by James Hilton
* * *
Matthew squeezed the trigger of his MP5K as the pair of lethal .357 rounds ripped through his face and exited through the rear of his skull. A stream of hot lead stitched countless holes in the windscreen and roof of the RV. Clay Gunn ducked instinctively as fragments of glass exploded around him. As the gunman fell away from view, he turned to check on Danny and Andrea, his ears ringing from the gunfire. The woman was curled tight into the foetal position, her hands clamped over her ears.
Danny was gone.
* * *
John had lost sight of Matthew for no more than ten seconds. Yet in a combat situation he knew that ten seconds could last a lifetime. There was an intense burst of fire then silence. With his own MP5K trained on the Winnebago he crept forward at an oblique angle. Within a few feet he saw Matthew’s prostrate form spread-eagled on the blacktop. His boots reflected the red and blue lights that still pulsated from the stationary police cruiser. Wisps of steam drifted into the air from the bloody ruin where his face had been. Fury erupted in John’s mind. Matthew had been a good man, a good leader; he didn’t deserve to die like this. With a roar he pulled back on the trigger and sprayed the Winnebago from back to front several times. He could hear the 9mm rounds rip through the near side skin of the vehicle and apart from the occasional ricochet, exit through the other side. The thirty-round magazine was depleted in seconds and he ejected the empty and slapped in a fresh one with a practised hand. As he moved cautiously to the front of the RV, he scanned the windows for any signs of life and more importantly, danger.
A descending blur caught his eye as something primeval flew at him from above.
* * *
As he heard his brother loose off two shots, Danny Gunn flung himself bodily out of the RV, pivoted without pause and climbed up the utility ladder bolted to the rear corner of the vehicle. Crawling on hands and knees, he traversed the roof like a cat, freezing as the second gunman sprayed the RV with bullets.
As the man stalked forward, Danny launched himself over the edge. The serrated blade of the steak knife sliced down the side of the man’s face and glanced off his collarbone before burying itself to the hilt in his neck. Both men slammed into the ground with a bone-jarring impact. Ignoring the gouts of dark crimson that flowed from the wound, the gunman rolled to his left and forced the muzzle of his sub-machine gun ever closer to Danny’s chest. They struggled, both men striving for the advantage. A burst of automatic fire ripped through the air so close to Danny that it singed his skin through his shirt.
His opponent pulled the trigger in several short bursts but Danny blasted him in the head with an elbow and used the momentum to scoot around onto his back. He clamped his left hand around the stock of the weapon and used his right to rip the knife free from the man’s throat. Danny plunged the knife repeatedly back into the unprotected neck until the gunman’s body went limp. An ugly, vicious death, but that was all a soldier could expect.
Danny stood upright, kicking the slack body away as Clay emerged from the front of the RV, his huge revolver held before him, ready to split the night if required.
“These boys are packing some real heat. Top-notch stuff.”
Clay nodded, his eyes flicking to the man at Danny’s feet, who looked like he’d been savaged by a wild animal.
“This is bad. We’re caught up in the murder of a cop; we’ve just killed two men; and don’t forget the bodies on the overlook. This shitstorm is going to take our lawyers years to sort out.”
Danny Gunn rolled his shoulders and wiped his face with the back of his hand. The dead man’s blood was smeared across his features like war paint. He snatched up the man’s discarded gun, inspecting it in the moonlight. The MP5K was a very fine weapon: the firearm of choice for many military forces, armed police units and independent operators. Originally German-built, the Maschinenpistole 5 was now produced across the world and had many variants. The model he held was the MP5K; the “K” designated the short (kurz) barrel. He examined the three-burst selector switch, the choice of the more precise and better-trained soldier. When the MP5K was switched to full auto, the standard thirty-round magazine could be emptied in two seconds. Devastating but short-lived.
He walked to the front of the RV, dropped to one knee beside the first dead gunman and began to methodically search the corpse’s chest webbing. When he was finished the haul consisted of two spare magazines for the MP5K, a short-range radio cum walkie-talkie, a heavy satellite phone, a black SOG-issue knife, two Hershey bars and an angular Glock 37 pistol with a full clip. No wallet, no identification. Danny slung the MP5K across his back and stuck the Glock in his waistband.
