"What in--" Armont emitted a curse as all hell broke loose behind them.
A fusillade of automatic-weapons fire rained around, from somewhere in
the direction of the shoreline. It was almost like covering fire, not
well directed, and since everybody on the ARM team had long made a
practice of minimizing exposure at all times, he didn't expect
immediate casualties. But what in hell! Had Ramirez's terrorist team
encircled them, drawn them in? He felt like an idiot.
"Hostile fire!" He gave the signal to get down and take cover, swinging
his hand from above his head to shoulder level, but that was nothing
more than redundant instinct. The ARM team was already on the ground,
ready to return fire if so ordered.
Nobody, however, was wasting ammo on the darkness. The team had little
enough to spare, and besides--why give away your position and create a
target? The third consideration was that ARM never fired on an unknown.
They were, after all, civilians and answerable. An army could wreak
whatever havoc it pleased and later blame everything on the heat of
battle. ARM had to be damned sure who it was taking down.
By the time Armont's yell died away, everybody on the team had already
found cover behind the random outcroppings of rocks. Everybody, that
is, except Hugo Voorst, who spun around and stumbled backward, moaned,
then collapsed.