End Game

by John Gilstrap

  “I agree.”

  They pivoted together a couple of points to the right and continued to advance. Jonathan saw movement in the smoke, but before he could react, Boxers’ rifle barked twice and the silhouette dropped. Big Guy had switched to his cannon—the 7.62 millimeter HK417. Whatever his bullets touched instantly joined a parallel universe. Even with a suppressor attached, the gunshot rocked the building. With stealth no longer relevant, Jonathan holstered his MP7 and lifted his M27 from its sling. Similar in construction and weight to the venerable M4—but vastly superior in its performance, particularly in adverse circumstances—it wasn’t the perfect weapon for close-quarters battle, but it felt like an old friend. Because it was chambered in 5.56 millimeter, the people Jonathan killed wouldn’t be quite as dead as the people Boxers killed, but it would be close.

  With their presence known, they stepped up the pace. The noise and the darkness had no doubt rattled their enemy, but the effects could only last so long. Close-in rifle fire had the tendency to focus the attention of the shot-at, and in a few seconds, if these guys had any clue what they were doing, they were going to mount some kind of defense.

  “Threat left!” Boxers said.

  Jonathan pivoted in time to see one of three approaching men drop when Boxers shot him. Jonathan took out a second, but the third disappeared behind the wall of an inner room that Jonathan recognized from the drawings as the meat freezer.

  “Shit,” Jonathan spat. He was about to pursue the attacker when another scream echoed through the factory. “That’s coming from inside the freezer,” he said.

  “The door’s on the other side,” Boxers said.

  Another scream.

  “Leave him alone!” a female voice yelled. In English.

  “We’ll use the back door,” Jonathan said.

  Graham thought he’d been knocked unconscious. The darkness came so suddenly and was so absolute, he couldn’t imagine another scenario.

  But the pain kept coming, lightning bolts of agony that seemed to have no focus. Everything hurt, and he couldn’t breathe.

  Another explosion.

  Gunshot? It sounded for all the world like the rifles that had become so much a part of his life these past days.

  The assholes all started shouting in Chechen. He couldn’t understand the words, but they were the sounds of panic, and they were accompanied by quick, heavy movement that likewise seemed to have no focus. Someone either kicked him or fell on him, and that really lit up his injuries.

  His scream hurt his throat.

  Two more sharp explosions—maybe three.

  Definitely guns.

  More shouting, and someone grabbed him by his shoulder and lifted.

  Jesus God.

  “Leave him alone!” Jolaine yelled.

  In darkness he couldn’t be sure, but from the heavy thud, and the grunt that followed, he was pretty sure they’d hit her.

  Amid a lot of discussion he couldn’t understand, Graham was passed among several people.

  In the movies, people in excruciating pain passed out and got relief.

  He was ready to live in a movie.

  The freezer was a room within a cavern, roughly twelve feet square, and it had both a front door and a back door, presumably to allow the free flow of cow carcasses in and out without creating a traffic jam. Jonathan remembered the detail from the plans Venice had sent them. He sent up a prayer that the drawing be correct.

  Through the NVGs, Jonathan saw the hinges before he saw the latch. And then he saw the massive padlock that had been placed over the latch assembly. “Shit,” he said.

  “Outta my way, Boss,” Boxers said. He had a GPC in his fist, with a detonator already dangling from the det cord fuse. “Five-second delay,” he said, “so we’ll be inside in ten.”

  Jonathan pivoted to make room for Big Guy, and he scanned the inside of the factory for more targets. He saw movement in the shadows to his right and he fired a long burst, got a yelp of pain in return.

  “Fire in the hole,” Boxers said.

  Jonathan turned away from the door and stooped to become a human soccer ball. The blast made the building bounce, and turned the heavy freezer door into a rectangular hole.

  “All right, let’s—”

  Automatic weapons opened up from behind them—from the direction of the loading dock through which they’d entered.

  Boxers coughed and fell. “Ah, shit. Goddammit.”

  Jonathan felt a stab of panic. “Are you hit?”

