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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. |
