THEY WERE EXCELLENT TARGETS
Bonner opened up, the big .50-caliber telegraphing its
message—death—the weighty bullets slamming into the Lightning squadsmen
with fearful accuracy. The long white riding coats turned red.
A bike skidded across the road. An arrow exploded in the
midst of a mass of men and machines. The first few bikes were doomed, and
Bonner and Starling dispatched them quickly. But the snowmen were a
disciplined group. The riders behind the leaders had slowed down and
formed up behind their fallen brethren. They had no clear idea of where
Starling and Bonner stood, but they fired back round after round into the
almost tangible gloom.
The big .50-caliber reaped another harvest of bone and
flesh. A rearward squadsman picked out Bonner's position and gunned his
bike, careening down the corridor of death at high speed, one hand guiding
the bike, the other clutching an M3 grease gun. He fired as he went.
Bonner saw him coming and imagined that the man saw himself as something
of a hero.
The wire was two inches into his neck before the snowman
realized what had happened.