Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(92)

BANG! The tank fires. That flat, metallic sound is followed instantly by a larger explosion as the shell blows apart the ground where Millican was just seconds before. Dust hides Hansu Pang from view.

Is Pang hit?

“Fall back!” Cole roars through cupped hands, but falling rock and dirt from the explosion and the shouts of the Italian infantry drown him out. “Put some fire on them!”

It takes Rio several seconds to realize what he means. That he means that she should shoot. The sergeant is armed with a tommy gun, useless at this range: this is rifle work. This is M1 Garand work.

Across the road the cloud of dust from the tank round blocks Sticklin’s view, which means there are only two rifles in a position to be fired. One is in Rio’s sweaty hands, the stock pressed to her cheek.

She takes aim. They’ve taught her never to fire without picking a target. One individual target.

One man.

That one? The one to the left?

Her finger is on the trigger. The safety is off. The rifle has a two-stage trigger. Pull first to take up slack. Then just the barest movement to fire. Five pounds of pressure on stage one. The same but a shorter pull for the actual firing.

Her heart seems both too slow and too fast, like a car being run through the gears regardless of the engine.

The first pull.

Pull the trigger again and—

“Shoot!” Sergeant Cole yells.

Convulsively Rio pulls the trigger.

The recoil punches her shoulder, but she’s used to that. She does not see where her shot goes—no way to be sure since she has not really aimed. Not really. Not like she did when she earned her Sharpshooter badge.

Cole yells again. “Second Squad, fall back! Fall back!” and in a quieter tone, “Not you two.”

The tanks are moving again, clank-clanking down the road, shifting through the gears. They’ll be here in thirty seconds. Their shells will arrive sooner.

“Richlin! Suarez! Lay down some fugging fire,” Sergeant Cole yells.

Now he’s firing his tommy gun, .45 caliber slugs in short bursts, a chug-a-chug-a-chug sound, but it’s nothing but a noisemaker at this distance.

Shoot, Rio. Shoot.

She aims. A man in a yellow-tan uniform. Two hundred yards away.

He’s perfectly centered between the two curved uprights of the front sight, chest resting on the stubby center post, all contained within the circle of the rear sight.

She draws a breath and lets it out as slowly as her racing metabolism will allow and—

BAM!

The familiar kick to her shoulder. The familiar cordite smell. The metallic clang as the spent brass spins through the air before dropping to the ground.

The Italian soldier trips. He falls to one knee.

He tripped. That’s all.

The Italian drops his rifle. He clutches his thigh.

My God, I hit him!

“Keep it up, pour it on!”

Chug-a-chug-a-chug-chug-a-chug-a-chug!

Take aim.

Choices. Three or four men in view. Which?

You. The one with the mustache.

Breathe in, out sloooow . . .

BAM!

A miss. She breathes a sigh of relief, only no, no, now the Italian is falling. Straight back. Like he’s falling in slow motion, an optical illusion that makes it seem that he’s shrinking not falling, until suddenly his knees buckle and his entire body crumples.

A sob escapes her. She looks desperately to her right. Suarez is a ghost, pale, staring down the barrel of his rifle. Has he fired?

Beyond him she sees the rest of Second Squad falling back, Hansu Pang alive still and hauling the bazooka, all of them are running low, holding their helmets with one hand, Millican alive too, Jenou with steel ammo boxes in each hand, struggling to run. The lead tank turns slightly and—

BOOM!

This round sails harmlessly over the squad’s heads to explode beyond them.

“Keep it coming, Richlin!”

Another target. Find the man. Find the one man who is going to die.

No, I don’t want to, no, I don’t want to.

Her body is a single tensed muscle, she’s hard as a board, her teeth will break if she clenches any harder.

Tougher now. They’re running.

The Italians know now they’re being fired on, they know they’re exposed and no matter what the Kraut officer yelled, they are ducking, running, cowering behind the tank, some preparing to return fire, most just trying to make themselves as small as possible.

You.

BAM!

“Aaaahh!” Rio cries, and the sound is something animalistic, some terrible blend of terror and triumph.

“Okay, Richlin, let’s go!” Cole grabs her shoulder, and she is aware in a distant, disconnected way that he’s had to repeat it a couple of times, so she rolls over, gets awkwardly to her knees, then jumps up to run with bullets whizzing by overhead.

They run, the three of them, and ahead now she sees the rest of the squad. Jenou, still okay it seems, still hauling ammo though she’s lost her helmet and her short-cut blond hair is like a bird in panicked flight. The rear tank sends another round after them, blowing another hole in the desert, and lends speed to Rio’s legs.

It is flat-out, undignified running, track and field, kicking divots in the dirt.

Italian soldiers see them fleeing and now aim, aim at her, willing their bullets to find her, to blow a hole in her, to see her fall, to see her die. They’re shouting in their foreign tongue, angry, scared shouts, firing fast, bullets everywhere.