Ah. There she was, swimming along the side of the concrete pier. Chapman had wondered if maybe she'd try to hide beneath it, like they did in the movies, but it was solid concrete all the way through. She was swimming along the side, though, and quite rapidly, all the way to the end. What was she going to do once she got there? Swim out to sea?
Finding himself inextricably drawn into the drama of her stupid little life, he settled down to watch. Should he have one of his assistants bring him some organic popcorn...?
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Sienna
I swam to the end of the pier as though my life depended upon it, because it did. The gunfire did not stop while I was swimming, either, in fact, I was pretty sure it increased in volume once they heard and saw me take out one of their boys. It reverberated through the water as I swam, cold chill all over my skin, my hair falling in line behind me.
That was fine. I wanted them to keep shooting at the shipping containers. Hell, they could burn through all the ammo they wanted. By now they were firing in the wrong direction. I held my breath, lungs starting to complain as I windmilled my arms in a meta-speed breast stroke.
Reaching the end of the pier, a little shiver running over my lip, I surveyed the concrete structure in front of me through the rippling surface of the water.
It was ten feet back up to the decking. Safety ladders had been placed along the side, and the nearest was just a few feet away.
I scaled the ladder in two good leaps, not wasting my time climbing safely. I shook my Glock a couple times to get the preponderance of the water out, then drew my backup Sig and did the same. The Glock had definitely passed underwater fire tests, but I wasn't sure about the Sig. It'd probably work, but the sooner I swapped these out for one of those rifles the better off I would be, no doubt.
Even without the incredible volume of fire blasting away at us, Holloway and I had been outmatched. Rifle ranges were measured in miles, their accuracy so much better than a pistol. Longer barrels meant better accuracy, which meant our attackers could have pinned us down with lethally accurate fire at a much greater distance. Add to that the fact they were loaded for bear with ballistic vests and reload magazines that held thirty-plus rounds while Holloway and I had maybe – maybe thirty-five rounds each, total, and we were outgunned by a factor of a hundred. The guy I'd shot? I'd counted six, seven mags visible in just the two seconds I had to observe him. He could have had more behind him. That was two hundred rounds just on him. And a much more rapid rate of fire.
Contrast that with Holloway and I with our seventy bullets, all snubby little 9mm pistol rounds. They might penetrate the ballistic vests these guys were wearing, but it wasn't a clear-cut, definite thing I'd want to bank my life on. Which is why I ran when I had the chance.
Now I was in their rear, and it was time to turn the tables.
The key to springing an ambush is making sure your enemy doesn't see it coming until they can't stop it. To that end, I had to be fast, lethal, and quiet. At least two of those were my favorite things. Not so much on quiet, but we all have our flaws.
The pier ahead was much less of a maze than it had been at the entry. I had my suspicions that someone had moved the containers around to obscure the ambush from view until it was almost too late. Poor planning had led them to forget to remove the blocking containers before they sprang it, though, leaving us with a bare amount of cover to exploit. That little whoopsie worked to our advantage, though they'd done their damnedest to offset it by turning the shipping containers to Swiss cheese with us behind them.
It was hard to believe they didn't conceive of us jumping off the sides, though. I'd gone deep, out of view from the surface, but the splash might have been audible. Maybe not, though, given the volume of gunfire.
Either way, I was poised to find trouble – meaning sentries – guarding their rear. These guys looked like pros, moved like pros. It was unbelievable to me that they could have failed to watch their flank.
Huddling next to a shipping container, pistol at ready, dripping like crazy, I stripped off my clinging jacket one arm at a time. My ears were ringing from the constant, thunderous gunfire. That done, I slipped up to the edge of the container and peered around.
Ahead, down the aisle between shipping container piles, I could see one of the black-suited bad guys. They had the feel, the look of mercs, a species of loathsome I was well acquainted with at this point. Who hired them? Hell if I knew. I caught snatches of shouts in a foreign language, but not one I could identify, especially not with water still dripping out of my ears and the sound of gunfire covering everything like a steady jackhammer in the background.
I snuck between the containers, heading for the dude in question. He was alone, a little lost sheep away from the flock.
Time to be the wolf.
He had his gun nominally pointed in my direction, but his head was turned, derelicting his duty in favor of the interesting sounds of hammering gunfire coming from behind him. I crept up on him, light on my toes.
When I reached him, I grabbed the barrel of his gun and yanked it sideways, twisting it and catching his finger in the trigger guard. He let out a yell that ceased when I hit him in the throat with the butt of my gun, crushing his larynx. He let out a gagging noise and sounded like he was drowning. I kicked his feet from beneath him and knocked him unconscious to let him choke to death quietly. Ish. At least this way he wouldn't be trouble at my six o'clock.
I stripped his vest off his limp, twitching form, slinging the rifle over my shoulder when done. This one was different than the rest, but definitely in the AK-47 family. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like an Eastern European edition of the famous weapon. A terrorist favorite, this particular gun was common as dirt, though not in the US, where it was illegal. A quick chamber check confirmed it held the larger 7.62 bullet, which meant I had a better chance of punching through the body armor these yahoos were wearing now. Worlds better than with just my pistol, that was for sure.
