Chapters (37)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Chris Ryan Readers’ Club?
- Letter from Author
- About the Author
The pickup jerked to a sudden stop in the middle of the clearing. Smoke gushed out of the sides of the bonnet. Bowman heard a sharp ca-rack as Webb took aim and fired the AWC. The smaller calibre sniper rifle. Chambered for the 7.62 × 51 mm NATO round, lethal up to a range of eight hundred metres. The bullet starred the front windshield, killing the driver before he could debus. Webb cocked the bolt in one smooth motion and fired a second time. The rebel on the back of the truck tumbled away from the machine gun. Three quick shots and the technical was out of the fight.
The thirty Machete Boys either side of the truck froze.
The suddenness of the attack had shocked them. Like getting punched in the face by a stranger in the street. They were experiencing sensory overload. Three of their mates had just been wiped out in a few seconds. No one knew what to do. The Boys had no plan B. They had walked straight into an ambush. Everything had gone to shit.
‘Open up with the Gimpys!’ Mallet shouted. ‘Now!’
Smoke was still pouring out of the engine block as Bowman aimed at the close grouping of rebels to the right of the knackered technical. His left hand rested on top of the GPMG’s plastic stock, his right clasped the grip, creating a stable firing platform. A few metres away, Loader was standing in front of the parapet wall, pointing his weapon at the massed group of figures to the left of the stationary pickup. No need for the operators to shelter behind the parapet itself. The Boys were going to get dropped before they could loose off any rounds. No more than two seconds had elapsed since Mallet had fired the first round from the .50 cal.
The rebels were thirty metres from the perimeter fence. Seventy metres from the wooded area to the north. No man’s land.
The kill zone.
Bowman fired.
A gout of flame spewed out of the Gimpy snout. Spent link and cartridges pinged out of the ejector on the right side of the receiver, tinkling against the cement floor as Bowman emptied two bursts at the Boys to the right of the technical, cutting down five of them in a storm of hot lead. At his nine o’clock, Loader was letting rip with the second Gimpy, poleaxing the rebels to the left of the approach road.