  “Damn straight I’m hit. God damn it!” Boxers opened up with his 417, raking the area where the shots had come from. “Go!” he said. “Get the freaking PCs. I’ll kill these assholes myself. God DAMN it!”

  Jonathan’s mind raced to push the panic away. Mission first, he told himself. He had to tend to the PCs. “I’ll be back for you, Big Guy,” he said, and then he slipped in through their newly opened door.

  The opening was blocked with rolling racks and assorted shit, and floor was coated with ice. Through his green artificial light, Jonathan saw a scrum of activity ahead as beefy men tried to find their way to meaningful activity in the dark. Everyone he saw carried a long gun of some sort, and at least one had a sidearm. Through the tangle of dangling meat hooks, he had difficulty separating the PCs from the bad guys, until he heard yet another howl of pain, and he focused in on the kid who was being manhandled by one of the thugs.

  “PC One is in the grasp,” he said over the air. Protocol mattered, even when your best friend had been shot. He let the M27 fall back against its sling and drew his MP7 again. “Switching to hollow point on the MP7.”

  He released the nearly full mag of ball ammo and switched it out with a thirty-round mag of hollow points that he pulled from its pouch on his vest. The advantage of hollow-point ammo lay in the fact that the mushrooming effect of the hollow point expended much of the round’s energy on impact, thus making it less likely to overpenetrate and hit a good guy who might be standing behind the bad guy target.

  He could tell that they were getting organized up there, and they had come to grips with the fact that their space had been breached. Two of the men had opened fire in Jonathan’s general direction, but in their darkness, they didn’t have the visual frame of reference to even come close.

  He needed to disorient them even more.

  Jonathan opened a Velcro fastener on his ballistic vest and removed a cylindrical stun grenade. Filled with magnesium and ammonium perchlorate stuffed into a cardboard tube, the grenade was designed to temporarily blind and deafen anyone within a few-yard radius, buying a few precious seconds for rescuers to work their magic.

  Squeezing the safety spoon, Jonathan pulled the pin, then lobbed the grenade in the general vicinity of the bad guys.

  “Flash-bang away,” he said. He turned away, closed his eyes, and pressed his hands against his ears. Two seconds later, the building shook again. Even with his eyes closed and his head turned, Jonathan could see the blood vessels in his eyelids from the flash. One second after the blast, while the disorientation was still pure, Jonathan moved on the bad guys.

  Behind him, fully automatic fire continued to rip the silence from outside the freezer. “Engaging multiple targets,” Boxers said before an extended burst of gunfire.

  Hearing Big Guy’s voice calmed Jonathan, reminded him that he had a half dozen targets of his own to engage.

  “Hostages get down! Hostages get down!” Jonathan yelled. “Get the hell down!”

  Predictably, two of the thugs swung their weapons at the sound of Jonathan’s voice and opened fire. Jonathan dropped to a knee and smoked the one on the left with three rounds to his chest. The one on the right dove for cover and saved his own life.

  Goddammit.

  Jonathan scooted to the left because some brainiac had done a study a while ago that demonstrated that absent evidence to the contrary, people assumed movement to their own left—Jonathan’s right—and he wanted to be unpredictable.

  Outs
ide, Boxers’ gun battle raged on.

  As he moved, Jonathan’s laser beam stabbed a shooter in the ear. Jonathan judged the distance at fifteen feet, ten feet short of the distance the sight was zeroed to, so he lowered the beam to the top of the guy’s shoulder and pressed the trigger.

  The head exploded.

  Two down.

  Boxers’ gunfight raged beyond the freezer door. From the sound of it, he’d employed his 417, and he was not being shy in his application of firepower.

  “I will shoot the boy!” a man yelled from nearby. “Put down your gun or I will shoot the boy!”

  Had the bad guy not shouted out like that, Jonathan would likely not have seen him. As it was, the target was maybe ten feet away, and facing in the wrong direction, presenting his back as he looked toward a direction where Jonathan had never been. The target held PC One in front of him as cover, his elbow cinched under the PC’s chin. The boy’s arm flopped oddly—clearly broken.

  Seconds ticked.

