Recoil

3

Butt in the shoulder. Both eyes open. Finger on the trigger. Just now and again, even though I knew there was no fucking need, I moved my left hand to check the rounds were OK, the sights were at 400, the weapon cocked.

I took deep breaths, preparing myself.

Adult voices drifted up to our position, shouting orders in French.

‘Like Crucial,’ I muttered. ‘Only deeper.’

‘They’re gripping the kids,’ Sam said. ‘Putting the fear of God into them.’

I saw his hand move, making sure the sight fairy hadn’t come and interfered with them since the last time he’d checked a minute ago.

‘Remember, short and sharp for now.’

A burst of rounds thumped into the knoll no more than a couple of metres from our faces.

Diminutive figures shuffled towards us in the gloom as the first sliver of orange light peeked over the edge of the valley.

A hundred and fifty away, and counting.

‘OK, stand by . . . short and sharp . . . over their heads.’

Another couple of rounds pounded into the mud and Sam finally kicked off.

I squeezed my trigger in three- to five-round bursts. The single tracer round in each arced well over the muzzle flashes and on towards the valley entrance.

My bursts were a bit slow: I’d adjust the gas regulator when I had the chance.

We put down maybe twenty rounds each then stopped and looked. They’d returned fire at nothing in particular, but now ran back towards the river.

They’d found out what they needed to know. They’d be back.