by Sean Parnell
When their backs were turned, West jogged back up the stairs and grabbed the pilot’s flight case. It was just big enough to hold the device.
“We are about to go,” a voice yelled from the tarmac.
“Thank you,” West replied.
He grabbed the bag and moved to the door, stuffing the detonator he’d attached in flight into the inner pocket of the pilot’s jacket. He hustled back down the stairs. The contractors had collapsed the perimeter and were heading back to the barn. West tugged the pilot hat down over his head and was going to follow when a distant sound stopped him dead in his tracks.
“What is it?” Liam the medic asked.
West held up his hand for quiet, ears straining in the dark.
Then he heard it again, clearer this time. Helos, and they were close.
Steele sucked up against the building, his heart pounding in his ears. He could hear the men above him walking around and prayed they didn’t look over the side. He glanced at his watch—the numbers were all zeros.
“Hey, pay attention,” a voice snapped.
“I thought I saw—”
“Who cares what you saw, watch your sector.”
Steele let out a sigh of relief and watched. The perimeter had collapsed around West and was moving toward the barn when the tactical radio came alive.
“Atlas 1–2 inbound from the south.”
“Roger that, Atlas. The target is marked by infrared beacon,” the sniper said.
He couldn’t hear the DAP but knew it had to be close, the gunship pilot keeping the helo close to the ground to mask the sound of the rotors. Steele activated the beacon and dropped it at the base of the building, scurrying back into the shadows to get away from the explosions that he knew were coming. When he was safely behind the pump house he took a length of electrical tape he kept attached to his gear and wrapped it around the transmit button of the stolen radio.
The red transmit light was the only thing that told Steele it was working; other than that the radio was silent. But he knew that the rest of the radios were hissing from the static of the open channel.
“Atlas 1–2, I have the target.”
Steele could hear the helo now. The blades made a distant buzzing, which he knew to be deceitful since the DAP was actually moving faster than the sound. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the Hellfire light off from the pylon, followed by a second missile.
Someone shouted atop the target building, but it was too late. Steele ducked behind the pump house, opening his mouth against the detonation he knew was on its way.
Boooom.
The Hellfire pulverized the building, the explosion flaring out Steele’s night vision. The pump house shook under the shock wave and he kept his head down, wincing at the shrapnel banging against the sides of his makeshift shelter.
He flipped his night vision up and cast a tentative look around the pump house. All that was left of the building was on fire, twisted beams and a gaping hole in the ground. Automatic rifle fire erupted near the barn, the contractors caught out in the open with their package. Some of them stood to fight; the smart ones ran for cover. Steele jumped into action, his only thought finding West.
He ran toward the orange tracers pouring down from the DAP, a finger of death cutting through flesh and bone like a knife through butter.
The heavy machine gun Steele hadn’t noticed earlier waited until the Little Birds appeared from the north before opening up on the DAP. Steele heard the gun chugging away and saw something spark off the DAP.
“Got a heavy in the tree line, boys,” the pilot advised calmly.
A trail of smoke appeared behind the gunship just as the first Little Bird touched down short of the barn, and then a second gun opened up in a small shed twenty yards from Steele.
He knew that any moment the two guns would interlock their fields of fire. He had to do something or there was no doubt in his mind that they would shoot down one of the birds.
He took a grenade from his kit and stepped into the open, fully aware that the fire from the burning building gave him away.
You can make it, he told himself, opening his legs into a run.
He hadn’t gone ten yards when a line of tracers zipped over his head. Caught in the open, he threw himself to the ground. He rolled left, barely avoiding the line of bullets that slapped the grass in front of him. Blinking the dirt out of his eyes, he frantically searched for cover and prayed for a miracle.
Chapter 77
Nathaniel West ducked beneath the Gulfstream, using the jet to shield him from the fireball growing from the destroyed building. The flame backlit the gunship that came racing over the landing strip, its dual .50 caliber machine guns chattering beneath the wing mounts.
“Son of a bitch.” He’d known it was Steele the moment he heard the blades. That asshole has more lives than a fucking cat. The contractors grabbed the pilot, who was dressed in his clothes, so they naturally assumed he was their “principal,” and formed a scrum around him. They herded him toward the barn, leaving West and a handful of extra contractors to fend for themselves.
“We have to go!” Liam the medic yelled.
“I need to get to the barn, you moron!” West yelled.
“Let’s fucking do it, then,” Liam shouted back, stepping out into the open.
West was about to follow when he heard the round snap past his head. The shot was followed by a meaty slap that sent Liam tumbling to the ground. A jet of blood and gore spurted from the exit wound and splattered over the nose of the jet.
Sniper.
West ran for the barn, zigzagging back and forth, away from the minigun buzzsawing above him. He fully expected each step to be his last. There was no way to outrun a helo, but when the big gun the contractors had hidden in the woods chattered to life, it forced the DAP to peel off.
A string of tracer fire flashed from a gun pit and West saw that the gunner was firing at a lone figure caught dangerously in the open. Is that Steele?
