The Hard Core

by Allen Manning

  Ty screamed up from behind the SUV, whipping the tail end of his Lancer around in a tight semi-circle. The rear fender caught the man’s hip, scooping him up as the spoiler flung him over the hood of the waiting vehicle.

  Millie rushed out of the building, taking the steps down to the sidewalk in a single leap. She hit the ground and rolled over her shoulder, scooping her backpack off the ground next to the guard groaning and holding his ribs.

  Ty shifted down to first and started to burn out the tires. Millie whipped the door open and leaped into the passenger seat.

  “Go! Go!” She jabbed her finger forward several times.

  Ty released the brake, and the Lancer launched like a rocket. The SUV turned around and gave chase. Two more vehicles screeched around from the back of the building joining the pursuit.

  Millie turned in her seat looking out the back window. “They’re after us. You gotta lose them.”

  Ty glanced up at the rear view mirror. “Aw, that’s adorable. They think this is an old-fashioned car chase.”

  He pulled the car to the left at the intersection. Cars in the traffic around them slammed on their brakes, the drivers blasting their horns. As the SUVs turned to follow, Ty kept the Lancer moving in a wide, drifting turn, circling back into the other lane, heading the opposite direction the security forces had just turned.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “We should grab something to eat after this.”

  “Shouldn’t you be focusing on this situation first?” Millie asked, watching the vehicles still trying to pursue.

  The distance between them grew as the cars struggled to turn around. Ty casually glanced in the rearview and shifted again, pushing Millie back into her seat as he broke 100 miles per hour, slaloming between cars.

  “Pizza,” Ty said. “Let’s grab some slices after this.”

  Millie gripped the handle above the window. “Whatever,” she said, staring at their pursuers fading into the distance in the side mirror.

  Ty made the turn for the on-ramp and hit the freeway. He opened up the throttle, and the engine roared in response.

  “Hey why do you guys call it pie out here?” he asked. “Pizza pie. That just sounds weird.”

  “I don’t know, I’m from Mexico,” Millie said.

  “What do they call it in Mexico?”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Lansing, Michigan

  John double-tapped the 1911, punching a pair of holes in another attacker. One of the security guards hustled Owen to the passenger seat of an SUV. John dropped his shoulder and charged forward.

  His thumb found the release, dropping the empty magazine from his weapon. Sparks flew from the barrel he used for cover as he sent the slide forward.

  Bullets chipped away at the concrete followed by a click and an angry shout. A guard nearby held his empty weapon up like a club, rushing in. John ducked and the man’s momentum carried him forward, draping his body across John’s shoulder. John stood and brought his arm up, launching his foe up and over, the man’s body slamming back first into the handlebars of a motorcycle.

  John fired again, scoring a headshot on the guard escorting Blythe. He sent two more rounds at the driver, but his bullets struck the frame. The vehicle lurched forward, plowing through the rolling door with a crunch. John fired the last four rounds into the back of the SUV as he stepped out from behind cover.

  The second his weapon’s slide locked back, he was already scooping up one of the submachine guns from a dead guard. He holstered the pistol and brought the MP5 to his shoulder.

  His finger took the slack out of the trigger, but thunder erupted from the door he burst through earlier. A massive brute wearing full combat gear entered, his AA-12 shotgun roaring.

  John rolled to the side and took cover behind a stack of crates, returning fire. The well-placed bursts drove the brutish foe back out the door. A pair of motorcycle engines revved and growled as the last two security guards made their escape through the hole left by the SUV.

  The big man’s shotgun boomed. A second blast tore one of the crates apart. John emptied the last few shots from his magazine and tossed the SMG aside. He grabbed a box and hurled it at the door, running forward to follow close behind.

  Just as he took the first step, his foe pivoted out to open fire. The crate smashed into his upper body, wood cracking open. John’s feet pushed hard until he reached the steps to the entrance. He took them in two bounding leaps coming face to face with his opponent as the man recovered from the impact.

  The shotgun’s muzzle swung around for a clear shot, but John’s hand clamped over the weapon’s body, just behind the barrel. John slammed his left fist into a granite chin. The behemoth shrugged the blow off, but John’s follow up to his nose let out a wet crunch.

  With both hands, John wrenched the weapon free and adjusted his grip. Before he could get his hands in position to fire, a club-like forearm swatted the shotgun to the side. John felt a pair of enormous hands grab his shirt at the shoulders and whip him around, pulling him into the hall.

  His back struck the wall with enough force to crack the wood paneling. John launched an uppercut, but the man’s arm was still in the way, holding on to his shirt. Most of the power had been drained from his first punch, but he followed immediately with a straight left that snapped his foe’s head back.

  The big man roared and clamped a massive hand around John’s neck, lifting him off his feet. John could feel the pressure building around his eyes as he struggled to pull in a breath. A cannonball slammed into his gut, forcing the air out of his lungs.

  John squeezed his eyes shut and slammed a forearm down onto the inside of his foe’s elbow. He felt his feet make contact with the floor again. John grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and lashed out with the web of his hand between the thumb and forefinger. As his strike made contact to the brute’s throat, John wrenched the man’s hand free from his neck.

