by Matt Hilton
The skipper delivered us safely back to Port St. Joe and we returned on rubbery legs to our car, Rink’s company Ford, where we’d left it near the Cape San Blas Lighthouse. I’d heard from Rink that he had made it to the same parking lot when chased from the hotel by Vince’s team, and how he now regretted waiting there too long before returning to pick up me and Sue: had he returned sooner he believed Vince would never have snatched her, or been able to use her as a hostage, ergo she’d still be alive. I had to remind him that had he come back sooner, we wouldn’t have been at the pick up point and who knew how that might have affected any of our fates. Maybe we all would have died in a gunfight with Vince’s mercenaries.
It is a tradition to hold a wake in remembrance of the deceased, but there was none held there for Sue, not when her burial must remain a secret. We drove back from Port St. Joe up FL-71 towards the ranch that had by then been home for the better part of a week since agreeing our truce with Arrowsake. Due to their influence on the local police investigations I was no longer a wanted man, so the fridge there had been stocked with beer following supply runs I made up to Wewahitchka. We planned on downing a few bottles in Sue’s memory on our return home.
Our plan went to shit.
We arrived back at the ranch around mid-afternoon. A mountain of clouds had piled in from the eastern horizon, dark blue and steel grey and veined with purples and scarlet. There was a storm coming, but this was one of the electrical storms that often struck Florida as opposed to another hurricane: often there’d be a light and sound show but not necessarily rain or destructive wind, other times they came with the full kit and caboodle. This was one of the latter times. We parked and got out of the car just as the first heavy droplets began falling. The ground was dry, and the first raindrops kicked up puffs of dust. They drummed on the Ford, and on the roofs of the house and parking garage. Within seconds the rain became a deluge, forcing us to hurry for the shelter of the covered porch. Rink often followed the maxim that you must embrace the inevitable but even he jogged to avoid a soaking.
Mercer came up short on the porch, breathing heavily, one hand clasped to his side. Ten days after being shot he was physically on the mend, but the unexpected run had taken a toll on his injured ribs. He sucked in oxygen and I could see that it pained him. I wiped rain off my face. Rink had the house keys on the same ring as his car key. He moved to let us inside. He stopped with the key poised before the lock.
Lightning forked across the heavens.
Rink exchanged a squint with me. We both looked at the damaged keyhole and heard the ker-chunk of a pump action shotgun.
‘Get down!’ I hurled my body into Mercer, taking him in a graceless tumble to the decking, even as Rink span with a dancer’s grace in the opposite direction. We were each a split-second clear of the buckshot ripping through the door. Inside the house, another shell was racked into a shotgun, and a second blast blew out another portion of the door, scattering shot and splinters in the front yard.
I reached for my gun nestled in the small of my back; even to a funeral I’d gone armed. Mercer also had a pistol, but right then he was under me and it was out of easy reach. I rolled off him, freeing my own gun and came up sharp against the wall of the house. Mercer took a roll in the opposite direction and went off the edge of the deck, and I heard him thump on the ground two feet or so lower. For the moment he was safe from further gunfire from within the house, whereas all I had between the gunman and me was a thin layer of planks and plaster. Above my head there was a living room window over which were fitted security bars. The bars didn’t do much to stop the blast of shattered glass cascading over me as another shell was discharged. I screwed my eyelids tight and averted my face, feeling the bites of several shards of glass that hit me. Something sharp jabbed my cheek, and tiny slivers invaded my collar and got down inside my shirt, but thankfully nothing vital was severed. I spat sharp bits off my lips as I scrambled on all fours to get away from the window. More glass crashed, and as blinded and confused as I was, I still understood the gunman was knocking a wider hole in the window so he could get a cleaner shot at me. I raised my gun, firing blindly at the window even as I crawled for my life. From elsewhere another gun barked, and I am unsure whose.
The shotgun fired again.
