by Jake Striker
The SUV rolled closer. Its driver was probing.
He missed me and sped past my position. He braked and steered toward the crashed Escalade.
I saw my chance. I lowered the Uzi and pulled my captured M-500.
I took aim at the SUV's rump end. Then I made a silent countdown.
Three.
Two.
One.
Now!
I drew the wheelgun's trigger twice in rapid-fire.
Massive slugs hammered the vehicle's rear bumper.
I was probing for the fuel line. And connecting.
My second bullet sparked gasoline in a piercing flash. Red-orange fire churned along the SUV's length.
Rippling heatwaves cut through the night and baked my face. Acrid fumes flared my nostrils and I grimaced.
The crew tank bucked and swerved to a halt. Its driver flung his door and staggered from the wreck.
He was wrapped in flame and trailing gray smoke. He dropped to his knees and toppled.
Another hellish blast rocked the SUV. Streamers of blazing gasoline cast amber light.
Another burning figure tumbled from the Escalade.
He rolled and mouthed horrific high-pitched screams.
He was a human torch and he spewed flying embers. His tumble abruptly ended and he went silent.
I reloaded the M-500. I probed for new targets and found none.
Time to go. I stowed the revolver and kicked off running.
The estate's wall loomed ahead. I reached it and scaled it in seconds flat.
I landed on the opposite side and shoved off. No one tried to stop me and no snipers shot in my direction.
I sprinted on. I gained my Jeep and thrust inside.
I drove downslope along Presidio Street.
Next I angled onto Barracuda Road. I was heading toward the mission safehouse.
I checked for tails. There were none.
No SFPD squad cars prowled me and no enemy SUVs strafed me.
I powered along Barracuda. I had a brand-new plan.
First I had to make urgent calls. I needed to gather crucial intel before I made my next move.
I had to keep fighting. Colonel Toom was a clear and present danger to the USA.
I had to shut him down. Damn right.
Or die trying.
6
South-west San Francisco
Twenty-four hours later
I veered off the Jackson Expressway at Exit 13. I was surging in the Jeep toward my next objective.
I needed answers and I needed truth. With luck and skill I might succeed.
I nosed along Powhattan Road and reached San Francisco's Pacific Bay waterfront.
Freighters and cargo skiffs were moored along the docks.
The water beyond glittered darkly under moonlight.
My nostrils flared at a stink of seawater and diesel oil.
I focused on a row of maritime warehouses. I was searching for Buccaneer Exports.
My intel confirmed it was owned by Mick "The Trick" Noonan. He was a gunrunner who did heavy business with Colonel Toom.
His father had been a freelance bomb maker for the IRA. His nail bombs had killed and maimed British troops in Belfast.
The younger Noonan had learned that slaughter paid well. Damn well.
My goal was to snag Noonan and squeeze him for Toom's location. Assuming he had the details.
I hoped so. I was betting on it.
I veered down Zenith Road toward the water's edge. My GPS squawked again and told me I had reached my destination.
I studied a specific warehouse.
The building's front wall sported a colorful logo. It was a grinning pirate with a dagger between his teeth.
That signaled Buccaneer Exports.
I pulled into a pitch-black alley. I braked and parked.
All right. Time to go EVA.
I quit the Jeep and prepped my gear. I drew a deep breath and kicked off running.
I covered fifty yards and reached Buccaneer Exports.
The building loomed above me and hid my profile. But I was far from safe.
I scanned my flanks and backtrack. I was searching for night watchmen.
I gave three low whistles and waited for any response.
There was no hostile motion. No patrolmen appeared and no guard dogs barked or charged.
I spent another moment double-checking my hardware. I tightened my backpack straps to make them secure.
Time to move. Again.
I had a plan in mind based on intel. I bolted toward a nearby loading crane and leaped onto its vertical mast.
Next I grabbed the mast's metal access ladder and climbed swiftly. I gained the top of the mast and caught my breath.
I shifted onto the crane's horizontal boom. I scrambled along the boom on all fours.
A salty gust hit my face and stung my eyes. Another gust wobbled me and almost knocked me off balance.
I was two hundred feet off the ground. If I slipped and fell I was dead.
I gritted my teeth and kept moving. I reached the end of the boom.
That put me directly above Buccaneer's roof. It was oblong in shape and coated in black-tar paint.
I opened my backpack and pulled a rappelling line. I cinched the line to the boom and made it secure.
I dropped the line's weighted end. It fell rapidly and settled onto the warehouse roof.
I scanned the ground below. There was no sign of trouble.
I was ready to proceed.
There would be no turning back. No simple escape if it went to hell.
I breathed deep and grasped the line with gloved hands. Then I used a fireman's grip to descend onto the roof.
I landed with a dull thud.
I cursed the noise. But it was impossible to avoid.
All right.
I had to get inside the building. A quick entry.
I scrambled toward a rooftop door. I planned to break its lock with my Tanto knife.
I reached the door. It was secured with steel burglar bars.
I scowled. I did not have cutting gear.
So much for a quick entry.
I had a backup plan in mind. It was based on my knowledge of the building's layout.