  At this range, hollow point notwithstanding, a head shot or a center-of-mass shot would probably overpenetrate and wound the PC. That was not acceptable.

  Moving quickly yet silently, Jonathan slipped the MP7 into its holster and drew his KA-BAR knife from its scabbard on his left shoulder. Uncle Sam had tried a lot of different fighting blades since the KA-BAR was first introduced in 1941, but as far as Jonathan was concerned, none had even approached the elegance and raw lethality of the wooden-handled Marine Corps favorite.

  Jonathan held the knife as an extension of his fist, blade facing forward, hilt against his thumb, and he closed the distance in just a few strides. The fact that the bad guy had a full head of hair made it so much easier. Jonathan grabbed a fistful of hair at the crown and pulled back just as he thrust the razor-sharp steel blade in to the base of his skull at a thirty-degree angle, effectively separating the man’s brain from the rest of his body. If he didn’t die instantly, he’d be dead soon. Either way, score another for the good guys.

  As the man collapsed, Jonathan caught Graham at his middle and lowered him to the floor.

  Graham felt unhinged, completely disoriented. So much sound and light. So much pain. Violence swirled from everywhere and without meaning.

  “I will kill the boy,” Teddy yelled in his ear. And then a few seconds later, Teddy made a horrible sound and collapsed, bringing Graham with him.

  And then Graham felt someone lower him gently to the floor.

  “I’m here to take you home,” the stranger said. “Lie on the floor and try to be invisible.”

  Graham was not prepared for the kind tone, and he certainly was not prepared for the kind words. While the manhandling was gentler, it was no less painful. Ten thousand questions formed in his head. Before he could form one well enough to ask, he’d been placed on the floor, and the stranger let go of him.

  Lying on his stomach, he imagined himself dissolving into the concrete floor, becoming so small as to be an oil slick—not a target at all.

  Then a bullet whipped past his ear and slammed into the floor behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Big Guy, I need a status report,” Jonathan said. As he spoke, he toured the bodies on the floor. All six were dead, or close enough to not to be a threat.

  “I’m engaged with three OpFor,” Boxers’ voice said in his ear. Two gunshots fired in quick succession out beyond the freezer. “Make it two. The remainders are better at hiding than shooting.”

  “Graham and Jolaine, stay down!” Jonathan commanded. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t verify that they were even alive still, but with their threats neutralized, they could fend for themselves for a few minutes. Jonathan headed back for the door they’d created, back to join in Boxers’ war.

  He’d nearly made it to the opening when it filled with Big Guy’s massive silhouette. “Four more baddies are sound asleep,” Big Guy said. He listed to the side, but Jonathan couldn’t see any blood.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not okay,” Boxers said. “Bastards freaking shot me.”

  “Where? Where are you hit.”

  Boxers pointed to a spot in the center of his chest. “Right here,” he said. “Where I’m supposed to have a heart.” He grinned. “My vest stopped it.”

  Jonathan’s shoulders sagged as the tension drained.

  “They had MP5s,” Big Guy said. “Thank God for little nine mike-mikes.” He looked past Jonathan to survey the carnage inside the freezer. “Whoa, you’ve been busy, too.”

  Jonathan’s head filled with a thousand things he wanted to say, a hundred prayers he wanted to offer up to thank God for Boxers’ survival. After dropping only a beat, he said, “Those vests aren’t cheap, you know. And now I have to replace that one.”

  “Cry me a river, Billionaire Boy. Where do we stand?”

  Jonathan switched out his partially empty mag for a full one and re-holstered the MP7. “You take PC One,” Jonathan said. “Be careful. I think that arm’s pretty badly broken.” Everyone who served in the Unit had decent combat medic skills—Jonathan was no exception—but Boxers was particularly gifted. Where injuries were obvious, Big Guy was always the best choice.

  Jonathan turned back toward the room. “Graham?” he called. “Speak up.”

  For five or six seconds, he heard only silence, and his heart sank.

  “Here,” the kid said.

  “Jolaine Cage?”

