Dead America The Third Week Box Set, Vol. 1 [Books 1-6 ]

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Dead America The Third Week Box Set, Vol. 1 [Books 1-6 ] Page 17

by Slaton, Derek

She sat back and aimed at the wall, waiting, and then when the boot heels sounded like they were just before the door, she let out one three-shot burst at chest height. There was the satisfying sound of a body crumpling to the floor, and this spooked the other gunman, automatic gunfire tearing through the wall again.

  Whitaker fired, but her gun clicked empty, so she slithered along the tiles to the corner. As the Cartel member peeked into the kitchen to inspect his damage, she lunged up from the ground, landing her shoulder directly into his midsection and driving him back. His head left a round dent in the drywall behind him, and his gun clattered to the ground.

  He reached for his knife wildly, but she chopped at his wrist, knocking it aside. He wailed down with his other arm, but she grabbed that wrist and used her open palm to smack his elbow, bone crunching as she broke his arm.

  He screamed in agony and she shoved him down, locking her arms around the back of his head and smashing his nose down into her knee. More cracking bones as blood poured from his busted face, and he gagged and sputtered on it as he fell to the floor. She lifted her boot and stomped down on his windpipe, crushing his throat.

  As his face turned purple, Whitaker grabbed her weapon, reloaded it, and headed back to the bedroom. She hopped out the window and found Landry and Hammond taking turns firing around the corner.

  “How we looking?” she asked.

  Landry shook his head. “Out fucking numbered is how we’re looking,” he replied.

  “So, just another day then?” She raised her gun.

  He rolled his eyes as he reloaded his weapon.

  Hammond ducked back behind the house as a torrent of bullets hit the bricks. Shards broke off and flew around, leaving a fine red dust in the air.

  “Goddamn that was a close one,” the Sergeant muttered, letting out a deep whoosh of breath.

  Landry took his spot and leaned around, taking out the head of one enemy trying to move up.

  “Check the street,” Hammond said, and Whitaker nodded, moving towards the front of the house again.

  She looked down towards the Cartel side of things, and popped off a few shots as a few of them tried to get across the street. They ducked back behind their house, not willing to disappear like their brethren had when they attempted to cross the lawn.

  “Sarge, we gotta get across now!” she called.

  Hammond tapped Landry on the shoulder and the two of them moved to the front of the house. Whitaker aimed intently around the corner, ready to wipe out anybody who dared poke their heads out.

  “How close are we to the vehicle?” Landry asked.

  Hammond looked up at the road sign nearby. “Two blocks north, three east,” he replied.

  “Fuck, that’s a long way to go with all these assholes in pursuit,” Landry muttered.

  Whitaker fired a few more times. “Talk at the next house!” she barked.

  The two men snapped back into action and prepared to move. Hammond tapped her on the shoulder, giving the signal to lay down cover fire, and they tore across the street as she let it rip. They ran, making it across and moving up the street a few blocks.

  “Secure the house!” Hammond cried, and ducked behind a large tree in the yard, reloading his magazine.

  Landry didn’t reply, simply rushed headlong towards the single story house. He busted open the door and disappeared inside to sweep it.

  Hammond let out a sharp whistle to Whitaker, and she broke away from her position, all the while firing more three-shot bursts back at the Cartel members. She glanced over her shoulder before she moved, and noted that the enemies behind the house had started coming around, firing towards her.

  She adjusted course, moving up the street and using cars for cover, tearing up and up towards the Sergeant. A bullet caught the back of her arm as she ran, grazing the muscle, and she let out a frustrated grunt. It didn’t hurt all that much, but her pride did.

  Fucking Cartel… she thought as the gunfire intensified. The original group they’d been fighting had reached the front yard.

  Hammond began firing from behind his tree to give Whitaker some cover, and he wasn’t able to hit them, but at least it sent them ducking so that she could catch up. As she approached, they heard the squeal of tires and a truck came skidding around the corner at the end of the street.