I continued my prowl, sweeping up the next aisle and taking cover behind one of the containers. The gunfire had slowed; clearly our pursuers had realized Holloway and I had jumped ship. Military trained, they'd begin a search pattern. It'd be careful, thorough, and would probably catch us in the next two minutes since it'd be obvious we hadn't swam back toward the car. I'd written that idea off because it was too exposed. They'd have seen us going across the water and would have had a clear line of sight to shoot us down getting out of the water. Sticking close to the pier had let us move under the cover of the containers stacked at the sides, invisible to any watchers high above.
Speaking of...
I looked up and behind me. My back was firmly planted against a shipping container. The unloading crane stretched a few stories skyward, and I peered into its confusing depths. It was a series of steel supports and a frame designed to slide back and forth. I had a suspicion...
There. A sniper, nesting up in the heights. A few more seconds of searching revealed another. Smart. Also, probably soon to be deadly for our backup when they showed. Those guys could cover the entire approach to the pier from up there, using the steel supports as cover against fire from below. Mostly.
I raised my AK knockoff to my shoulder and took careful aim. I picked the one closest to me first, because I had the clearest shot at him. A stroke of the trigger and three bullets blew out of the barrel. I controlled the rise of the sight picture, keeping it on target as the stock reverberated the recoil through my shoulder.
My bullets hit home and the sniper sagged, his weapon falling. It caught against the sling and hung there, a rifle swaying gently back and forth a hundred feet off the ground.
Switching targets, I saw the second sniper had taken notice of his buddy's sudden death. He was scanning frantically, looking for me–
I drilled him with three and watched him jerk. He'd been scooting to the side, trying to use the girder he was lying prone on for cover. Not having a lot of room to maneuver, he'd pa
rtially moved off of it. My bullets helped complete the move, and he rolled into space, dropping to the ground behind one of the containers, headfirst. A perfect swan dive, except he was already limp when he made it. If the bullets hadn't already done the job, the fall would definitely kill him.
A whisper to my left and down the container row broke through my preoccupation with dealing with the snipers and I spun, planting my AK barrel against the side of the shipping container and easing around until I had a tac-geared target in my sights. I let it rip and beat him to the draw. Whatever surprise he might have had at seeing a rifle barrel appear around the side of the container I was covering behind was gone with his brains as I blew them all out the back of his head with a controlled three-shot burst.
Continuing my sweep, I managed to land my sight picture on his wingman. I squeezed off three shots, but he was already reacting to his buddy's sudden death before his eyes–
Bullets sprayed the container where I was covering, whizzing past my face. Shards of metal peppered my forehead as the 7.62 rounds ripped through the metal, forcing me to retreat before I got perforated. I heard my attacker grunt; at least some of my shots had found their target.
He shouted in pain, and it was loud. Loud enough that I was under no illusions; my position was blown. Darting to the other side of the container, I swept the aisle–
Shit. Two more coming this way. Seeing the silhouette of my head popping out from behind the container, they raised their guns–
I sprinted for it, spraying with one hand and no hope of hitting anything. It was suppressing fire, designed to get them to duck away so I had time to cross between the container rows, getting my ass to cover that wasn't being flanked on both sides by hostiles.
They fired at me, and I felt a hard sting against my left shoulder, like a horsefly. Another whipped across my side, like someone had blown a puff of air there.
I entered the cover of the container across the aisle and found myself faced with a view of the Chesapeake Bay once more. I'd reached the end of the pier, nothing but an empty aisle to my left and right past this container.
Gunshots continued behind me; holes were being punched in the corner of my container, my foes advancing unchallenged. Leaning out to slow them down was almost certain to result in me catching a bullet or three.
With a glance to my right out the aisle separating me from the water, I found a team of three moving up and I realized I had no choice – again. They opened fire as I committed to my maneuver, and leapt once more over the edge of the pier, slinging my rifle as I went, plunging back into the cold water of the bay.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Chapman
Now Chapman was glad he'd decided to go for the popcorn. It was organic, with just a drizzle of fresh, whipped butter, locally sourced, of course. Watching this crazy gunfight unfold almost three thousand miles away provided just a hint of danger – it was actually happening! Right now! – but far enough away that it held an element of unreality, too. Authentic entertainment, no actual danger.
This was great. He was recording the whole thing, and if it weren't counter to his aims – i.e., it kinda made Sienna Nealon look cool – putting it up on Socialite would be awesome. Guaranteed virality. Not that he needed that boost. But it was the kind of content people loved.
He switched to a different view once she plunged back into the water. There were about ten guys in black vests and pants with their funny little helmets moving up to the water's edge. They were forming a firing line, which was interesting. They'd be shooting down into the open water, and Chapman was hard-pressed to see how Nealon was going to get out of this one...
