"Diaz, Ghost Lead here. Hold your fire! I got him."

Mitchell and Smith had just emerged from the south building and dove forward onto their guts. They had a perfect bead on the admiral, whose guard had dropped in behind him. Mitchell held his breath, about to fire.

But Smith reacted first, cutting loose with his MR-C. The guard and the admiral shook violently as Smith's rounds drummed them into unceremonious death.

"Nice," gasped Mitchell.

Smith groaned and replied, "Thanks."

Mitchell called up Beasley's camera in the HUD, which showed the sergeant dashing across the castle grounds. "Bravo Lead, I need a SITREP."

"I'm here, Captain. Brown's down, but he's alive, unconscious. I'm en route to Hume's position. Not sure about him yet. Bo's got Marcus."

"You need help?"

"I think we're good."

"Roger that. Everybody else? All targets have been terminated. Fall back on the SUVs! Move, move, move!"

"Yeah, that's easy for him to say," griped Jenkins.

Sergeant Marcus Brown was still lying in the staircase. Diaz's round had missed him by a fraction of an inch, but debris from the wall had struck him in the head. That, along with tumbling down a dozen wooden steps, had knocked him out cold.

Jenkins had already checked Brown's pupils to see if they were equal and reactive to light, which they were, and he had already checked Brown's ears for any fluids; they were clear. In a perfect world, they would immobilize Brown's neck and haul him out on a portable litter.

In Jenkins's world, he was charged with carrying his buddy on his back, pack-mule style.

He carefully lifted Brown and started down the stairs, the wood creaking and bending with every step. Between Brown's massive physique and his weaponry, it took a blinding amount of force to bring him down.

Outside, Jenkins sloshed forward as more wind whipped through, carrying a fresh wall of rain. Despite all those hours in the gym, the load was now too much. He collapsed to his knees and lowered his buddy to the ground. "Ghost Lead, Jenkins here. I have Brown, but I need help."

"I'm going down to get them," said Boy Scout over the phone, beginning to gun the SUV's engine as though he were about to drag race.

Buddha bit back a curse. "They're coming up to us. Don't move, you fool! We keep protected. We have the only rides out!"

"If they all die down there, they will not need us. Let's get in there and get them out."

"You heard what I said."

"Sorry, old man. We don't play it safe."

Suddenly, Boy Scout threw his SUV in gear and roared off ahead of Buddha, who wrenched open his door, climbed out, leveled his pistol, and began firing at the kid. The SUV's rear window took several holes, glass splintering, but the vehicle headed up and over the hill, gone.

"What are you doing?" cried the kid. "Stop firing!"