The rifle kicked against Ezra's shoulder. The sound was deafening in the enclosed tunnel. Brass casings tinkled on the ice floor, spinning like coins before freezing in place. He didn't count his shots. He didn't need to. He knew the magazine held thirty rounds. He knew he had three spare mags. He knew there were at least fifty men below.
He fired in bursts. Three rounds. Move. Three rounds. Move.
He retreated behind a shard of ice that had fallen from the breached wall. It was waist-high. Not enough cover. A bullet chipped the edge. Ice dust sprayed into his eyes. He blinked it away. His vision blurred. The cold was seeping through his gloves. His fingers felt like sausages. Clumsy.
"Contact front!" a voice shouted from below. It echoed up the shaft. Amplified by the acoustics of the c
