dozen guards, all with heavy weapons, all firing at once.
He could do nothing but retreat.
And run. Run for his life and take as many of the guards with him as he could.
As Hawker reluctantly trotted toward the darkness of the ranchâs back acreage, he heard the high, pleading scream of the girl: âHelp me! Oh, please, you must help me!â
I will , Hawker thought as he held the assault rifle on full automatic, and three more guards fell in his wake. Hang on for just one more night, Cristoba, and I will. I promise .â¦
twelve
The next two hours were a nightmare as James Hawker ran the gauntlet of his life.
It was like barging through a forest filled with hornetsâ nests. Every twenty yards, it seemed, he stumbled into a new one.
Twice he tried to work his way back to the cottage in which Cristoba was imprisoned. And twice a fresh charge of guards pushed him back.
Finally Hawker had to admit that he had no choice but to make a fighting retreat. He couldnât do anyone any good if he was captured or killed.
Hawker lost the first set of guards in the best way he knew how. Running toward the back acreage of Williamsâs inner estate, Hawker took cover behind a stone bench and rummaged in his knapsack until he found what he was looking for.
He was in, he realized absently, some kind of ornamental garden. He wondered if any of the men chasing him had ever guessed they might die in such a pretty spot.
In a few seconds the guards came fanning down the hill, shoulder to shoulder. They fired only sporadic bursts now, a covering fire to clear the path ahead.
Hawker waited until they were about forty-five yards away, then pulled the pins from two M-34 incendiary/fragmentation grenades. The M-34 is one of the most deadly grenades ever manufactured by the Department of Defense. It kills two ways. The rolled steel body is serrated to help fragmentation. And the four hundred twenty-five grams of white phosphorous filler burns at twenty-seven hundred degrees Centigrade for approximately one minute.
If the shrapnel doesnât get you, the fire will.
The grenades work on a four-second delay system, so Hawker counted to a nervy âone-thousand-threeâ and then hurled them overhanded in quick succession.
There was an almost simultaneous double explosion followed by a blinding white light.
Hawker knew what was coming, so he turned away. Even so, his peripheral vision caught the shocking brightness of the light and saw the handful of men wither beneath its heat.
Caught within that fiery white hell, their screams were short-lived.
Hawker punched a fresh clip into the Colt Commando, adjusted the knapsack over his shoulder, and continued uninterrupted to the back adobe wall.
Hawker knew that by climbing the wall he might pinpoint his position for Williamsâs men. The electronic security system was certainly sophisticated enough. But he couldnât worry about that now. He unbelted the grappling hook, tossed it over the wall, then climbed hand over hand to the top.
What he saw on the other side surprised him. He expected to see Ranch #3, and he did. But what surprised him was that Ranch #3 looked nothing like the other ranches. Since it was supposed to be an experimental farm, he expected to see barns and outbuildings.
There were none of these things.
Instead he saw what looked like a single large factory complex surrounded by miles and miles of greenhouses. The greenhouses werenât the glass structures he had seen in the Chicago area. These were shielded by translucent nets, under which heat lights blazed beneath sprinkler systems. Through the nets Hawker could see long rows of what looked to be sapling trees.
What in the hell was Williams growing? he wondered. It wasnât marijuana. And it sure as hell wasnât poppies. But what else would explain the conversation he had heard between the two guards about a âshipmentâ leaving tonight?
For the moment Hawker didnât
He could do nothing but retreat.
And run. Run for his life and take as many of the guards with him as he could.
As Hawker reluctantly trotted toward the darkness of the ranchâs back acreage, he heard the high, pleading scream of the girl: âHelp me! Oh, please, you must help me!â
I will , Hawker thought as he held the assault rifle on full automatic, and three more guards fell in his wake. Hang on for just one more night, Cristoba, and I will. I promise .â¦
twelve
The next two hours were a nightmare as James Hawker ran the gauntlet of his life.
It was like barging through a forest filled with hornetsâ nests. Every twenty yards, it seemed, he stumbled into a new one.
Twice he tried to work his way back to the cottage in which Cristoba was imprisoned. And twice a fresh charge of guards pushed him back.
Finally Hawker had to admit that he had no choice but to make a fighting retreat. He couldnât do anyone any good if he was captured or killed.
Hawker lost the first set of guards in the best way he knew how. Running toward the back acreage of Williamsâs inner estate, Hawker took cover behind a stone bench and rummaged in his knapsack until he found what he was looking for.
He was in, he realized absently, some kind of ornamental garden. He wondered if any of the men chasing him had ever guessed they might die in such a pretty spot.
In a few seconds the guards came fanning down the hill, shoulder to shoulder. They fired only sporadic bursts now, a covering fire to clear the path ahead.
Hawker waited until they were about forty-five yards away, then pulled the pins from two M-34 incendiary/fragmentation grenades. The M-34 is one of the most deadly grenades ever manufactured by the Department of Defense. It kills two ways. The rolled steel body is serrated to help fragmentation. And the four hundred twenty-five grams of white phosphorous filler burns at twenty-seven hundred degrees Centigrade for approximately one minute.
If the shrapnel doesnât get you, the fire will.
The grenades work on a four-second delay system, so Hawker counted to a nervy âone-thousand-threeâ and then hurled them overhanded in quick succession.
There was an almost simultaneous double explosion followed by a blinding white light.
Hawker knew what was coming, so he turned away. Even so, his peripheral vision caught the shocking brightness of the light and saw the handful of men wither beneath its heat.
Caught within that fiery white hell, their screams were short-lived.
Hawker punched a fresh clip into the Colt Commando, adjusted the knapsack over his shoulder, and continued uninterrupted to the back adobe wall.
Hawker knew that by climbing the wall he might pinpoint his position for Williamsâs men. The electronic security system was certainly sophisticated enough. But he couldnât worry about that now. He unbelted the grappling hook, tossed it over the wall, then climbed hand over hand to the top.
What he saw on the other side surprised him. He expected to see Ranch #3, and he did. But what surprised him was that Ranch #3 looked nothing like the other ranches. Since it was supposed to be an experimental farm, he expected to see barns and outbuildings.
There were none of these things.
Instead he saw what looked like a single large factory complex surrounded by miles and miles of greenhouses. The greenhouses werenât the glass structures he had seen in the Chicago area. These were shielded by translucent nets, under which heat lights blazed beneath sprinkler systems. Through the nets Hawker could see long rows of what looked to be sapling trees.
What in the hell was Williams growing? he wondered. It wasnât marijuana. And it sure as hell wasnât poppies. But what else would explain the conversation he had heard between the two guards about a âshipmentâ leaving tonight?
For the moment Hawker didnât
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