He raised his head to see that Andrea had appeared from the RV and was surveying the carnage, half hidden by Clay’s bulk. It didn’t take a genius to realise that these were the same men who’d murdered her brother and his partner. Although she appeared momentarily horrified by the two dead bodies she was also clearly elated. “See how you fuckers like it!”
Clay looked down at her and gave her a perfunctory nod. “Ay-men to that.” He walked over to the body and scooped up the Hershey bars and the knife. “What do you wanna do with the comms stuff?”
Danny straightened up, the cartilage in his knees popping loudly, holding the dead man’s walkie-talkie and satellite phone. “Radio should warn us if there are more coming.” He hooked it onto his belt then examined the satellite phone. “This thing’s off. Shouldn’t be able to get a fix on us from it. Keep it in case we need to make an emergency call out of cell-phone reception. Then dump it.” He pocketed the sat-phone and looked straight up into the night sky. Countless pinpricks of light, too many to count, dotted the firmament above. He stood immobile for long seconds, puffed breath out of his cheeks then turned to Clay and Andrea. “These guys won’t be alone. If there’s a kill squad on your tail there will be at least four to six men assigned. We’d better get to high ground because the rest of the team won’t be far away.”
Clay patted Andrea on the shoulder, pushing her gently towards Danny. “Stay by him.”
* * *
Clay walked over to the body of Officer Ryback. A pool of dark sticky liquid had formed around his head. Clay bowed his head for a moment in silent tribute. He wondered about Ryback’s family. Did he have a wife sitting at home, blissfully unaware of her husband’s demise? Children, maybe? He knew only too well the grief that the news would bring.
He picked up his licence and registration from the blacktop, where the officer had dropped them. Then he stalked over to the squad car and slid into the driver’s seat. Reaching for the microphone mounted on the dashboard, he keyed the mike and found his voice, “Officer down, repeat officer down. I’m reporting the death of Officer Ryback. We’re out on the 375. Twenty miles south of Rachel.”
A brief burst of static preceded a local Nevada accent. “Who is this?” A second’s pause then, “Please identify yourself and repeat your last message.”
“My name is Clay Gunn. Officer Ryback has been shot and killed. When you see the video playback from the car camera you will see that I was not responsible. There are two more dead bodies out here as well. You’ll see what happened on the tape.”
“This is dispatch… Is Bobby really dead?” The timbre in the voice turned from impartial controller to a scared young woman in an instant.
“I’m sorry, but he is.” Clay pictured the woman sitting in the radio-control room of a squat brick and breezeblock building that was so typical of rural police stations. She would probably know all the serving officers as well as her own family. A death like this affected everyone in the community. He gritted his teeth as the radio remained silent for long seconds. Then the woman spoke again. The professional air had returned to her voice.
“Please remain in your present location. Officers will be dispatched.”
“Look we can’t stay here. There may be more gunmen. We’re heading into Rachel. I figure that we’ll be safest in town.” A movement by the RV caught his eye. An
drea was standing over the body of the man Clay had killed, peering at the ruined face. He watched as she rested her foot on the corpse’s throat, bringing it down tentatively at first, then harder. Then she raised her foot and stamped down over and over again. She threw back her head and screamed.
* * *
Danny levelled the MP5K as Andrea’s cry cut through the night air. He knew the sound well. Fury and despair; a desperate need for revenge.
A distinctive rumbling pulled his attention away from Andrea. A bright spot of light low to the road. “Andrea, get back in the RV.” She paused only long enough to spit on the corpse, then did as she was told.
The radio on Danny’s belt crackled to life. “We’re one minute out.”