  She pumped her legs as fast as she could, and Hammond flipped his gun from three-burst to full-auto. He nodded at her as she ran by, tearing into the house to join Landry.

  The truck tore towards them, headed straight for their house. Hammond popped out as it reached the driveway, and unloaded a furious blast. A couple dozen rounds peppered the truck, blood coating the shattered windshield within seconds. The vehicle lost control and slammed into the side of the house, a bullet-riddled passenger flying through the glass and into the brick, headfirst.

  The Sergeant quickly rushed inside, and Landry slammed the door shut behind him before taking up position at the window.

  “Everybody okay?” Hammond asked, and then his brow furrowed at the blood dripping from Whitaker’s elbow. “Holy shit, are you good?”

  She nodded firmly as she checked her gun. “Just grazed me.”

  “Still counts as getting shot first!” Landry quipped brightly.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Goddammit.”

  He grinned and then began firing out the window, eyes maniacal.

  “You got things, Landry?” Hammond asked.

  The Private nodded. “Yeah Sarge, get us clear out back!” he replied, and continued his defense.

  The two rushed to the back door, but the windows exploded with gunfire, and they both hit the deck. They crawled to the wall, peeking out the tiny openings on either side of the back door.

  “What you got?” Hammond asked.

  She glanced out to the west and sighed. “Half dozen, maybe more,” she reported. “What you got?”

  “Two on my side,” the Sergeant replied.

  “Fuck it, we can take ‘em,” Whitaker said firmly.

  “Damn right we can,” Hammond agreed. He turned and yelled over his shoulder, “Landry, we’re moving!”

  “Get down!” Landry yelled, and thankfully the duo were already down as several streams of bullets ripped through the front of the house, sending drywall and glass and bits of wood flying everywhere. After about twenty seconds, everything fell silent, and they shook themselves free of the sea of debris.

  “What in the holy fuck was that?” Hammond demanded.

  “Sarge, y’all better get in here,” Landry called.

  The duo shared a worried glance before crawling to the front of the house. They took up positions around the front windows, and peeked out at three SUVs surrounded by men in heavy riot gear.

  “Well that’s going to be a challenge,” Hammond muttered.

  Landry sighed. “Again with the fuckers in riot gear,” he whined. “When the fuck do we get some of that shit?”

  “Well, maybe if you’re a good boy, Santa will bring you some,” Whitaker teased.

  He laughed and shook his head. “I’m fucked, then.”

  A megaphone squealed outside, and Rodriguez’ voice boomed through it. “Hello, you, there in the house,” he called. “You still alive in there?”

  “Yep!” Hammond bellowed through the busted window. “You assholes aren’t getting rid of us that easily!”

  Rodriguez let a chuckle trickle through the device. “That is fantastic!” he replied. “I would hate to have to go back to my boss and tell him we accidentally killed the people who dared to attack one of his facilities.”

  “Facilities?” the Sergeant yelled. “You had a few cars on blocks in the middle of the street. I thought you people considered that yard decorations, not facilities.”

  Whitaker raised an eyebrow. “Damn Sarge, little racist, don’t ya think?” she hissed.

  He shrugged and lowered his voice. “Just putting on a show.”

  “Well these are humble times,” Rodriguez replied, “so one has to
use what one has available.”

  “All right, I’ll buy that,” Hammond yelled back. “So if there’s nothing else, we’ll just be on our way!”

  Rodriguez shook his head and clucked his tongue through the megaphone. “Afraid I can’t do that.”

  “So how many men do you want to lose today?” the Sergeant bellowed. “I mean, I know it’s double digits and all since we’re well past that, but wanted to check so I make sure I conserve enough ammo. Don’t want to disappoint you.”

  Rodriguez laughed. “I’m willing to part with a few more if it means bringing you back to my boss in one piece,” he admitted. “However, I do have things I need to do, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to speed this up. So either you come out of the house willingly, or else.”

  “That sounds ominous, compadre!” Hammond yelled. “What do you say you give us a few minutes here to think it over?”

