most of the men in one vehicle, the parallel line of slugs crossing
the other vehicle’s gas tank, blowing it to smithereens in an orange-red blast that lit up the ascending shroud of night settling
across the desert.
At that instant, Richard Caine sent off a grenade from his and Hawkeye’s position over by the rocks, and the remaining Jeep
full of Mexican hoods caught another on-the-money hit that banged that moving vehicle off the ground—flying shrapnel devastating
the passengers into bloody ruins, flung into the air, not moving after they landed across the ground.
Cody pulled up the Huey, easing the warbird into a landing approach toward a level patch of ground near where Hawkins and
Caine now stood erect.
He felt a grin and a good feeling coursed through him as he set the chopper
Caine rolled onto his back, his Ml opened up on full auto, spraying the leafy shrubbery with a steady rain of lead that momentarily
silenced the other gunfire.
Hawkeye reached down and grabbed the unconscious Ruiz as he had before, pulling the disheveled guy around to the other side
of the rocks, where Caine had moved to give cover fire.
This side of the cluster of rocks left them exposed to those reinforcements bumping in about a quarter-klick away.
Caine ceased firing to reload, the echoes of the gunfire echoing away to nothing.
“Senors,
you are surrounded. Throw down your guns. All we want is El Gato! I, Felipe Gallegos, assure you you will not be harmed—”
Hawkeye aimed across the rock at the source of the sound and fired.
He was rewarded with a death grunt, and one dead Felipe Gallegos toppled into view and somersaulted down the hill until a
big rock stopped him.
While the other riflemen up there resumed an automatic fusillade down upon Hawkins’ and Caine’s position, the air filled with
the crackle of their weapons, the whistling of projectiles coming too close and ricocheting, and now the engine sounds of
the Jeeps from their rear.
The Texan looked sideways at the Englishman, there where they knelt beneath the cluster of boulders. “Uh, y’know, tea bag,
maybe you’re right; maybe it is time we gave up this bounty hunting.”
Caine aimed the big Ml around on the approaching Jeeps.
“Maybe it’s bloody well time to die,” he grunted, raising the scope to his eye.
He pulled the rubberized eyepiece away as a sudden new sound boomed into the montage of war in the desert; the unmistakable
choppa-choppa-choppa
of a helicopter rotoring in low and fast from the north—at the moment blocked from sight by the butte.
Then the chopper thrust into view; a big single-engine jet-turbine Bell Ulti-D “Huey” boasting, Caine’s trained eye spotted
at a glance, 40mm cannons and 5.56mm machine guns mounted externally on turrets, the cannons stabbing geysering explosions
that loudly chomped up the earth behind the high-ground ridge as the warbird flew by low overhead.
Two bodies flew out, hurled under the impact of the flesh-eating detonations.
The third Mexican drug hood charged blindly out into the clearing to escape and walked into a round from Hawkeye’s .44 that
messily lifted off a quarter of his skull and whatever brains went with it.
The Huey continued out, banking gracefully above the three Jeeps that were slowing down in confusion.
Hawkins wheeled around to watch the sight and so did Caine.
“Now who the hell could that be?”
“I don’t know,” muttered the Brit, raising the sighting scope back to his eye, “but I damn well intend to give him some help.”
Cody worked the Huey’s controls, easing the chopper around into a strafing run at the Jeeps on the ground as the drivers tried
to separate—but not fast enough.
The gunship zoomed by overhead, its miniguns yammering now, the lines of pounding bullets pulverizing the desert floor, tracking
across two of the filled-to-capacity Jeeps, brutally pulping most of the men in one vehicle, the parallel line of slugs crossing
the other vehicle’s gas tank, blowing it to smithereens in an orange-red blast that lit up the ascending shroud of night settling
across the desert.
At that instant, Richard Caine sent off a grenade from his and Hawkeye’s position over by the rocks, and the remaining Jeep
full of Mexican hoods caught another on-the-money hit that banged that moving vehicle off the ground—flying shrapnel devastating
the passengers into bloody ruins, flung into the air, not moving after they landed across the ground.
Cody pulled up the Huey, easing the warbird into a landing approach toward a level patch of ground near where Hawkins and
Caine now stood erect.
He felt a grin and a good feeling coursed through him as he set the chopper
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