He scowled but keyed the mike in response, trying to keep his accent neutral. “Roger that.” He saw Clay making his way back from the police car and signalled at him: Incoming. Danny knew that there would be at least another two men. This type of operative never travelled without adequate backup. They would be equipped to the same standard as the two dead men. He hefted the MP5K against his shoulder. His mouth twitched. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
“How do you want to play this?” asked Clay. He hauled himself into the RV, Danny following.
“A moving target is harder to hit.”
Clay nodded. “So let’s get moving.” He turned the key and shifted the RV into drive. He coaxed the cumbersome vehicle into a wide arc around the dead bodies and the patrol car, then pushed the gas pedal hard against the floor. The windscreen held firm despite the countless rounds Clay and the gunman had put through it.
“Lie down here.” Danny gestured between the rear seats, and Andrea did as she was told, cradling her laptop bag in her arms. He pushed down the cushions from the seats, arranging them to provide a meagre degree of shock absorption. They certainly wouldn’t stop a bullet but they would help to prevent her being tossed around when the going got rough. Her eyes were glassy and they kept flicking to the weapon in his hand. She must be wondering what the hell kind of men they were.
Clay’s gruff baritone echoed down the galley. “We got lights coming up fast.”
* * *
Dust and grit spread in a plume behind the ATV. Mark hung on grimly as Luke powered after the target vehicle. Suddenly the bike slowed—bodies in the road. Luke steered towards the nearest and leant over, foot braced on the blacktop. Mark heard a sharp intake of breath, then a torrent of syllables. Mark’s grasp of Québécois was meagre at best but his companion’s tone was unmistakable. Swearing sounds pretty much the same in any language.
“Both of them?”
“Both.” Another stream of curses.
“We gotta kill these motherfuckers and end this mission now!”
Luke was still swearing in his native tongue but he nodded in agreement. The powerful Kawasaki engine roared like an injured cougar as he opened up to full speed. Soon the RV was back in their line of sight.
Twenty feet behind the Winnebago, Mark aimed his weapon at the rear right tyre. It was big and wide: an easy target. The heavy rubber was no match for the 9mm projectiles and in seconds the rear of the vehicle had dipped awkwardly.
Luke slewed the bike to the left and Mark repeated the routine on the left wheel. Now the whole rear of the Winnebago dropped and bounced as it fought for traction, its tail sending up intermittent showers of sparks.
“Kill the driver!” yelled Luke.
Mark tucked the weapon tight into his shoulder as they drew level with the cabin of the RV. “He’s already dead, he’s just too dumb to realise it.” He looked into the wide eyes of the driver—a big man with close-cropped blond hair—his finger hovering over the trigger.
Then the bulk of the bus lurched into a tight arc towards the bike. Mark grabbed onto Luke’s back as the wheels of the Kawasaki passed momentarily under the scarred aluminium body. He felt rather than saw the bike break free with a shriek of grinding metal. He heard shots and Mark felt a heavy calibre bullet pass dangerously close to his head and steadied his own weapon as best he could. A tight three-burst round succeeded in reducing the right wing mirror to a twisted spur of metal. He aimed along the weapon’s stubby barrel.
11
Danny was thrown off balance as the Winnebago slewed from side to side, its suspension worse than useless, every minor bump in the road making it lurch and shudder. The stream of enemy bullets was keeping Clay on the defensive and he could see his brother constantly overcorrecting his steering. The RV was fishtailing in ever-widening arcs; it seemed only a matter of time before they crashed or Clay was shredded.
Danny shouldered open the rear window in the dining area. He could now see their pursuers: two men on a high-powered quad bike. Using the window frame as support he shot with the MP5K. The gunman riding pillion turned, scowling at the new threat. He leaned back and sent a flurry of rounds at Danny, who dropped to his knees, then rose to return fire. Both men unleashed staccato bursts of lead. Neither was successful in hitting their mark. Then the front rider pulled his own sub-machine gun and fired a burst. From his vantage point Danny could not see the shots hit home, but the sudden jerk of the RV nearly knocked him flying. They had taken out the front right tyre. The crippled vehicle skidded a quarter turn and with a squeal of metal, shuddered to a halt.