Even in the dark West knew it was Eric. No place for you to hide this time, he realized as the tracers whipped past Steele’s head, forcing him to throw himself to the ground.
He’s done.
With Steele caught in the open, West stopped and waited for the inevitable. He was sure the next blast would cut into Steele’s back, but then a lone Little Bird dropped out of the darkness. The pilot dipped the nose and fired a burst from the .50 caliber machine gun. The bullets slammed into the gun position, saving Steele’s life.
“Are you fucking serious?” West screamed as the Little Bird leveled off at the last minute, cut hard right, and came to a hover next to the barn. The men on the benches jumped off and started engaging the contractors.
West snatched a submachine gun from one of the dead contractors and checked the chamber. Jonas was yelling at him to “follow me.” If West hadn’t needed the man he would have cut Jonas down for lying to him. Instead he pointed the submachine gun at his chest and yelled, “Take this!” He tossed the pilot’s case to him and pointed at the barn. “Go get the ride.”
West watched Steele fling something toward the gun emplacement, and then throw himself to the deck.
He doesn’t see me. West realized he had the drop on Eric and held his fire. There would be no mistakes this time. He slung the submachine gun behind his back and started toward Steele.
“It’s just you and me now, boy.”
Chapter 78
I owe that pilot a case of beer for saving my life, Steele thought as the grenade went off, silencing the gun. He got to his feet, his body bruised from diving into the ground.
I might be getting too old for this shit.
A flare hissed skyward and when it burst Steele saw the operators leaping into action. They worked in tandem, firing and maneuvering closer to the contractors, who were forced to break contact or be cut down.
Steele sensed movement to his right. Is that the pilot? What the hell is he doing? “Hey, you need to get down!” he yel
led at the man. The pilot kept walking and Steele was about to run over and force him to the ground when he noticed the strap running across the front of his shirt.
A sling?
He turned his body like someone behind him had tugged on his shirt. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he threw himself toward the damaged gun emplacement as an MP5 appeared in the pilot’s hand.
A tongue of flame leapt from the barrel and Steele hit the ground. Bullets snapped over his head, followed by West’s voice.
“No use hiding, Eric.”
“I didn’t recognize you in your little costume, Nate,” Steele yelled back.
The first wave of contractors made it back to the barn. They threw grenades and switched out magazines, but the explosions did little to stop Delta’s assault. One of the men took a round and dropped to his knees. Steele saw all of this while working his way to the edge of the barrier. He fired a shot at West, who dropped to a knee. Steele was leaning out to line up a shot when the side of the barn ruptured outward. “Holy shit . . .”
Jagged splinters and severed planks scattered in all directions, followed by an MRAP clawing free of the barn. The mine-resistant vehicle reminded him of a prehistoric beast, yellow headlights for eyes and chest-high knobby tires for claws. It gained momentum with a belch of diesel smoke and sent the kneeling contractor flying through the air.
A head appeared in the turret, followed by the chatter of a machine gun. The armored vehicle made a beeline for West, blocking him from the operators’ fire when it came to a halt. The ramp was down and three contractors jumped out, laying down covering fire for West, who jumped to his feet, angling for the ramp. Steele rushed after him, but had to sweep wide when one of the gunmen saw him coming and opened up.
He knew that since West didn’t have the device on him, it had to be inside the MRAP. One of the contractors shielded West with his body so he could climb up the steps cut into the ramp. Overhead the gunner worked short, accurate bursts into the operators, and from the radio traffic Steele knew they were taking casualties.
Do something, God damn it.
Steele was sucked up against the MRAP, too close to get a shot off but close enough that he could hear the crew yelling out targets for the gunner. He wanted to lob a frag through the turret, but couldn’t risk detonating the bomb. His only option was a flash-bang, and luckily he had just the ticket.
Calling the ALS Magnum a flash-bang was like calling Babe Ruth a baseball player. The Magnum was twice the size of a standard munition, and while it wouldn’t kill the gunner, Steele had seen grown men shit themselves after being hit with one. He quickly prepped the flash-bang, and just as he was about to lob it into the turret, the contractor peeked his rifle around the corner and capped off five rounds.
Steele took one in the plate, and the force shoved him face-first into the armor. He cursed because the bullet had found the same exact spot he’d been hit in the Gatehouse. Sucking air and cursing through gritted teeth, he managed to toss the Magnum in the turret.
I was just starting to breathe normally.
The driver gunned the engine impatiently, and a cloud of diesel belched from the tailpipe near the back wheel. The only thing that kept Steele from sucking the acrid smoke into his lungs was that he couldn’t take a full breath. He transitioned the rifle to his left shoulder, wishing he could make a wide sweep to the left. Pieing the angle would have given him a better shot on target, but the machine gunner made that impossible.
Counting down from five in his head, Steele advanced on the ramp, waiting for either the flash-bang to go off or the contractor to try and take another shot. The contractor got sloppy the second time. Steele saw his foot appear, followed by his shin. The rocking motion of foot and leg told him that the gunman was pumping himself up—trying to get the courage to step around for another shot.
I’ll take it.
