Grenades and a small transceiver hung from webbing on his chest, and he held a Sterling submachine gun. He leaned against the stone wall breathing deeply, steadying himself after the sprint across the open ground to the two-storied building. Ready now, he inched toward the corner. He knew that around it was a long windowless corridor, and at the end, a flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. He bunched and sprang forward in a low crouch, his finger tightening on the trigger. The staccato rattle of the Sterling echoed through the building.Creasy stood at the foot of the stairs and watched him coming, eyes taking in every detail.The man reached the stairs with a squeal of rubber-soled boots and again flattened himself against the wall. An empty magazine clattered to the floor and a full one clicked into place. He lifted a hand to the transceiver."Going up now," he said, and with a glance at Creasy, hurled himself up the stairs. Creasy followed, hearing more bursts of firing and, at the other end of the building, the crack of grenades.They streamed out into the rocky garden, all fifteen of them, dressed in camouflage gear and talking excitedly.
