And that made five, including one for Chalmers. Remo calculated that the hostile force had been reduced by thirty-odd percent in something like a minute, but the odds were still against his comrades coming out unscathed.
He recognized the scream immediately, knew that it could only come from Audrey Moreland. In his mind's eye, Remo saw her waiting by the stream until the shooting started, drawn back toward the camp by curiosity and some part of the same fear that repelled her. Audrey on the narrow trail, advancing toward the sounds of battle, when a Malay gunman stepped across her path and—
Remo made his choice and bolted through the trees, directly toward the clearing that had turned into a shooting gallery. It was the path of least resistance if he kept his wits about him and remembered not to zig when he should zag. If it was not too late for Audrey, he could get there.
Pike Chalmers saw him coming, either failed to recognize him on the run or simply did not care whom he was firing at. The rifle swung around to cover Remo, Chalmers closing one eye as his other found the telescopic sight. It only took a gentle squeeze now, and the bullet that could drop a charging elephant would tear through Remo's chest.
Or maybe not.
In fact, he dodged the slug as he had done a hundred times before, anticipating Chalmers with a sidestep that did nothing to reduce forward momentum. By the time Pike understood that he had missed, began to work the rifle's heavy bolt, Remo was past him, reaching out to flick the weapon's muzzle with a fingertip and spin the Brit around, unceremoniously dumping him on his ass.
At that, he saved the hunter's life, though it had not been part of Remo's plan. Another member of the hit team, rising from the undergrowth beyond the clearing, had been set to riddle Chalmers where he stood, but now his spray of bullets cut through empty air, the big man sprawled just below the line of fire.
Another heartbeat put Remo in the startled gunner's face, an elbow rising at the speed of thought, connecting with the Malay's forehead, flesh and bone imploding into brain. The sweaty man went down without another sound, his useless weapon lost from lifeless fingers.
Back in camp, the Weatherby boomed again, but Remo didn't hear the bullet pass his way. Perhaps the trigger-happy hulk had been disoriented by his fall, or maybe he had simply found another target in the firelight, going where the action was.
Another scream came from Audrey, somewhere off the trail and to his right. Before he could correct and change directions, Remo was confronted with another gunman, this one a grim-faced Chinese. His AK-47 had been fitted with a bayonet, and now he made the critical mistake of thrusting with the blade instead of leaping back and firing from the hip. The man couldn't have saved himself in either case, but as it was, he made things easier.
A simple grab and twist disarmed him, putting the Kalashnikov in Remo's hands, where it became a deadly bludgeon. Only one stroke was required to shatter the guerrilla's skull, but Remo spared another second as he passed. He turned the gun around and hurled it like a javelin, impaling his late adversary with the bayonet and pinning him against the nearest tree before he had a chance to fall.
No sound from Audrey now, but Remo had fixed the general direction of her last outcry. Another ten or fifteen yards brought Remo to the place—he was convinced of it—but he had come too late.
The ground beneath his feet was moist and spongy here, like peat, and it gave way to quicksand several paces farther on. A shallow film of stagnant water overlay the quagmire, insects flitting here and there across the scummy surface, and a flash of color in the moonlight caught his eye.
A pale pastel.
The scarf that she had worn around her neck.
He grabbed a trailing vine and waded in, his free arm plunging deep into the mire, but he felt nothing underfoot, quicksand slithering around him like a vat of lukewarm oatmeal. There was no firm bottom to it, and suction dragged at his legs and buttocks, threatening to pull him down.
He gave it up before the stagnant water reached his chin, clung to the vine and dragged himself hand over hand until he cleared the quicksand, settling back on solid ground.
Sweet Jesus!
She was gone.
It took a moment for him to recover from the shock. He was accustomed to all forms of violent death, but Remo wasn't made of stone. Whatever he had felt for Audrey Moreland, simple lust or something more, it would demand a decent grieving period.
Okay, time's up.
He scrambled to his feet and turned back toward the clearing, suddenly aware that the Kalashnikovs had fallen silent. One more shot from Chalmers split the night, an exclamation point for the proceedings, telling Remo that at least one member of the party was alive.
In fact, they all were.
When he reached the clearing, Dr. Stockwell stood beside Pike Chalmers near the fire, and Sibu Sandakan was crawling from his tent. It took another moment for their guide to reappear from his concealment in the jungle, but he seemed to be unharmed.
"Is everyone… ?"
The question died on Stockwell's lips as he saw Audrey's pup tent, torn by bullets. Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered inside and found it empty.
"Audrey? Audrey!" he called out to her but got no response. "Where is she?"
"Where's the lizard man?" asked Chalmers, peering briefly into Remo's empty tent.
"Who? Dr. Ward? You mean he's gone, as well?"
"Seems so."
"For God's sake, where? Will someone tell me what is happening?"
Instead of stepping forward with an answer, Remo faded back into the darkness, silent as a falling leaf. A hasty body count informed him that a number of the enemy had managed to escape unharmed, and he wasn't content to let them go. It would be relatively simple to pick up their trail, despite the darkness, and pursue them till they stopped for rest.
And then he would have answers—or at least a taste of vengeance. Either way, this gaggle of guerrillas had performed their last night ambush in the Tasek Bera.
Remo left his traveling companions huddled near the fire, with Chalmers standing guard. As far as he could tell, from scouting out the area, they were at no risk of a new attack. The enemy had fled, perhaps to lick his wounds, but he would never get the chance.
Chapter Twelve
Lai Man Yau was physically exhausted when he called a halt for his surviving troops to rest. A forced march in the jungle could be difficult, but running through the jungle in the dark was something else entirely. When he counted heads by moonlight, Yau discovered he had lost eight men. Precisely half his fighting force.
The worst part of it was, he still had no clear fix on what had happened, why his plan had come apart like tissue paper in a weeping woman's hands.
The plan itself was simple and direct, foolproof from all appearances. He had examined it from every angle he could think of in advance, deciding that it didn't matter if a couple of the Malays missed their cue or moved in prematurely. There were only four round-eyes to deal with, after all, and only one of them was armed with anything besides a knife. If he resisted, it would be no challenge for a force of seventeen trained soldiers to subdue him with a minimum of force.
Yau sat and thought about the raid in detail, trying to pinpoint the moment when it fell apart, unraveling before his very eyes. It was impossible to say, of course, because he couldn't be with each one of his men every moment. Still, there had been no alarm before he gave the signal to attack, move in and seize the round-eyes while their minds were fogged with sleep.
The big one with the gun had been a rude surprise; Yau could admit that to himself. The round-eyed bastard came out shooting, not at all the groggy fool they hoped for. Yau had seen him drop one member of the strike force, and he had fired several other rounds before the raiders turned and ran. With eight men missing, who could say how many he had killed or wounded in the brief engagement?