The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

something in the fire.
    Travis couldn’t see her eyes, but the man facing her—it had to be her father—looked more wretched than ever. He whispered what looked like, “I’m sorry,” and then, “I love you,” repeating the latter at least three times as his eyes ran over.
    Finally he turned to her tormentor.
    “Tell,” String Mustache said.
    The bound man spoke, his voice wasted and all but dead. “The forward-most lavatory—bathroom—right behind the cockpit. Remove the fan cover in the ceiling, reach above and to the right. It’s there.”
    String Mustache had his back to Travis, but Travis could picture the man’s eyes narrowing, calculating. Then he turned and spoke in his own language to two of the men at the fire. They got to their feet and went quickly to the ATVs that were parked at the edge of the encampment. Their own rifles slung on their shoulders, they mounted two of the four machines and raced away along the valley floor, in the direction of the crash site.
    String Mustache watched them go, then turned to the father, who was still whispering something to the young woman on the table.
    “Hope what you told me is true,” String Mustache said in his rough English. “I keep going until I know.”
    Then he switched the handheld device back on, and the woman and her father screamed at the same time.
    The two remaining at the fire averted their eyes. The two that comprised the peanut gallery smiled. Travis was just processing his own reaction—rage, beyond what he’d already felt—when automatic rifle fire shredded the air above the camp.
    String Mustache dropped his device and threw himself flat—no rifle anywhere near his reach. The other four did as Travis had hoped: they took cover, and they got it exactly backward. He broke from the pines as the masking roar of the staged M16 continued. Fifty feet from the encampment, now forty, thirty. The four armed hostiles crouched behind their trees, looking the other way, backs exposed to him like hay bale targets.
    String Mustache was still on the ground, with neither cover nor weapon in hand—his hands, in fact, were covering his ears.
    Twenty feet. Travis arrested his forward speed, his feet sliding on the loose soil, and shouldered his rifle. He thumbed the selector switch to single shot—the targets were too widely spaced for a sweep—and brought it up to sight on the leftmost of the armed men.
    In that moment the staged gun on the ledge ran dry, the instant silence far more jarring than the gunfire itself had been.
    Travis pulled the trigger. His shot took the first hostile dead center in the back, and though he couldn’t see the exit wound in the man’s chest, the eruption of blood onto the tree was almost absurd. Like the guy had swallowed a grenade.
    The others were already turning. Fast. Travis swung the barrel toward the second man and squeezed, the shot catching him through the side of the rib cage and propelling most of its contents out the far side. Following through on the gun’s sideways momentum, Travis fired again a quarter second later, the shot going wide of the third man and only slicing open his shoulder.
    By now the last two armed hostiles were fully facing him, their weapons coming up smoothly.
    What came next, Travis could only think of as autopilot. He’d felt it before, at times when his survival had balanced on a pivot-point made of seconds, or half seconds. His body just seemed to make its own call.
    His knees bent. He dropped fast, just as both of the weapons facing him roared. In the same instant that he felt the baked-air trails of bullets passing his face, his thumb flicked the selector switch back to full auto, and then he was firing.
    The autofire didn’t exactly knock the two men backward—that only seemed to happen in movies—but instead knocked the life from their bodies. Punctured across their upper torsos, they simply dropped, the left of the two crumpling so tidily in place that he cracked his head on his own knee before flopping sideways.
    Travis felt the weapon fire empty even as he remembered String Mustache. Turning now, already letting go of the rifle and shrugging the second one from his shoulder, he saw him.
    The man was no longer cowering. He was standing. Still not holding a rifle, but drawing a 9mm from inside his coat. He wasn’t even looking at Travis. His eyes were on the man tied to the tree, and his pistol was coming up.
    The young woman screamed, so much louder than before that