I surged toward a nearby AC block.
I pulled my tool kit and removed the AC's top cover. I set the cover aside and stowed my tools.
Next I palmed my Nightfinder LED flashlight. I lit the vent cowling to see the way ahead.
The Nightfinder's crimson beam illuminated a vertical shaft.
I pocketed the Nightfinder and lowered myself into the shaft. I grasped service handholds and descended quickly.
Again I cursed at the noise I made.
I reached the main airshaft. I dropped and went prone.
I narrowed my panther eyes and probed the gloom of the shaft. The only way was straight ahead.
I crawled on my stomach for a distance of thirty feet. I found the end of the shaft where it ended in an air vent.
I stared through the vent slits into an oblong room. It was filled with janitorial gear and washroom supplies.
Time to advance.
I struck the vent with my gloved fist and it popped open.
That made some noise. But nothing undue.
I eased down into the room. Next I pulled my Uzi and thumbed off its safety.
I gained the room's only door and cracked it open.
I peered into a corridor. The way ahead looked clear.
I had to prep my Uzi before I moved on.
I lifted the subgun and attached its suppressor. I fitted a Surefire targeting laser to its accessory rail.
Of course firepower alone would not assure success. I would need split-second timing and the element of surprise.
That and luck. Always luck.
I drew another deep breath.
I double-checked the Uzi. All systems go.
I slipped out of the room.
A muffled sound hit my ears. It
was a sea horn blaring offshore.
I grasped the Uzi tight and stalked along the corridor. I covered thirty paces and found steep metal stairs.
I was about to descend when another sound hit my ears. It was the din of a flushing toilet and it was close behind.
I spun with the Uzi and peered down the corridor.
A door snapped open and a figure emerged from a washroom. He saw me and gasped in shock.
He reached for an autopistol slung on his hip. He never had time to draw.
I had my Surefire beam dead-centered on his chest. I hit the Uzi's trigger.
Scimitars drilled the man and he reeled through a gory dance. He toppled and crashed backward.
The Uzi's suppressor had muted its bark. As intended.
I backtracked and checked for more threats. There were none.
I dragged the dead man into the washroom. I bent to examine the corpse and discovered a security key.
I pocketed the key and shut the washroom door.
The dead man's absence would trip an alert. That was certain.
How long did I have?
I returned to the stairs and probed for enemy troops. None showed.
I replaced the Uzi's part-empty magazine with a full one.
It was time to advance. Again.
I drew another breath and descended the stairs. I gained ground level and stepped onto a concrete floor.
I was surrounded by shipping crates on vertical shelving. The crates had stencil markings in various languages.
It was legit merchandise. Sure.
But hidden somewhere was a stash of illegal submachine guns. All of them for sale to the highest bidder.
I shifted ahead and reached two forklift trucks. They were still and silent at this late hour.
I edged past the forklifts in search of Mick Noonan. Assuming he was present.
I hoped so. I was counting on it.
I moved on and found a glassed-in office. It was dark and empty.
I grasped the office door handle and found it locked. No big surprise.
I could still get inside. I pulled my captured security key and slid it into the lock.
The key refused to turn.
I tried again. No go.
It figured. Wrong key.
I mouthed a silent curse. Where was Noonan?
As if on cue footsteps echoed and drew closer.
I stowed the Uzi and climbed atop a stack of crates. I crouched and peered down onto the warehouse floor.
A figure emerged. It was Mick Noonan.
Mick the Trick. Yeah.
I could not mistake that ginger buzzcut and ginger goatee. Nor that crooked nose and piercing green eyes.
Noonan paused beside a crate marked FARM TOOLS.
He cracked its lock and lifted the lid. He peeled foam padding and hauled out a boxy submachine gun.
It was an Ingram MAC-10. It was a crude design and cheaply made from stamped metal.
Still it was lethal with a devastating rate of fire.
Noonan fondled the MAC and licked his lips. He slid the weapon back in its box and shut the locking lid.
He stepped inside his office and sat at his desk. A Colt Python revolver lay within quick reach.
He opened his laptop and studied a spreadsheet.
I had to make a move. It was now or never.
I angled off the crate onto the warehouse floor. I grasped the Uzi and stalked toward Noonan's office.
He was focused on his spreadsheet and did not detect me.
I gained the office doorway. I halted and gave a low whistle.
Noonan spun in his swivel chair and gaped at me. His eyes flared in shock.
I leveled the Uzi at his face. "Mick."
He stared at the Uzi. He blinked and went silent.
I let the Uzi's laser settle on his chin.
The gunrunner twitched and swallowed hard. "Waddya want?"
"Information."
"Like ... what?"
"Colonel Toom. His location."
Noonan twitched again and said, "Toom ... yeah. He has a place."
"Keep talking."
"The Sierra Nevadas. Mount Diablo. That's all I know."
Noonan gulped air. "You wanna kill the bastard, it's okay with me."
He gave a wicked grin. Then he lurched for the Python revolver on his desk.
It was a slick move. But he never made it.
I drew the Uzi's trigger and loosed a Scimitar salvo. The glaring laser guided my aim.