  Rodriguez snapped his fingers to some of his men, and one of them went to the back of the SUV. “Very well,” he said through the device, “you have ten minutes.”

  “Very generous of you,” Hammond called back. “But just so we’re clear, what do you plan on doing in ten minutes?”

  The gunman returned from the back of the SUV with an impressive-looking rocket launcher. Rodriguez took it and held it up, waving it back and forth.

  “Well, ten minutes is the time I need to come up with an excuse to tell my boss as to why I had to send in the negotiator.” He set up the launcher on the hood of the SUV, the metallic clang echoing across to the house. “You have ten minutes, starting now.” He hit his watch as his men kept their guns trained on the house.

  Hammond slumped against the wall, shaking his head. “Open to suggestions.”

  “Break out the back and take our chances?” Whitaker asked.

  He shook his head. “They’ll just follow us to the next house, and I doubt they’ll give us a chance to regroup,” he said. “And I don’t know about your ammo situation, but mine’s not great.”

  She checked her gun and shook her head. “Landry, what you got?” she asked.

  “What if we could get out with them thinking we’re still inside when Rodriguez blows the house up?” he asked.

  Whitaker wrinkled her nose. “That’s a tight fucking window,” she said. “As soon as we start firing, they’re going to open fire, and he’ll have to end us.”

  “Unless we had a diversion,” Hammond cut in. “Distract them for a moment to give us a chance to open fire on the back guy and get out before Rodriguez fires.”

  Whitaker took a deep breath. “Again, tight fucking window,” she repeated. “And how do you propose we divert attention from ourselves?”

  “We still have some grenades, right?” Hammond asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I got a couple.”

  “We can throw some out the side window, might buy us a moment or two,” the Sergeant suggested.

  She shook her head. “But whoever throws them probably isn’t going to make it out in time,” she protested.

  “Guess that means you aren’t volunteering for the gig, then?” Hammond raised an eyebrow.

  She smirked. “I was always of the belief that leaders should lead by example.”

  The Sergeant chuckled and shook his head. He knew it was a bad idea.

  “Or…” Landry reached into his pocket and pulled out another detonator. He tossed it to Hammond, who caught it and looked at it with confusion.

  “What in the world is this?” he demanded.

  The Private grinned and put a finger to his cheek. “I may have also rigged the getaway vehicle with C4.”

  They both stared at him, blinking.

  “You holding out on me, Private?” Hammond asked.

  Landry shrugged sheepishly. “Well, you know, when I was rigging up the first one, I started running through the mission in my head,” he explained. “I thought of worst case scenarios, and while this one didn’t specifically come up, I thought of a few that might require some extra explosives.”

  “You could have told us, you know,” Whitaker said, narrowing her eyes.

  He grinned. “And ruin the surprise?” He winked at her. “Plus, I didn’t want to hear it from you guys about how paranoid I was.”

  “Well I can't speak for Whitaker,” Hammond said, shaking his head as he held up the detonator, “but I’m damn glad you’re a paranoid motherfucker.”

  They shared a laugh and then clustered together on the floor.

  “All right, clock’s ticking,” the Sergeant said. “Let’s plan our shots.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mathis strolled through downtown, taking in the locale. There were Cartel members marching about, chests puffed out and heads on swivels, the leaders of the pack. The civilians scurrying about looked terrified, afraid to make eye contact and just get where they were going. Mathis couldn’t even get any of them to look at him, even though he was in civilian clothes.

  He figured the best way to blend in was to just keep his head down and stay demure, hoping he looked just as emaciated as the other townsfolk.

  He reached an intersection and glanced up at the signs, noting one that boasted City Hall - Two Blocks, with an arrow pointing west. He made the turn and kept walking. As he approached the next corner, there were a couple of Cartel members carrying on in Spanish in front of a young woman.

  He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but from the look of absolute terror on the woman’s face, he imagined it was nothing savory. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen, and her eyes were big as saucers as she stared helplessly up at the sneering men.