I was stung by shot on my back and butt, but thankfully I was spared the full bore that tore a hole in the deck to my left. I had no option other than follow Mercer’s example, so I took a dive over the edge of the deck and fell into mud. Rolling onto my back, I aimed my pistol between my knees as I checked for a target. There was none. I couldn’t see where Mercer or Rink had gotten to either. Raindrops battered my face, but I could live with that inconvenience.
Again I heard the crack of a pistol, and this time understood that Rink had made it off the porch at the far end and was defending himself. It was impossible to tell who he was exchanging bullets with, but apparently the gunman inside wasn’t our only enemy. I was in an untenable position where I was, because where there were two attackers there could be, and probably was, more. No sooner had I began to scoot backwards on my ass for the corner of the deck than a third gunman presented, this one from over by the parking garage. He fired, and I felt a thud to my right thigh. I was hit, but I’d no idea how badly, and had no time to take stock. I rolled on my side, my injured leg in the mud as I returned fire, forcing the gunman to take shelter behind the garage. I kicked my way along the earth, churning through bloody dirt and got to the edge of the porch. Even getting around it, I was still open to more fire from the man that’d shot me. He leaned out from the garage wall and got a bead on me. He was a skinny little guy, the type of enemy I’d normally backhand into submission, but then and there with a pistol in hand he could kill me as easily as anyone else could. I fired at him first and he jerked back under cover. I’d earned a few seconds respite at most.
I couldn’t capitalise on those few seconds, because the roar of an engine brought me about. A grey SUV tore down the approach towards the ranch. No part of me believed those inside were hurtling to my rescue. It came to a juddering halt behind Rink’s Ford, and doors were thrown open. Gunmen piled out, at first taking cover behind the open doors as they took stock, sought targets, and then one of them ran at a crouch for concealment behind the Ford. I counted three more guns, military grade M4 carbines, and decided my best option was to get the hell out of their way.
I could do nothing for Mercer or Rink if I got gunned down.
Scrambling up, I’d to throw my left hand against the side of the house to support me. My right leg was a lead weight, feeling heavier at that moment than those we’d attached to Sue’s burial shroud to help draw her into the ocean’s embrace. My entire trouser leg was soaked, hopefully not all of it with my blood. Pushing off I limped away, gathering pace and fortitude with each lurching step. I was out of view of the newcomers, but an open target to the skinny guy that’d put a hole in my leg. I passed my SIG to my left hand, so I could aim better should he show again.
Out of my sight, an M4 chattered on fully automatic fire. God help either of my friends that were its target. I heard Rink’s pistol fire in response. So far my big buddy was still alive and in the fight. Mercer was yet to join in, and I hoped he wasn’t already dead.
A bullet punched the wall behind me. Another smacked the wall several feet ahead. The skinny guy must have shifted location. I snapped a look at where I thought he’d gotten to, but couldn’t see him, so didn’t waste any more bullets. I ducked around the back of the house. From within, the shotgun blasted a hole the size of my fist through the back wall: the son of a bitch must have been tracking my ungainly race to cover, but he’d overestimated how far I’d moved. It was tempting to stick my pistol through the hole and return fire, but that would be madness. I threw myself at the dirt just as another part of the wall disintegrated exactly where I’d been a few seconds earlier. The pain in my thigh had caught up with me by then; it was red raw agony. I clenched my teeth, cursing under my b
reath, as I was forced to scuttle like a rodent through the mud. I made it to the smaller rear porch and came up against one of the support posts. It didn’t afford me much cover, but it was all I had. I shoved up to my feet, my spine braced against the support, and aimed at the back door. There was no point in shooting through it, because the gunman wouldn’t be stupid enough to stand directly behind it. I quickly measured where his last two shots had perforated the wall, and judged his position to be somewhere still inside the kitchen at the back of the house. I aimed and shot out the back windows of the living room and kitchen, drawing fire, and he obliged. Glass hurtled outward on a hail of lead, glistening like the falling rain. I realigned and fired, then moved a fraction more to the left and fired again. Whether I hit him or not didn’t matter, I just wanted to keep him from getting a clear shot at me as I turned and threw my back into the door. Before leaving the ranch that morning, I’d gone around and ensured the doors were locked, but hadn’t bothered adding any extra layers of security. My entire weight against one mortise lock was an unfair competition: the lock and its retainer burst free with a shard of doorframe and I rammed inside the house full of spit and vinegar.