  “Right here,” she said. She lay on the floor on her side, her hands tied in front of her. Her voice sounded weak. Jonathan walked over to her. He had to pull a corpse out of the way by its shirt collar to stoop far enough to speak softly. “Hi, Jolaine. We’re here to take you home.”

  The H-word, home, was one of the most powerful words in the universe. He never tired of watching the realization dawn on the victims he rescued. That was the money shot—the few seconds that made all the rest of it worthwhile.

  “Popping chem lights,” Boxers said as he cracked a luminescent stick and shook it. When the stick shone green, he rolled it across the floor to Jonathan.

  Now, the hostages were no longer blind, but seeing didn’t necessarily put their minds at ease. Jonathan and Boxers both wore black hoods that revealed only their eyes, and with the NVGs in place, even those did not show.

  “My name is Scorpion,” Jonathan said. “My friend is named Big Guy.”

  “W-who are you?” Jolaine stammered. He caught the slurred speech.

  “Just friends,” Jonathan said. He examined her arms and the ropes that bound them. The loops were sadistically tight. “You’re going to see a big sharp knife,” he said. “I’m going to cut you loose, so don’t panic or start jerking around. I literally could shave with the edge of this thing, and I don’t need either one of us getting cut.” As he put the KA-BAR into use, he hoped that she couldn’t see the blood that remained on the blade.

  Whoever tied her up was an expert. Rather than wrapping her limbs in one continuous loop as amateurs typically did, her torturer used six knots, which ensured that they wouldn’t loosen until they were supposed to.

  “How did you know?” Jolaine asked.

  From behind, he heard Graham’s yelps of pain, along with Boxers’ soothing tone.

  “I work in a weird business,” Jonathan said.

  “So Scorpion is a code name.”

  “Or my parents were really twisted. I won’t tell you which.”

  With her hands free, Jolaine tried to sit up, but Jonathan put a hand on her shoulder to keep her down. “How hurt are you?”

  “I think they broke my jaw,” she said. “And I know they broke a tooth. I don’t think I’m bleeding out anywhere.”

  The cogence of her response led Jonathan to believe her. “Can you feel your hands?” They’d been tied so tightly that there might have been nerve damage.

  Jolaine wiggled her fingers. “They’re tingly, but they work.”

  Jonathan cupped his hand under her biceps and lif
ted. “Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.”

  “How’s Graham?”

  “Big Guy, how’s PC One?”

  “I’m splinting him up. He’ll live, but this arm needs surgery.”

  Jolaine moved carefully as she rose to her feet. She wobbled a little, reminding Jonathan of a newborn colt, but then she seemed to find her balance.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “You called him PC One. Are you SOCOM?”

  Jonathan recognized the acronym for Special Operations Command, but he opted to ignore the question. “Test out those legs,” he said. “They’re about to get some serious use.” He turned his attention to Boxers and Graham. “Is he about packaged?”

  PC One’s arm had been stabilized with a ladder splint—a length of bendable wire that consisted of two long edges connected by cross pieces that together resembled a long ladder—and about a half mile of Kling wrap. Boxers was in the process of putting on the finishing touches to the immobilization by binding the splinted arm to the boy’s chest with another long length of Kling.

  “One more minute.”

  From behind, Jonathan heard the clattering sound of a gun’s bolt being charged. He snatched his M27 to his shoulder and spun 180 degrees as he dropped to a knee.

  “No!” Jolaine said. “Don’t! It’s me.” She held out an MP5 as if it were a peace offering.

  “Goddammit,” Jonathan snapped. “What the hell?”

  “I want a weapon,” Jolaine said. “You might be John Wayne and the cavalry, but I still want a means to protect myself.”

  “She’s really good with it,” Graham said. It was the first time Jonathan had heard him speak.

  Generally, it was a mistake to let PCs arm themselves, but Jonathan weighed this time as an exception. Given her past experience, an extra trigger might not be a bad idea. “Just don’t confuse the good guys and the bad guys,” he said.

  “I’m set,” Boxers announced. “Can you walk, kid, or do I need to carry you?”

  “I’m okay,” Graham said. His right arm cradled his shattered left as if it were a baby. “We just need to go slow.”