  Mathis’ gaze darkened as one of them took a handful of her ass, and she pushed his hand away with a gasp. As she tried to dart away from him, the other Cartel member grabbed her arm.

  The sniper took shallow breaths, trying to control himself. He had to think of the mission. He couldn’t break cover.

  “Please, just let me go home, please,” the woman begged, twisting her arm in the man’s grip. She reached up and pushed against his chest, and that seemed to be it for the cajoling.

  He backhanded her hard, sending her sprawling to the ground. She landed with a grunt, and couldn’t even collect herself before one of them scooped her up, throwing her lean body over his shoulder.

  “Please, don’t!” she shrieked, squirming as best she could to get out of his iron grip. She spotted Mathis and reached for him. “Help me, help me please!”

  He looked straight down, hating himself, hating the Cartel, hating everything as he tried to walk past.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” the other guy snarled, the one that wasn’t holding a helpless woman.

  Mathis stared at the ground, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he murmured quietly, “nothing.”

  “Nothing what?” the Cartel member demanded, straightening his shoulders.

  The sniper fought the urge to punch him in his smug face. “Nothing, sir,” he said, louder.

  “That’s right,” the bastard cooed, and patted Mathis on the shoulder. “Now get out of here, you weak piece of shit.” He gave him a little shove and then joined his friend, the two of them sauntering off. The girl’s pleading turned to screaming sobs of fear.

  Mathis turned, walking towards his destination, but his feet felt like lead. He bit his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood, and wrung his hands until he thought his knuckles would pop out of their sockets.

  He could still hear her. And over her, the cruel laughter of the two members about to defile her.

  She probably won’t live through the day, he thought darkly, or at least won’t want to after what they’re going to do. He scrubbed his hands down his face. He didn’t have a choice here. If he wasn’t successful in his mission, there would be no end to this kind of terror, here or in Fabens.

  He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and then crossed as he got closer to City Hall. Seeing his target brought him a little bit of relief, especially seeing that it was
quiet with no signs of panic.

  Guess I made it before the fireworks started. He glanced around to make sure the coast was clear, and it was now that the rapist douchebags were gone from their corner post. He took the opportunity to duck into the alleyway behind the banker building, hoping to find the back door. He walked down the narrow alley towards his target, and a lone guard stepped outside.

  He immediately furrowed his brow and began barking in Spanish.

  Mathis put his hand to his ear, shaking his head as if he couldn’t hear him.

  The man raised the volume of his voice, practically yelling at the sniper.

  “I’m… I’m sorry,” Mathis replied, spreading his arms and shaking his head. “I don’t… please, I’m just looking for my friend.”

  The guard continued yelling, and approached swiftly, fists clenched. Mathis broke his bewildered stance and jabbed the guy in the throat. As his opponent gasped for air, the sniper drew his knife and went for the heart.

  The guard was able to get one of his hands up to catch his attack, and caught his wrist. Mathis shoved with all his might, pushing the guy against the brick wall, struggling to push the blade forward. He reached up and punched him in the side of the head, wobbling the man just enough for him to give a great heave and plunge the blade deep.

  As life bled from the guard’s eyes, Mathis held him steady, and then drew the knife, sticking it into his eye socket for good measure before wiping and sheathing the blade. He hauled the body to the door and opened it, jerking the limp corpse inside behind him.

  Reminds me of why I love sniping and not covert ops, he thought bitterly. Dragging these bodies around is tiring. He shut the door behind him, and then hauled the lifeless hunk of meat down the hallway to the first door he could find—a maintenance closet. He crammed the dead guard inside and then latched the door up.

  “Hope nobody misses you, bud,” he muttered as he took in his surroundings.

  Voices echoed down the hallway towards him, and he quickly dove for an office across the hall, ducking down beneath the window. He readied his knife as footfalls approached, hoping they wouldn’t come in, but ready to strike if they did. The men headed right past his hiding spot, chattering in Spanish, not pausing for a second as they exited the building. He let out a breath of relief that the lack of a guard didn’t even seem to faze them.

 

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