There was the tiniest of vestibules that opened into the kitchen and before the gunner had time to reload, I was inside the room and firing at him. The son of a bitch was wearing a bulletproof vest, but it didn’t save him from the bullets I put in his face. As he fell, his shotgun clattering on the floor, my only regret was that the face wasn’t that of Vince. However, I fully expected Vince was the one behind this ambush; I just hadn’t a clue where he was.
I’d probably expended more than half the bullets in my magazine by then, and needed to reload. My stuff, including extra ammunition, was in a closet in one of the bedrooms I’d commandeered as mine, and it was at the far end of the house beyond the living room. I bent and grabbed the shotgun off the floor. The corpse had a belt ringed with extra shells. I unbuckled the belt and slung it around my hips, and rapidly set to filling the shotgun with 12 gauge buckshot cartridges. This was no duck hunter’s gun; it was a Mossberg 590A1 tactical weapon. Its firepower didn’t match the carbines I faced, but with a killing range of around one hundred and thirty feet it helped make me feel a little less overwhelmed.
I quickly nudged the backdoor closed, and threw a retainer bolt to stop anyone sneaking inside, then lumbered through the house on my injured leg towards the front. The living room window was mostly shattered, only a few large chunks of glass still clinging to the frame, and the front door had all but been obliterated, but I still didn’t have a clear view outside. During the fight I’d kind of ignored the storm, but the rain thundered on the roof and gushed from the eaves. I was looking through sheeting rain where human figures were fleeting shadows. At least I was indoors. It was no castle of stone, but the ranch afforded me some protection from both the weather and flying bullets. It also gave me an option to take the fight back to our ambushers.
I let loose with the Mossberg, firing through the shattered window at the SUV. Sixty feet or less away, each load of buckshot put holes in the metal and shattered the windshield. There must have been some kind of bulletproofing beneath the outer shell though, because my shots didn’t make it through to those using the open doors as shields. I aimed lower, blasting at the feet of one of the attackers. A yell of pain rewarded my efforts, but I couldn’t tell how badly I’d injured the shooter. In the next instant another one opened up with his carbine and the ranch around me began dissolving. I lurched on my damaged leg as fast as possible, chased through the house by a stream of bullets. At the far end, my bedroom was being similarly chewed to pieces by gunfire. I turned around and raced for the only stable structure that’d take a few rounds, and concealed myself up against the stone chimneystack. There I was open to a shot through the broken window in the rear, and I didn’t trust that skinny guy not to sneak up on me. The only option open to me was to crawl into the large inglenook in the fireplace and take cover. Bullets cut through the house largely unimpeded, and some ricocheted off the stone chimneystack, but for a few more seconds I was out of danger. I fed fresh cartridges into the Mossberg.
Where was Rink? Between the rattle of assault rifles I caught the occasional answering pop of a pistol, but from where I hid it was hard to determine its source. I was still yet to hear anything from Mercer, and now feared the worst for him. He’d been silent since rolling off the porch in the first few seconds of the assault. Rink and Mercer were both grown men, both of them with training and experience in warfare. Instead of worrying about them, I should have concentrated on my own arse, but if I’ve to be honest, their welfare right then trumped mine, as I was at least behind shelter.
Abruptly, the carbines stopped targeting the house.
I had an inkling why.
Boots scuffed the front porch, and I assumed somebody had closed in to check if I was still alive, as I hadn’t returned any of their shots. At the same time, a face showed briefly around the edge of the window frame at the back of the house. The visage was that of a ferret: it was the skinny guy who’d shot me. He didn’t spot my hiding place. A few seconds later he appeared again, popping up over the window frame and this time taking a longer scan around the room. He had his pistol held alongside his chin, and it was angled down, expecting to find me bleeding on the ground. He spoke, I guessed, through a throat mike, and he heard a response in his earpiece. He rose up taller, and peered harder into the room. His face for a moment was turned away from my hiding place. I aimed, pulled the trigger and blew him away.
