“Spotter,” Russo whispered. “The mortars must be within shouting distance of him.”

“Let’s get him!”

Russo put a hand on Alec’s shoulder. “If we pot him before we know exactly where the mortars are, all we’ll be doing is warning the mortar crew. Come on, follow me.”

Slowly, quietly, slithering like snakes, Russo led Alec down away from that spot. They started to make a wide circle of the area. After several minutes, Alec realized what he was doing. He’s swinging around behind the spotter. Behind the mortars.

It took at least a quarter-hour, Alec judged. He didn’t get a chance to look at his wristwatch, they were too busy moving. Finally Russo got cautiously to his knees, looked around, then rose to his feet. They were on the reverse slope of the ridge now, standing in waist-high brush. The big tree that the spotter was using was barely visible; only its crown poked above the ridge line.

“Are you sure that’s the same tree?” Alec asked. “They all look alike.”

Russo said, “Not after you’ve been here a while.”

“All right. Now what?”

“Now we take a couple of deep breaths, then run like hell for that tree. Shoot the spotter as soon as we see him and spray the mortar crew when they come into sight.”

“You’re sure they’re there?”

Nodding, Russo said, “Yep. Although I haven’t heard any firing for the last few minutes. They might be packing up to move out.”

Alec looked down to check his gun.

“Ready?” Russo asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay...” The redhead sucked in a deep breath. “Now!”

They dashed up the remaining few meters of waist-high brush, Russo in the lead. At the top of the ridge Alec saw him bring his rifle up to armpit level and squeeze off a three-round burst. The sudden noise of the gun made him jump, despite himself.

Something fell from the tree, a blur that Alec noticed out of the corner of his eye because now he was at the top of the ridge and there were eight men frozen in mid-motion, dismantling the mortars. The tubes and bipod supporters and a half-dozen remaining shells lay scattered around them as they looked up, some crouching, some standing, one of them ridiculously mopping under his chin with a red cloth.

For a split instant Alec saw it all displayed in front of him. Then the men dived for their weapons. Alec felt himself firing his machine pistol. It kicked and clattered in his hands. Sprays of dirt sprouted in the midst of the startled men. Four of them jerked backward immediately, arms flung crazily and mouths open. Two others seemed to stagger, reach for the guns that were resting on the ground, then fall over. Another pair dived for the brush and started scrambling downslope, away from Alec and Russo.

Alec realized he’d been firing from the hip, spraying the area with bullets. He straightened and brought the gun to his shoulder, sighting carefully at the nearest of the fleeing men.

Russo tapped him on the shoulder. “That’s enough, let them go.”

“But they...”

“Good God, man, what do you want? We’ve killed seven men and got their mortars and personal weapons. What else?”

For the first time, Russo seemed annoyed. Not angry, but annoyed the way a parent gets upset with a naughty child.

Alec put his pistol down. “How do you know they’re dead?”

Looking at the bodies sprawled below them, Russo answered, “If they’re not now, they will be soon.”

Slowly he walked down to the scene. Under the big tree the spotter lay unmoving, blotches of red welling over his body, his legs crumpled beneath him, his face contorted. Alec turned and looked at the six men near the disassembled mortars. His stomach heaved.

They were broken apart. Huge gaping wounds ripped through their grotesquely flung bodies. One of them had no face, only an oozing mass of red and gray. Flies buzzed over them.

One of them was groaning. Alec turned his back and tottered away from the sight and smell. Everything was going blurry. Still, he could hear.

“Please... please...”

“I’m sorry son, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

A single shot.

Alec leaned against the tree and threw up.

After what seemed like hours, Russo came up beside him. “First time you’ve seen men killed.” It was not a question.

Alec mumbled, “First time... I’ve been responsible.”

“Okay... You take their weapons back to the truck. Take it slow and easy. You’ll need to make a half-dozen trips. I’ll bury them.”

“You’ll... what?”

With an almost bashful shrug, Russo said, “Someday somebody’s going to kill me, and I wouldn’t want to be left aboveground to feed the maggots.”

“But you killed them. I mean, we did.”

“Yep. And now they need burying.” He paused a moment, then explained, “You kill your enemies when they’re in a position to kill you. If they’re running and weaponless, you let them run. If they’re dead, you bury them. And you don’t take prisoners unless you’ve got a good reason to.”

“Those are the rules of war here?”

“The rules of survival.”

Alec nodded to show that he understood, even though he could not agree. He began to gather together the rifles and carbines that the dead men had left scattered on the ground. Russo took one of the corpses off along the tree line, carrying it in his arms almost tenderly.

“Hey!” he suddenly called. “Come here!”

Alec was running toward him instantly, slamming a fresh ammunition clip into his pistol as he moved.

Russo had dropped the corpse at his feet. Hanging from the outstretched limb of a tree, dangling by his thumbs, was a ragged scarecrow of a kid, wide-eyed with pain and terror. His thumbs were swollen and blue. A filthy rag had been stuffed into his mouth. A long gash was oozing blood down one bare leg.

Russo whipped a knife from his belt and cut the boy down, then pulled the gag from his mouth. He collapsed into the big redhead’s arms.

“Must’ve been a prisoner of the mortar crew’s,” Russo said, “or one of the other gangs nearby.”

The kid’s emaciated face was hollow-cheeked, his chin stubbly with the beginnings of a beard. He stared at the rifle slung over Russo’s shoulder, then at Alec and his drawn pistol.

“No, no...” he whimpered.