20.
Rodney shoots at will, his thick index finger pumping the trigger of an AR-15 switched on automatic mode. But the high velocity rounds that blast into the surrounding bush are about as effective as spitting in the ocean.
“Hold your fire, Rodney!” I bark. “Hold your damned fire!”
He stops, smoke oozing from his barrel while the drops of damp that drip onto it sizzle from its intense heat. Down on the ground, Carlos is grasping at his neck where the arrow has pierced it, blood oozing out of the wound. Leslie seems to be in shock as she stands beside me, stiff as a statue, her eyes locked on what appears to be a mortally wounded Carlos.
“Hang tight, Carlos,” I whisper forcefully, but my gut is telling me that his is a lost cause.
Then it comes. A wave of arrows flying through the bus