CHAPTER SIXTY
Sienna
Getting dropped in the water again for the second time in five minutes was not my idea of heaven, even on a hot day like this. I had a bad feeling about the water quality of the Chesapeake Bay, especially in this area, and so I did my best to keep my mouth shut and not let any ooze into my sinuses. It was probably a lost cause, and I was immune to most diseases, but I still had a healthy germaphobia for some reason, which was why I always used the toilet liners provided in public restrooms.
I could see the bottom of the murky bay, about twenty feet down, and it was a trash heap of decades of discarded crap that had gone overboard, never to be recovered. Ahead lay the concrete pier, and I beelined for it, knowing they'd be setting up a firing line above me shortly. I needed to act quick.
Reaching the side of the pier, I floated on the surface, raising a fist. I had a very short time to do what I was going to do here. I needed a distraction, something to put these assholes on guard. Left unchecked, they'd fire indiscriminately into the water, raining bullets on me until I was dead. I needed to put them on the defensive.
My guns had been plopped in the water with me. Shooting them now might work, but the ballistics could be iffy and, in my estimation, wouldn't produce the desired effect. I couldn't shoot and swim; they'd know when I was firing and when I wasn't, and act accordingly.
I needed something silent. Something lethal. Something that would make them keep their heads down.
Something...horrifying.
I punched the concrete pier, shattering the surface in one blow. Bracing myself, I hit it again, cratering a foot of concrete by giving it everything I had. Pieces of gray, wet detritus fell away as I swept the debris away with a bloody hand.
Bingo.
My strikes had unearthed a piece of rebar, and I seized it with wet, crimson-covered fingers. Bracing both feet against the pier, I shoved off, ripping out a section about two to three feet in length.
The shouts of the men above me were echoing over the quiet waters. The gunfire had ceased, and I hoped Holloway had gotten clear of these assholes.
A couple of frantic shouts tipped me off that one of them could see me. I locked eyes with him; all I could see was his head framed in black in front of the red corrugated steel container behind him. I lay in the shadow of the pier; he moved to bring up his gun high enough so he could fire down at me.
He didn't get the chance.
I raised that piece of rebar like Zeus's own lightning bolt and fired it overhand, javelin-style.
He saw it coming, but his eyes only had a moment to widen before it landed like a cruise missile in the middle of his forehead.
I didn't wait for him to drop. My distraction done, I plunged back under the water and swam down, diving rapidly to get below the darkening surface so that hopefully they wouldn't be able to see me.
Executing a sprint-swim, I went meta-speed down the length of the pier, rounding the squared edge before I came up for air. When I did, it wasn't until I saw one of the convenient ladders leading up the side.
I sprang up the ladder blindingly fast, turning my AK to let the water drain out of the barrel. Hopefully I wouldn't need it, but I damned sure didn't want to need it and find it inoperable, or worse, ready to blow due to water obstructing the barrel.
The crane stood over me, a mammoth empty frame soaring stories above. I ran through the empty middle, AK in hand, sweeping for hostiles as I plunged back into the maze of containers. I had a plan, a purpose, and I could still hear sporadic fire from the line of mercs that I'd just left behind.
Sweeping through the maze at high speed, I relied on my instincts and reflexes to keep me alive. I encountered no one, none, not one hostile, which made sense, because they'd all been lined up at the water's edge to pump rounds into me.
There – the cargo container that I'd been backed against. I could tell it by the holes in the corner where the bad guys had shredded it trying to shoot me. I could hear them talking, distantly, behind it as I darted into cover past the holey corner. Drawing a quick breath and scanning around me, one last time, to confirm no hostiles were sneaking up, I spun, planted my back foot, and lifted my front–
I gave that container an almighty kick, putting all my martial arts training and meta strength behind it. It jumped across the pavement, skittering and screech
ing as it blew into a wild skid across the pavement toward the pier's edge–
Screams, crunching bones, splashes; these were the sounds that followed as the container skipped along the ground some six feet toward the edge. It hit the solid half-step that surrounded the pier, a barrier designed to keep containers and other such objects from toppling into the water. The metal rang like a bell, and it started to tilt, momentum still with it, threatening to tip over into the bay. It stopped at about forty-five degrees, though, then settled back to the ground with a slam of metal against concrete.
I hustled over behind it, ignoring the crimson stains, drag marks the container had left behind when it had, uh...hit and...well, dragged a few of the mercs beneath it like a rogue snowplow. A quick leap up the short step and I was pointing my gun along the pier's ledge–
No one was there. No one alive, at least. A couple bodies were floating in the water, but none were moving. If they hadn't gotten crushed beneath the skidding container hitting them at automobile speeds, they'd been thrown into the water, apparently unconscious.
“Ew,” I said, not enjoying my own handiwork. I got blinded by the guts and gore just a moment too long, though–
A gunshot rang out and I felt a surge of pain in the back of my right shoulder. I'd been grazed the last couple times; this felt like a real gunshot, though, a bloody through-and-through that left another wound on the front of my rotator cuff.
I collapsed, because the surge of pain knocked the wind right out of me. I came down hard, catching my rifle beneath my hands, trapping it under my body. I turned around to look, and saw a single merc in black advancing on me, skin beneath his ski mask pale, eyes a bright blue.
Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37) Page 22