He examined the MP- 5 in his hands. Its magazine was capable of holding thirty rounds of 9-mm ammunition. He tried to judge how many rounds he had remaining. He'd fired three bursts. He'd been trained to release approximately four rounds per burst. But perhaps he'd fired more. Assuming he'd shot sixteen rounds, that left fourteen in the magazine-if it had been fully loaded-and one in the firing chamber, if the gunman had inserted a round there before attaching the magazine.
Be conservative, he thought. Assume you've got only twelve rounds.
He flicked the selection lever from automatic to the single-fire position. He extended the butt from a slot in the MP-5's frame, trying to make it aim like a rifle. When he raised himself to peer through the gap in the stones, he saw movement in the barn's rubble, to the right and left of the closed door. But before he could shoot, bullets struck the stones near his head, forcing him down. His forehead stung. Liquid trickled from it. When he touched his brow, his finger came away with blood from where a chunk flying off the stones had grazed him.
He picked up a charred piece of board and tossed it underhand toward where he'd first landed behind the wall. He hoped that the clatter would make the gunmen think that he'd returned to that position. Peering quickly through the gap he'd just used, he saw the man on the right raise his head from cover, aiming toward where he'd thrown the board.
Cavanaugh fired, hitting the man's shoulder, knocking him down. Immediately, he ducked below the gap as a volley from over there blasted the area through which he'd been peering. More chunks of stones flew, dust rising. He felt little elation that he'd hit one of the men. The wound hadn't been center of mass. It wouldn't have been incapacitating. The man was still a threat.
Jamie, he thought. She'll go out of her mind down there. Maybe some of the gunmen aren't dead. Maybe she'll have to fight.
Stop thinking.
He squirmed farther to the left along the collapsed wall, snaking over wreckage, scraping his chest more severely. He came to the edge of the ruins and realized that the men at the collapsed barn couldn't see him if he stayed low when he shifted along this far side. If he could reach the front and creep along to the opposite side, he'd have a chance of surprising his hunters. He would also have a chance of surprising Grace if she was behind the Explorer and the station wagon to the right of the collapsed barn.
When Cavanaugh reached the front of the wreckage, he found the Taurus where Jamie had parked it. Not that it did him any good. Without the ignition key, he couldn't start the car unobtrusively enough to be able to use it as a surprise weapon. In front, the rubble was high enough for him to run in a crouch. Blood oozed from the scrapes on his chest. His tongue felt thick. He peered around the next corner, seeing the station wagon and the SUV near the ruins of the barn. Their sides were angled toward him, concealing what was behind them, but from this vantage point, he could hug the ground and see under the vehicles.
Beneath the Explorer, Grace's sturdy walking shoes were visible near the front tires. He saw the cuffs of her khaki slacks. She knew enough to crouch behind the engine, the only spot where a high-powered bullet couldn't go all the way through. Then Cavanaugh saw movement just above the hood. Near the windshield, blond hair showed as Grace raised her head slightly to peer toward the collapsed wall at the back of the mansion. The angle of her gaze prevented her from noticing where Cavanaugh studied her from the front corner.
The MP-5 had a range of 220 yards. In contrast, the Explorer was about seventy-five yards away. But under the circumstances, the distance was considerable. Cavanaugh wondered if his aim would be accurate enough to hit so small a target-the top of her head showing above the hood-with a weapon whose barrel was short and whose sights he hadn't calibrated. After everything he'd been through, his hands felt unsteady. His nervous breathing would also be a liability, making it difficult for him to keep his arms still. If he missed the shot, he'd have exposed his position. All Grace and the two men would need to do would be to separate and make a wide circle toward the front, catching him in a pincer movement.
Changing his mind, he pressed his bare stomach to the ground. In this position, propping the MP-5 against the dirt, he had a better chance of keeping the weapon steady. With both eyes open, he aligned the front and rear sights, keeping them in focus while he aimed under the Explorer toward Grace's shoes and shins. Although her feet were apart for balance, the angle from which he viewed them made them seem together, giving him a better target than the top of Grace's head. He held his breath, braced his arms, and flexed the trigger.
The crack of the shot was so loud that he couldn't hear the bullet's impact, but he did hear a scream from behind the Explorer. Staring under the vehicle, he saw Grace fall to the ground, her pain-contorted face near one of the SUV's front tires. To readjust his aim, he had to peer farther around the corner. Grace saw his movement and pointed a handgun under the Explorer in his direction. He rolled back an instant before a bullet tore away a chunk of burned wood.
"The bastard's on this side!" Grace shouted. "At the front!"
Cavanaugh rose to a crouch and hurried along the front of the ruins, going back the way he'd come, toward the left side of the mansion. Nearly sick with the shock of the fight-or-flight hormones rushing through him, he relied on all his training, all his years of combat experience, all the nerve that he could muster, and charged past the corner. A shocked gunman froze. Having responded to Grace's shout and rushed from the barn, the man was halfway along the left side of the mansion when Cavanaugh shot him with two quick bursts, tearing the man's chest apart.
Cavanaugh kept charging, reached the fallen man, verified that he was dead, and grabbed the man's weapon. He had no idea how much ammunition remained in its magazine, but at least it gave him more than he already had. Carrying both, he reached the left rear corner of the mansion. The remaining man over there was wounded and wouldn't emerge from cover unless he had a good reason. Grace was wounded also, and could move only by hobbling or crawling. She would want to remain behind the Explorer until she knew what was going on. Neither of them had any way to tell the outcome of the shots they had heard. Logically, the man over here would have yelled to them if he'd been victorious, but if he'd missed and was stalking Cavanaugh, he'd have maintained battle silence, so the lack of a triumphant shout didn't necessarily mean that Grace and her partner would conclude the man over here was dead.
Cavanaugh decided to wait, to let them bleed a while longer, before he risked showing himself.
Then, despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a drone. Frowning, he told himself that the sound wasn't possible, that it indicated the concrete door was opening, but he couldn't imagine how that could be.
The drone continued. Jesus, had Grace used her remote control to open the door? Was she trying to lure Jamie out, to use her as a hostage?
Reasoning that the last place either Grace or the gunman would look for him was at the very bottom of the corner, at ground level, he dropped to his chest and peered around a rock. Squinting toward the ruins of the barn, he saw that the concrete door was indeed opening.
He looked behind him, suddenly not trusting his position, wondering if Grace was raising the door in order to distract him. Was she hoping to hobble around the wreckage of the mansion and sneak up on him while he concentrated on the barn, on keeping Jamie from showing herself at the open door?