Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [58]
Baumann opened the door and rolled out, hitting the ground as the first shot from the thirty-thirty-caliber rifle hit a rock with a loud ping a foot from his head. He looked up the slope and saw the two men, permanent members of Zachary Jasper’s sect, standing on the road, weapons aimed at him. Another shot, this from the sawed-off nine-millimeter, tore bark from the tree beside him.
Baumann crawled military style, propelled by his elbows, until reaching a sharp, ten-foot drop-off. He glanced back; the men had started down after him, widening the distance between them to maneuver him into a crossfire. He allowed himself to slip over the lip of the drop-off and slid down to a muddy ravine. He scrambled to his feet, slipped to his knees, then pulled himself up to firmer ground and quickly moved through a grove of saplings in the direction of the assailant with the thirty-thirty, who suddenly appeared at the top of the drop-off. Baumann brought the MAC-10 up into firing position and squeezed the trigger, sending a dozen bullets into the man’s midsection, tearing it open, the shots clustered together as though the victim had been a target on a firing range. He’d been leaning forward, searching the forest for Baumann, when the fusillade hit. He pitched forward, the thirty-thirty preceding him, spun in the air, and tumbled to Baumann’s feet, his mouth wide open as though to protest what was happening, his torso almost torn in half by the salvo from the MAC-10.
Baumann straightened as he heard the second man call for his partner. The voice came from behind, the opposite direction. Using trees as handholds, Baumann hauled himself up the embankment, reached the crest, and crouched behind a large rock. He saw nothing… until two birds suddenly flew out of a bush, and Baumann saw what had sent them into flight. The second man had darted from the bush and behind a tree. He called again for his partner; Baumann sensed from the voice that he was scared, on the verge of panic. Let him make the next move, he told himself, the MAC-10 cradled in his right hand, ready for use. He remained in that frozen position, not allowing the perspiration running down his face to cause him to move, controlling his heavy breathing, eyes unblinkingly fixed on the bush, waiting, waiting…
The Heckler & Koch semiautomatic assault rifle came into view first, followed by the tentative steps of its owner from behind the bush. Baumann’s eyes widened as the man approached where he lay, head swiveling in search of his colleague. When he was no more than ten feet away, Baumann slowly reached down, picked up a stone, and, when his assailant looked away, tossed it in an arc directly behind his foe, who spun around and started shooting at the sound. Baumann sprung from behind the rock and tackled the shooter, propelling his weapon and hat into the air, and pitching him face-first onto the ground. Baumann brought his hand back and slammed the ammo clip of the MAC-10 into the side of the fallen man’s head, did it again, and again, until there was no movement beneath him. Now allowing his breath to flow naturally, and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he searched his unconscious enemy for keys, picked up the assault rifle, and struggled up the incline to the road. He looked into the Mercedes. The keys were on the seat. Smiling, he slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove up the winding, rutted road until reaching the summit, then down to where the road joined the two-lane highway. He pushed the aged Mercedes to its limit, roaring past