Killing the skinny guy gave me no satisfaction or sense of revenge for nailing me. He simply needed killing so that I could live to help my friends. But in shooting him I alerted the one on the porch, and I again came under withering fire. Chips of stone flew, and something scorched my knuckles. I couldn’t stay in my hidey-hole. I swarmed across the floor on my belly, but the mostly unfurnished room offered no other hiding places: the couch Mercer had slept on was already riven apart by carbine fire. I swung onto my side, aiming along the barrel of the shotgun, waiting for a hint at where the shooter was and tried not to think about the bullets cutting the air all around me.
Somebody followed my bullish tactics from earlier, busting their way inside through the back door. I had an enemy approaching from the kitchen and also the immediate threat of the man on the porch. If I shot one I was at the mercy of the other. They were coordinating their attack via radio, and I’d no idea who was going to draw fire first. I assumed the man coming through the kitchen was supposed to engage me, while the other shot me dead. I sent several loads of buckshot through the wall towards the kitchen to slow him and immediately swung my gun back towards the front window. The shooter was already there, silhouetted against the bucketing downpour, his carbine to his shoulder. He was a millisecond from blowing me apart when he performed a crazy little dance to the beat of a gun, and his carbine flew up and wasted his rounds in the ceiling. He was wearing a bulletproof vest like the first man I’d killed, but it wouldn’t help him at this close range. I fired into his central mass and watched him get knocked off his feet and pinwheel off the porch.
Whoever had come to my rescue had done so in the absolute nick of time, but it didn’t help me with the gunman in the kitchen. I scrambled to get to another position because lying on the floor I was an open target from the kitchen door. Not making enough ground, I pushed up, and was plummeting forward at the same instant an arm came round the doorjamb and tossed something into the room.
It was a grenade, and I’d no cover whatsoever.
41
Jason Mercer had Joe Hunter to blame for another cracked rib. Then again, when Hunter tackled him and knocked him on his back, he’d also saved his life, so he didn’t hold the fresh breakage against him. He’d have been in a far worse position than a having painful chest if he’d taken the full load of buckshot through it. As they broke apart, and Hunter returned fire at the bastard who had tried ambushing them, there was only one place f
or Mercer to go. He had rolled and allowed gravity to suck him out of range of the shotgun blasts. He’d landed in the dirt, rain pummelling him, with his brain trying to play catch up with the chaos erupting around him. The shotgun’s boom contested with the sharper crack of Hunter’s SIG, and then a third gun had joined the fight. Somehow, Mercer had commanded his hand to grab his pistol and he’d dragged it out, but his hand was shaking so wildly he couldn’t have hit an elephant standing twenty feet away side-on to him, let alone kill the elusive attacker over by the parking garage.
Mercer had done what he thought best.
He crawled under the porch into the domain of spider webs and windblown litter. No sooner had he gotten under cover than Hunter thumped in a graceless heap on the ground a few yards away. His first thought was that Hunter had been gunned down, but then the Englishman was butt crawling away with his pistol raised between his knees. That sumbitch by the garage shot at him again, and then Mercer’s attention was snatched away by the roar of an approaching vehicle. The big car came to a juddering halt and doors were thrown open. From his position Mercer had no idea how many gunmen got out, but even one was one too many. He squirmed back deeper into the crawlspace under the deck until the brick foundations of the house stopped him. Nobody but the guy by the garage could know where he was, and judging by the gunshots being exchanged, he was in a contest with Hunter. For the time being Mercer was out of mind and out of sight, and that was the best he could hope for. Adrenalin had replaced the ache in his ribs with a wave of nausea, and he fought it. Equally he fought the shaking in his hands, because he understood it was his neurological impediment causing the shake and not fear itself. He’d hidden, yes, but not out of cowardice. He fully intended taking the fight back to their attackers once he had some control of his goddamn shooting hand.