Primary Threat. Джек Марс

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      He stood, taking in a view of the battlefield.

      At least twenty men were across from him, dressed in dark clothes and wearing black headgear and masks against the cold. Giant spotlights were shining down from ten-foot-high mounts. The men in black stood and kneeled in the freezing rain, firing guns into the water—the water where the Navy SEALs probably were.

      That’s what the big spotlights were for—to give them targets in the water. The lights probably also served to blind the swimmers and deny them targets, if any of them could even get their guns out.

      The men in black began to turn toward Murphy. They almost seemed to be moving in slow motion. In another second, they were going to start shooting him full of holes.

      Murphy gripped the heavy gun in front of him with both hands.

      His finger found the trigger mechanism.

      Please work.

      He opened up. DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH came the metallic sound of bullets firing. He easily rode the recoil of the mounted gun. Spent shells fell to the bottom of the boat, tinkling like jingle bells.

      Murphy hosed the men down. He hit four or five with his first burst.

      They didn’t fall as they were shot. They came apart like rag dolls, the bullets ripping through them. Now the others were running, seeking cover.

      “Run, you monkeys,” he said.

      A sound came.

      WHOOOOOOOOSSSSHH.

      A rocket flew past him. His entire body jerked in response.

      Just missed. He hadn’t even seen it coming. It hit somewhere in the water behind him. He didn’t hear an explosion, but he saw an orange and yellow flash go up.

      How did he see that out of the corner of his eye?

      No. He must have eyes in the back of his head.

      His ammunition belt was already running down. He didn’t have a backup.

      Running out of ammo was a problem. That RPG was also a problem—there were going to be more. Already, the men were regrouping out there and taking up firing positions facing Murphy. He reached with his left hand and fired a smoke grenade.

      Then he dropped to the floor of the boat.

      A second later, rounds started hitting the armored plating of the boat. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk…

      Bullets whistled overhead.

      He looked up at the trigger of the chain gun. He still had some rounds left, but if he tried to reach his hand up….

      WHOOOOSSSHHH.

      Another rocket went by. Whoever had the rocket launcher was a lousy shot.

      Thank God.

      Murphy had a pistol on him. He pulled it from the holster. He crouched below the lip of the bow. The first man who appeared there was going to take a bullet in the head. After that…

      But they weren’t that dumb. A grenade suddenly appeared, bouncing around inside the front of the boat like a rubber ball. It made solid metallic BONKS as it bounced. Murphy picked it up, waited half a beat, and threw it back.

      An instant later: BOOOOM.

      Someone out there screamed. Dirt and ice and blood and meat rained down.

      They were right there, creeping up.

      Murphy’s breaths came in harsh rasps. He wasn’t gonna last. He was outmanned. He was outgunned. He couldn’t seem them—if he peeked over the side, they would take his head off. He couldn’t throw back every single grenade that came. The guy with the rocket launcher wasn’t gonna miss all night.

      Murphy was gonna die right here in this boat.

      His mind raced, looking for options.

      “Oh God,” he said.

      This might have been a mistake.

      Something had changed.

      At one moment, they had seemed like they were all doomed, trapped in the water, the enemy above them and firing down, machine gunning them. Now they were on the offensive again, moving forward.

      Luke came bursting out of the water.