  Both men dropped to a knee, gasping for breath, eyes red and full of fire as they stared each other down.

  “Rhino, clean up your mess and get back here,” someone said over the man’s radio. “We’ve spotted Roland.”

  John saw a flicker of indecision in the man’s eyes.

  “Looks like you’ve got a choice to make,” John said. “Go help your buddies, or stay here and finish this dance.”

  Rhino pushed himself up to his feet as his hand dropped to his sidearm. John anticipated the move and lunged, thrusting his foot forward and kicking the pistol free as it cleared the holster.

  With his face contorted in a mask of fury, the beast launched an overhand right. John twisted his body to dodge the blow and buried a left hook into Rhino’s gut. He turned again and caught the big man with a right hook to the other side.

  A tree trunk obscured his vision and John brought his arm up to cover his head as Rhino’s arm swung out, hurling John against an office door. The wood crunched and splintered from the massive impact.

  John pushed himself up to a crouch, anticipating a follow-up barrage, but Rhino ran for his shotgun. His hands moving on autopilot, John drew the pistol from his holster and flicked the empty magazine free, slamming a full one in its place.

  He power stroked the slide and brought the 1911 up as his opponent retrieved his weapon. John’s pistol bucked twice as Rhino let off a blast. Thunder and lightning filled the hallway. John fired again as he threw himself against the door. His body crashed through, rolling into the office. He came up in a crouch, pistol gripped in both hands, expecting his adversary to press the attack.

  By the time his ears stopped ringing, John could hear Rhino’s footsteps fading in the distance.

  Coward.

  He kept the handgun trained down the hall as he swung out. Walking toward the spent shotgun shells, John saw a crimson spray on the wall. He scored a hit. Probably not a substantial wound, considering the size of the pattern.

  He had a different problem now. The security teams escaped with his target,
but Chance and Roland needed his help.

  * * *

  Chance fired another burst as he shouted over his shoulder. “Go!”

  Roland turned and ran to the next corner. A hail of gunfire tore up the walls and floor. Chance dropped the empty submachine gun and ran toward him, drawing his Beretta.

  Flash pivoted around the far corner, and Roland fired to keep her back. Chance slid across the floor, like a baseball player stealing home to cover the last few feet. He rolled behind Roland as Captain Hawke popped out and returned fire.

  “New deal,” Hawke said. “Just give us Roland, and we’ll let you out of the building alive, Detective Hunter.”

  “Here’s my counter-offer,” Chance said. “How about I just—” he leaned out and fired a trio of .40 caliber rounds, just missing Hawke as the captain dropped back. He smiled when he heard the military man hiss a string of curses at him.

  He turned to Roland and pushed him toward the front lobby, now empty after the firefight sent the people fleeing. Roland stripped the mag from his weapon and checked to see how many rounds he had left.

  “I’m just about out,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Chance answered.

  “What about John?” Roland asked.

  “I need to get you out of here first. We can worry about the rest later,” Chance said.

  The two men sprinted to get clear. The front doors and windows exploded outward as the INSEC strike team let loose at the fleeing targets. Chance and Roland spun around and fired back. One of the women let out a short scream and fell back behind the wall.

  Chance and Roland jumped through the broken windows, heading out front. The rumbling engine to their right pulled their attention off of the strike team. A CARR Group SUV turned the corner, driving past the two. The passenger pointed at them, shouting something to the driver.

  A motorcycle screamed around the corner and popped up onto its rear wheel as the rider caught up to the fleeing vehicle.

  “I’m guessing they got away with Blythe,” Chance said.

  Roland turned back to the front and fired his weapon again, driving Hawke back once more. “I’m out,” he said.

  “We need to find a vehicle,” Chance said. “We’re too far from the truck.”

  A second motorcycle skidded around the corner.

  Chance smiled. “Ask, and ye shall receive.”

  Chance and Roland made their way to the street toward the motorcycle. The man on the bike reached behind and pulled out his MP5, firing from the hip. Chance dove and rolled to escape the attack, into the path of the rider.

  As the man swung the muzzle to the front, Chance jumped up, turning his body around and driving his foot out. The spinning back kick shattered the windscreen, and Chance’s foot crunched the rider’s sternum as it drove through. The motorcycle fell and slid across the asphalt, a trail of sparks following it.

  “Let’s go,” Chance said as they ran for the bike.

  Hawke’s weapon barked punching holes into the seat of the motorcycle. Chance and Roland scrambled away as Burst and Flash joined in the assault, their bullets chasing the duo behind the concrete pillar at the bottom of the steps.

  Chance leaned out and fired the last four rounds from his Beretta. The team took cover except for the mountain that stepped out. Rhino shouldered his shotgun and peppered the ground and concrete cover. Chance rolled back.

  He held up his pistol, showing the slide locked open. “Hate to say it kid, but we need to make a run for it.”

  Roland pressed his lips together, his mouth drawing a straight line across the lower half of his face. He nodded and rose up to a crouch.

  “On three,” Chance said.

