Across the field stretching before him, dozens of high-intensity spotlight beams blazed to life. All were trained directly on him.
They had caught him again.
Remo would have sensed what was about to happen had the lights been manned, but these were operated remotely. There must have been thick cables trailing off to some central location that would have eliminated the usual telltale nervousness that telegraphed the intentions of human operators. The ambush was effective precisely because no human being on the scene was responsible for throwing the switch.
But that didn't mean there weren't people there.
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There were two dozen of them lined up just beyond the spotlights. They popped up as if from nowhere. Probably spiderholes or trenches.
When he focused his eyes to filter out the distracting brightness, Remo let a cool smile crease his set features. He would have laughed, but this would be unprofessional.
The men were set up in two overlapping semicircles beyond the lights in a variation of the old British method of attack that had lost His Majesty the Colonies in the Revolutionary War.
The first dozen were lying on their bellies between the lights and the main outbuildings of the Ragnarok complex. The other twelve were kneeling on one knee behind the first line, filling in the firing gaps between the outer row. All had relinquished their AR-15s and substituted shotguns, which were trained on the lean man standing vulnerable in the brilliant glare of the line of spotlights.
Remo thought quickly. There were more men moving in from the rear than there were waiting up ahead, and ahead was where he would find Esther Clear-Seer.
Remo took a step toward the spotlights.
All at once the peaceful Wyoming plain lit up with a coruscating eruption of deadly automatic-weapons fire.
Chapter Fifteen
The first high-velocity volley exploded through the blinding wall of light like dozens of tiny solar flares.
Through the spotlight glare, Remo could distinguish twelve distinct flashes erupting from the first row of gunmen, followed closely by another dozen explosions from the gunmen in the second row.
Everything happened in a blur of sound and fury.
The multiple attack was obviously designed to confuse Remo. He'd dodge the initial volley, and, in avoiding it, step into the second wave of deadly metal fragments. It was clever, in a rudimentary way, but it was also very, very presumptuous.
Instead of dodging the first shots, Remo moved toward them, ducking and skittering in the manner he had learned during his earliest years of Sinanju training.
A deer slug burned past his right earlobe, making the air sizzle.
A split-second jog to the left, and Remo avoided a spreading wall of buckshot.
It was a clever tactic to mix shells in with slugs. While single bullets were easier to dodge, the shot created an obstacle that almost forced him into the line of deadly fire.
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His hands, lightning fast, shot out in a flashing blur, driving a hard wall of compressed air before them— and two slugs deflected harmlessly into the Wyoming night.
Twisting and spinning his way through the deadly hail, Remo looked like a contortionist who'd turned tennis player, lobbing back bullets with an "air racket."
He got halfway to the double rows of gunmen when a muffled radio command ordering the next round of fire reached his ears through a lull in the din. Two dozen fingers immediately depressed on triggers.
Remo knew the attack pattern now. Every other man in the first row was buckshot, while those in between were bullets. The second row had been arranged exactly opposite the row of kneeling men so that its firing pattern complemented that of the first line.
A tight smile of confidence riding his face, Remo moved steadily forward as all twenty-four men unloaded their weapons on his lean frame.
His smile evaporated almost immediately.
Remo knew then he had made a deadly miscalculation. The missiles launched at him now were not the same.
It was as if the carefully planned first attack had given way to complete chaos. Shooters who had been firing shells now loosed buckshot, while some who had relied on shot now opted for the heavier slugs. But the tactical change was not just a mirror image of the first attack. The ammo redistribution was completely random now.
For the fourth time that evening he cursed inwardly for allowing himself to fall into a trap.
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I screwed up, Remo told himself.
A single ball of metal was hurtling toward him where he expected buckshot. Remo surged left and rolled low—into a flying field of buckshot!
His legs stiffened. He sprang forward, angling right, ahead of the metal shot fragments pelting the dusty ground behind him.
Even as he closed in on the lights, Remo could feel his inner rhythm. It was off. Dangerously off.
More shooting erupted beyond the spotlights. The steady burp of automatic-weapons fire this time. Remo could differentiate between powder loads and muzzle-velocity sounds. This was an AR-15, the weapon of choice for the Truth Church.
No time to worry about that now. Five humming bullets came seeking his chest. Remo flattened himself on the ground to avoid them, then executed an impossible flip—like a pancake being tossed by a giant spatula—from his stomach to his back.
Three rounds of buckshot kicked up a cloud of dust at the spot where he had been a split second earlier. They made ugly thucking sounds chewing up the red clay.
More deadly slugs flew toward him, but the second wave appeared to be petering out. In fact, the rounds from the rogue AR-15 seconds before appeared to have missed him entirely.
Remo twitched to the left—and another volley flew harmlessly past.
The lights were now only a few feet away. He could feel the heat from their white-hot filaments.
A final shot whizzed toward him from between the
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spotlights. A deer slug. Remo had only to lean to one side, and the bullet missed him by a healthy foot.
A second later he arrived between the lights and at the two rows of Truth Church disciples.
Some were busy trying to reload their weapons. Others lay prone in their firing positions. He'd worry about the shooters on the ground later.
The hands of those trying to reload shook as they scrambled to stuff shells into open breeches. Remo danced in between the two lines, cracking a temple here, shattering a sternum there. Broken shotguns dropped, scattering red paper shells like Christmas firecrackers. Stunned faces were mushed into the soft red clay.
When he was finished, Remo paused, ready to deal with the ones who should have jumped off the ground firing by now.