There was a roar as the bike came alongside, then the crack of shots. More holes appeared in the walls and Danny threw himself to the floor. He turned his head to see Andrea’s face pressed hard against the vinyl floor tiles. The cushions around her spat out wads of stuffing.
Something in the galley kitchen burst into flames, sending sparks and orange tendrils down towards the woman’s head. Danny scrambled up.
“Over here!” He beckoned to her, then leapt over her. Standing momentarily on the seats, he planted a boot into the rear window.
The latch of the window popped under the sudden pressure and he rolled sideways through the improvised exit. Andrea didn’t need his words of encouragement to follow, her laptop bag swinging behind her. Another two booming shots sounded from Clay’s revolver then he too tumbled bodily from the window. But where Danny had landed with feline grace, Clay fell sideways as a tuft of hair was sheared from his head by a wild ricochet and he landed heavily on his back. Danny grabbed his older brother’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Bullets continued to rip through the body of the RV as the three crouched and ran towards a shallow culvert at the side of the road.
* * *
The two gunmen met at the front of the Winnebago and watched the spreading flames with satisfaction. Mark scanned the road either side of the ruined RV as Luke speed-changed his magazine and emptied it into the vehicle on full auto with a roar of angry contempt. His head snapped up as a blur of movement caught his attention. He slapped Mark’s shoulder and made two brief chopping motions in the direction of the blur. Both men advanced as one. Luke sighted down the stubby barrel of his weapon, eyes straining in the darkness. Mark moved low and quick, aiming too into the roadside. Nothing moved, no target presented itself. They knew better than to try a blind charge. Luke reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled his night-vision goggles clear. The night turned a curious hue of green. He scanned the roadside from left to right.
There!
Thirty feet away. The woman crawling away, moving fast despite her ass being stuck way up in the air. Where were the men from the RV? Make sure they’re dead, then pick up the girl, Luke thought.
Move!
A brief flash from his left flank and a round entered Mark’s neck just below the ear. In a moment of curious detachment Luke realised that it must have been a big one. A fist-sized chunk of blood and bone was ejected as his comrade pitched onto his knees. Then he slumped forward, forehead hitting the asphalt.
Luke pivoted towards the sound of the shot and pulled the trigger, emptying the magazine into the darkness.
* * *
Danny emerged from cover as the gunman let the empty magazine clatter to the gr
ound. He put a three-burst into the man’s right shoulder from his MP5K, knocking him to the ground. The man was still valiantly trying to swap his weapon to his left hand as Danny pressed the muzzle into his ear. “Enough!”
The gunman released his weapon and clamped both hands over his right pectorals. Blood seeped between his fingers.
“Aye, you’ve been shot, fucknuts!” Danny’s Scottish brogue was thick with contempt as he kicked the man’s sub-machine gun to one side. “The cops should be along soon, but between now and then we’re going to have a wee chit-chat.”
Clay appeared from the darkness. “Chit-chat my ass. I’ve got one left in the chamber for this asshole. I say we ventilate his head just like his buddy, make a matching pair.” Clay levelled his huge revolver at the injured man’s face.
“You’ve got one chance or it’s the end of the road for you,” warned Danny.
The man gasped for breath, a bloody froth at his lips.
“You’ve taken one in the lung. Pretty soon you’ll be drowning in your own blood. Not a good way to go. Now, who sent you and what do you want with the woman?”
The response was a blood-choked gurgle. The gunman spat out a gobbet of blood then began to talk, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s got something that doesn’t belong to her…”
Behind them, the RV was now sheathed in flames, acrid plumes of smoke tainting the night.
“And what has she got?”
The words were quieter again, barely audible. Danny, on one knee, leaned in a fraction to hear. Then a switchblade that had been concealed in the gunman’s chest webbing ripped up at his exposed throat. The blade nicked Danny’s cheek as he snapped his head away. He slammed the stock of his weapon into the man’s mouth. The knife dropped.
Danny looked back at Clay and shrugged. “You try to be civilised…”
The gunman launched into a torrent of vile language, some English, some French, all unmistakable in context.