Bullets drilled Noonan's face and forehead. The top of his skull dissolved in a crimson spray.
He snapped backward in his chair and went limp.
I grabbed the Python and stowed it. Now I had six shots of .357 Magnum for future use.
I sensed brand-new motion across my shoulder. I pivoted and glanced through the office window.
Two thugs were advancing and both carried shotguns.
The hardmen spotted me through the window. They registered their slain boss and gaped in shock.
They recovered swiftly. They split apart and dove for cover behind nearby crates.
I bailed out of the office and leaped behind a hulking forklift.
There was sudden new motion.
One thug leaned around his cover and aimed his shotgun. Too late.
I had the Uzi against my shoulder and its laser was on target. The crimson beam was centered on the man's sternum.
I hit the Uzi's trigger to unleash a Scimitar barrage.
Bullets gouged the man and he screamed and crashed backward. The shotgun exploded in his twitching hands.
Heavy pellets riddled a nearby crate.
The dead thug's comrade snarled and sidestepped. He blasted two hasty shots in my direction.
Buckshot hammered the forklift and struck sparks. One pellet drilled my collar and another grazed my left bicep.
I grimaced and triggered another Uzi shelling.
Scimitars cored the man's chest in a vertical line. He reeled and crashed onto the concrete floor.
Above me a door slammed open. An armed figure burst out onto an overhead catwalk.
He angled his weapon down toward me and loosed a hasty blast.
Bullets walloped the concrete around me. Sharp chips sprayed and stung my face.
I cursed and backpedaled deeper behind the forklift.
The overhead gunner bolted along the catwalk. His boots thudded on metal and echoed through the warehouse.
I kept moving and circled the forklift. I swept the Uzi toward the running man.
He spotted me and swung his own weapon around. But he was too slow.
I had my red laser death-beam leveled on his throat. I triggered a short Uzi burst.
Scimitars stitched the thug and spun him on the catwalk. He staggered and dropped his rifle.
He tipped across the safety rail and tumbled into freefall. He landed headfirst and crumpled into a flaccid heap.
I drew a sharp breath and wiped blood from my face. I ditched the Uzi's empty mag and snapped in a brand-new one.
An icy tremor told me my danger was far from over.
Another sound hit my ears. It was the roar of an engine.
I swiveled toward the sound and spotted a vehicle.
It was a pallet hauler marked VOLVO. The driver's ugly mug was visible through the windshield.
He was snarling with hate and rage. He was veering straight toward me.
I pinned the Volvo with my laser. I triggered an Uzi blast.
Scimitars drilled the Volvo's grille and blew both headlights.
I triggered another burst that emptied the Uzi's magazine.
The Volvo's windshield fractured as bullets punched through. The driver snapped back in his seat and tipped sideways.
The unguided hauler swerved and rammed a steel pillar. It flipped over inverted.
Its engine spluttered and died.
The wounded driver crawled from its wreckage. Blood pumped from ragged blowholes in his chest.
He pulled a sidearm. But he never got the chance to use it.
His fingers went slack and the pistol slipped away. He toppled and went stiff.
I dumped the Uzi's spent magazine. Before I could reload there was motion on my left.
I pulled my captured Python and swung it toward my danger.
Another thug was charging with a scattergun braced at the hip.
It was a brash attempt to rush me and nail me at close range. But it would not work.
I quick-aimed the Python and loosed a single shot.
The Magnum bucked and roared. It spat an orange fireball.
The heavy slug struck the man and he dropped his weapon. He crashed headlong onto the concrete and left a scarlet smear.
He shivered once and went still.
I stowed the Python and reloaded the Uzi.
There was brand-new motion. It was dead-ahead.
An enemy gunner leveled a subgun and fired a wild burst.
Bullets zoomed over my shoulder and I hit a diving roll.
I sprang out of the roll into a combat crouch. I was behind a plywood crate.
Subgun bullets drilled the crate and splinters pelted my face. I cursed and ducked low.
There was a scuffle of boots.
The opposing trooper was on the move. But I could not see him.
Where was the bastard? I refused to spend my ammo on a game of seek-and-shoot.
I needed a hellfire blow. Like always.
I sprang an M-67.
I jerked its pin and kept the arming spoon locked down. That prevented premature ignition.
There was another scuffle of boots. And another.
I zeroed on the man's position.
Now!
I used a sidearm toss to unleash the deadly egg.
It arced high. It fell and hit the floor.
The enemy gunman screamed and lurched backward.
He was trying to evade. But it was too late.
The fragger blew in a flash and spraying shrapnel.
I swung around my cover and glimpsed the man's broken form.
He spat blood and clawed for a pistol. He never reached it.
I loosed an Uzi salvo.
The ravaged man twitched and went still.
I braced for more opposition and found none. My enemies were all dead.
I bolted toward the crate that held the MAC-10s. I pulled the Python and triggered two Magnum shots.
The crate's lock flew apart and the lid flipped open. I peered inside and discovered twenty-five MACs.
I palmed my Android phone and snapped photos of the boxy stutterguns. I snapped photos of the dead thugs and Noonan's corpse.