Steele knew that West had to be at the top of the ramp by now, and he couldn’t waste any more time. He centered up on the man’s shin and fired a bullet through the bone. The contractor screamed, stumbling forward. Steele put his follow-up shot through the man’s forehead and grabbed hold of the armor.
“Grenade!” someone yelled.
Steele swung himself up on the ramp, grabbed a handhold, and was trying to climb aboard when the driver gunned it. The MRAP surged forward, dragging Steele behind it. His feet bounced off the ground, jarring his shoulder socket, and then his grip began to slip.
Chapter 79
The only reason West knew it wasn’t a grenade that exploded inside the MRAP was because he was still alive. His brain told him that it was a flash-bang, but he had never felt one that powerful.
The coffinlike interior magnified the concussion and it bounced off the wall, hitting West in the face like a haymaker from Mike Tyson. The concussion rattled his teeth and turned the breathable air into a scalding vapor. He stumbled backward, arms flung wide and all of his senses offline.
He knew he was falling and grabbed for anything that would keep him inside the MRAP. His fingers brushed skin, cloth, and metal, but he couldn’t get a grip on anything. The driver stomped the pedal to the floor and the armored vehicle bounced over an incline. West was weightless in the back and felt air beneath his feet.
At the last second his left hand found the fire extinguisher mounted next to the ramp hinge. He clamped down, holding on for dear life, willing his vision to come back. Slowly his eyes focused; everything appeared blurry and spotted around the edges, and the first thing he saw was the gunner hanging upside down in the hatch. A trickle of blood oozed from the bullet hole in the man’s forehead before dripping to the floor.
Everything else inside the MRAP was chaos, and when West’s hearing slowly returned he heard the men cursing and coughing.
Check the device.
It was the only thing that mattered.
He took a step forward, wavering like a reed in the wind. He could see the pilot case containing the device just out of arm’s reach. He finally had his legs beneath him and was reaching out for the case when a hand closed on the back of his shirt.
“No . . .”
West was jerked backward and knew without having to look that it had to be Steele. He fired an elbow behind him, his head snapping toward his shoulder to find his target. He knew it was a solid blow from the impact rolling up his shoulder and the warm blood he felt on his arm.
He turned and stood toe to toe with Steele, who looked battered, but definitely not out of the fight.
“You just won’t give up, will you?”
Steele answered by ripping his pistol from its holster and flicking off the safety. He brought the pistol up, his arm still numb from being dragged behind the MRAP. “This ends now,” he said.
Off balance and with blood dripping into his eyes, Steele fired. He knew immediately that he’d rushed the shot. The bullet sparked off one of the metal braces inside the armored vehicle, barely missing the man holding the case. He saw the driver lurch forward, the insides of his skull splattered across the windshield.
And then West was all over him.
“You think you can stop me?” West screamed.
Steele managed to block the first kick, but West ducked and smashed an elbow across his chin. Steele’s legs went soft, and he felt West grabbing his wrist.
“You never had what it took,” Nate taunted, slamming Steele’s gun hand against the wall.
Steele’s knuckles hit armored plate and he was losing the feeling in his hand. He managed to drive his knee into West’s gut and tried to bounce his head off the armor plate, but West managed to land a tight hook to his side.
Huuumph.
Steele doubled over, the air rushing from his lungs. The man holding the device had moved to the front and was trying to wrestle the dead driver, whose foot was pinning the accelerator to the floor, off of the wheel.
The MRAP’s turbodiesel screamed and the heavy APC began to swerve back and forth across the road. West was thrown off
balance, giving Steele a moment to yell:
“Nate, you don’t have to do this!”
But West wasn’t listening. He sneered at Steele, his face twisted, eyes filled with fire. “You think you can save me?” he screamed.
Steele knew at that moment that the West he had known was gone. The man in front of him was some twisted version of Nate, and he was absolutely right, Eric couldn’t save him.
The only way this was going to end was when one of them died.
Chapter 80
Steele managed to jam his thumb down on the radio while West prepared himself for another attack.
“Demo, the device is in the MRAP.”
“Nooo!” West screamed, throwing himself at Steele.
“Take it out,” Eric managed to say before West landed a shot to the nose.
Steele felt the cartilage give and tasted blood. His eyes watered, forcing him to yield ground.
“Are you clear?” Demo asked over the radio.
Steele slipped to the side and whipped a back fist across West’s face, pressing the transmit button for the final time.
“Yes, I’m clear,” he lied. “It’s over now!” he screamed at West, who lowered his shoulder and launched himself at Steele.
West slammed into him just as the MRAP bucked and went airborne. Steele felt himself falling and the only thing he could do was hold on to the back of West’s shirt. He looked through the windshield as the MRAP came crashing back to the ground and saw the glint of water yawning before them.
And then he was falling.
Chapter 81
As Eric fell from the MRAP, everything froze. There was no sound or pain, and in that moment he could see everything.
In front of him, the MRAP dashed forward, hit the lip of the embankment that separated the earth from the massive pit that housed the lake, and launched itself into the air, momentarily weightless. The knobby tires spun furiously in the air, and then the front end began to nose downward.