  Before he could start the count, the rest of the strike team poured on the fire, realizing their opponents were out of ammunition. Chance and Roland shrank back, covering their heads as the concrete barrier slowly disintegrated.

  The angry roar of a V8 engine answered the barrage of gunfire. The F250 bounded around the corner, skidding to a stop as John leaned out of the window, opening up with his M4 carbine. His first shots shattered what glass remained around Hawke.

  Rhino stopped in his tracks and rolled behind a low concrete wall as John shifted his aim toward the brute.

  “Move!” he shouted as he continued the counter-offensive, driving the two women into the building.

  Chance grabbed Roland’s collar and pulled him up as they bolted for the truck. John whipped the empty mag to the side and slapped a new one in. The second-long delay was enough of a gap for Hawke to push forward with a second attack.

  The strike team commander’s bullets punched holes into the fender and door in neat three-hole clusters. Chance and Roland leaped into the bed as John stomped down on the gas, firing a long burst as he sped away. Rhino ran out into the street as the distance grew, emptying his shotgun, but the buckshot lacked the sufficient accuracy and power at the longer range.

  * * *

  Captain Donovan Hawke strode out into the middle of the street. Police sirens wailed in the distance. He replaced the partial mag in his rifle to top the weapon off.

  “Should we go after them, sir?” Rhino asked.

  Hawke shook his head. “Not right now. We’ve accomplished our primary objective. Roland will have to wait.”

  Burst joined them. “Sloane is getting the truck. We need to go before the cops get here.”

  “Rhino, just so I know I wasn’t seeing things, that was John Stone, right?” Hawke asked, looking up at the giant to his right.

  “Yeah, that was Stone,” Rhino said, pinching the bridge of his broken nose. “Sorry I wasn’t able to take him out back there.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Hawke said. “We were sent in with incomplete information. Faust neglected to mention whom we would be facing.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Detroit, Michigan

  Chance rolled the door closed as John pulled the truck into the safe house. Roland climbed down the rear bumper and joined the others. John reloaded the carbine and his pistol, grabbing a couple more magazines to stuff into his belt.

  Parker stepped out of the office space looking into the truck. “Where’s Blythe? Did he get away?”

  John nodded. “Faust had a team there already. Professionals.”

  “Oh,” Parker said. “Are you guys okay?”

  Roland pulled his hand away from the side of his head, looking at his blood. “I’m sure we’ll live, but I’ve got a few more cuts and scrapes to clean up.” He wiped his hand on his shirt and headed for the bathroom.

  Chance pulled his pistol from the holster, looking at the arsenal on the wall. “I don’t suppose you guys have any mags for a Beretta 96.”

  John rubbed the back of his neck. “No, but if you’re partial to forty-caliber, I’m pretty sure there’s a Glock 23 in there somewhere.”

  “What should we do now?” Parker asked.

  “I need you to pull up as much information as you can on a Captain Donovan Hawke,” John replied. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to be our last run-in with him.”

  “Right. I’m on it.”

  “What about the second location?” John asked. “Any luck with that?”

  Parker’s face lit up. “Ty succeeded. He and his friend got the information we need.”

  “Ty Octane?” John asked. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Wonderful. I’ll never hear the end of it now.”

  “Who’s Ty Octane?” Chance asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” John replied.

  “He’s a shadow courier,” Parker said. “Talented wheel man that saved my butt not too long ago.”

  Chance pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like someone we could use on the team.”

  John scoffed. “Kid runs his mouth faster than the cars he drives.”

  “Which says a lot about his driving,” a voice said from behind them.

  John spun around, drawing his 1911. Chance pulled the slide of
a Glock 23 and also took aim at the man stepping out of the shadows. He had his hands up, grinning as he walked into the middle of the room. The man was lean and fit, with short brown hair that had flecks of silver streaking through. He looked to be in his fifties, and he was wearing a very expensive suit.

  “Easy, boys. I’m here to help.”

  “Mr. Chambers?” Parker asked.

  “How did you get in here?” John asked.

  “This is my place,” Travis said. “I’ve got the keys.”

  * * *

  Travis pulled his laptop out of the leather messenger bag and set up next to Parker’s beastly rig.

  “I’ve got to commend you on discovering my identity, Mr. Lewis. So let’s see what else you’ve got,” Travis said.

  Parker flushed and grinned before regaining his composure. “We weren’t able to get our hands on the INSEC recruiter, but a friend was successful in grabbing a few things from—”

  “Yes, Ty. I heard all of that when I came in.” Travis booted his computer and checked the time on his TAG Heuer. “That’s about an eight-hour drive. He’ll probably knock it out in five or six, but knowing him, he’ll probably make a stop or two along the way. They should be here later this evening.”

  Parker sat and stared. “How do you know so much about us?”

  “Connections, Mr. Lewis,” Travis said. “Unless you’re talking about Ty in Pennsylvania. That was in your report.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” John asked from the doorway.

  “He’s my contact,” Roland said, walking up to the desk to shake Travis’ hand. “I found him while looking for the truth about INSEC. He found me, I mean”