Time to go for that home run. Guy, sprawled behind a boulder, scouted out the next twenty yards to the gun. His only cover would be a few bushes and, midway, a pathetic excuse for a tree. He could see the AK-47’s barrel extending over the rock ledge, so close, he could practically spit at it, but still beyond reach. Slowly, he rose to a crouch and got ready for the final dash. Gunfire splattered the cliff. Instantly, he flopped back to the dirt. This is a crazy-ass idea, Barnard. The dumbest idea you’ve ever had. He glanced below and saw Maitland trying to signal him. What the hell was he trying to say? Guy couldn’t be sure, but Maitland seemed to be telling him to wait, to hold on. But there was so little time left. Already, Guy spotted men in camouflage fatigues moving through the brush toward the cliff base. Toward the first booby trap. God, slow ’em down. Give us time. He heard, rather than saw, the first victim drop into the trap.
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