Barry quickly loaded up with his weapons of choice and then he moved back across the room to Jack. He was holding a compact machine gun. Typical, Jack thought; once a terrorist, always a terrorist—there was something very unsporting about a fully automatic weapon—it was a weapon that required no skill to use, no finesse; it was the kind of weapon that twelve year olds in countries all around South Africa were using to massacre village after village of their own people—it was a weapon that Jack would never willingly use.
Jack was relieved that Barry hadn’t opted for the shotgun. Inside a building, with lots of hard surfaces for the rapidly released bullets to bounce off, it was never a good idea to let loose with any kind of automatic weapon—yet another reason why Jack hated them. There simply wasn’t the delicate control over such a weapon that a domestic environment required. The shotgun was very different. One shot, with a diffuse impact pattern; and if the target was not hit then lead shot rebounding was much less likely to cause serious injury than a single, hardened bullet travelling at high speed.
Jack loaded the shotgun to capacity and then he filled all the free space in his pocket with spare shells. He did however leave space in the inside pocket of his jacket for a grenade and a surprise. As he slipped the surprise into his pocket he looked back at Barry. Barry was looking out of the room, down the hallway, like a good guard should. Jack closed the door to the locker and then he locked it. There was every chance that the house would look like a bomb had hit it by the time this was all over, and it would be an open invitation to every kid for miles around to stop by and do a bit of looting. There were enough deadly weapons in the hands of children in the city without Jack adding to that terrible toll. Jack liked to think of himself as a responsible, state paid, killer.
Jack moved across the room and he came to a stop behind Barry. Barry glanced round at Jack. He waited for Jack to suggest what their next move should be. It was a polite invitation rather than Barry handing control to Jack, but it was a clear sign that some trust was beginning to grow between them, even if it would take a while for that trust to develop and flower. With history as his only guide to the future of their current relationship, Jack felt sure that they were probably reaching the zenith of their mutual trust.
“They will be waiting for us at the back of the house, outside the kitchen door,” Jack said. “They will be expecting us to leave that way, as far from the implied breach as possible.”
“Aye, so what do you suggest?”
“The broken window was a test. They want us to think that’s where they will make a full breach of the house. That is where they will be weakest. The one thing that we can’t be certain of is where the police are. They will not interfere with Robert’s men; but does that mean that they will stay in the background, or will they leave the area altogether? If the police come down on the side of our friends outside, then we don’t stand a chance in hell.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Barry said, as he began to move towards the window. Jack quickly hooked Barry’s left arm and he spun him around.
“What the hell are you doing?” snapped Barry.
“As soon as you go to that window they will know that we are in this room. And that’s when the bullets start flying. We only get one chance to gather intelligence. You look out from one side of the window for a second or two, and then I will look out from the other side. We don’t look out a second time. Agreed?”
Barry nodded his head to indicate that he agreed with Jack’s plan. “As soon as we have had a quick look outside then we should get the hell out of this room and down the stairs. After they finish spraying this room with bullets they will enter the house,” Jack added. “I’ll
provide cover for you then Jack. You’ll forgive me if I don’t place my life in your hands again,” Barry added, caustically.
“For god’s sake man, give it a rest.”
A tense moment came and went—the level of trust was already starting to slip. Both men kept a low profile as they moved across the room to the window. The curtains were not drawn, which was odd, as Jack was almost certain that they had been left drawn—it had been a few days since he last checked on the weapons, but he was pretty sure about how he left the room—he made a point of taking a detailed mental picture of the room so that he would spot anything that had been moved while he was out at the office—a sure indication that the South African spooks were keeping a close eye on him, and not simply showing a passing interest in what he was doing in the country. The mystery of the curtains was suddenly resolved in a reassuring moment of clarity—of course, Barry had been in the house before Jack got home. He was just about to ask Barry had he opened the curtains when he thought better over was not what the inane.
Jack cautiously peered out of the window. He kept his head as low as he possibly could; his forehead was as flush with the edge of the curtains as he could manage. The street below was eerily empty. The police would not have interfered with Robert’s men as they went after Jack, but if Jack and Barry managed to overpower the henchmen, what would the cops do then? It was highly probable that one of them would take the opportunity to get into Robert’s good books by taking out Jack and Barry. Any one in Robert’s good books was in for a life of wealth and power. For the time being police interference was not an issue as there wasn’t a policeman in sight. Jack craned his neck as much as he dared in an effort to see as far into the distance as he possibly could. Barry was growing concerned by the amount of time that Jack was spending looking out of the window—that was not part of the plan—he was taking much longer than the agreed few seconds. He was even more concerned by the foolhardiness of Jack’s actions as he tried to get a better look outside. Concern turned to mild anger when Jack appeared to take complete leave of his senses as he stood up and looked out of the window without inhibition.
“What in the holy hell are you doing?” Barry croaked. “If you want to get yourself killed then be my guest, but at least give me a chance to get of here before you do it!”
of it—one more thing to pick an argument moment called for; especially something so
Jack ignored Barry’s question and concern as he continued to gather as much information as he possibly could before the actions of their attackers forced him to stop. In his mind Jack had already won the shoot out with the goons. What he had moved on to in his head was how to get past the police and safely away to freedom. That freedom was to be found on the city highway at the back of the complex, and it was only a ten minute walk from his house—with so much danger waiting for him outside, the highway might well have been an hour away for all the difference it made. Jack almost forgot himself as he continued to gaze out through the glass.
“Jack... Jack... Do you want to get your bloody head blown off? Personally I don’t give a shit if you live or die, but at least wait until we get through this.”
Barry hissed the variation of his previous rebuke just to be certain that Jack heard and understood him. Jack paused for one last look at the housing complex below. Even the nosey neighbours were nowhere to be seen.
“What are you looking at?” Barry asked. “And is it really so interesting that you would be prepared to die for it?”
“Nothing,” Jack said, simply. The calm in his voice somehow made Barry’s frenetic tone seem silly and misjudged—Jack may have been acting in an odd and reckless way, but it was Barry who sounded like a madman.
“Eh? What do you mean, nothing?”
“That’s just it Barry, my
as much as a dog out there
means?” Jack asked.
old mate. The place is empty. There isn’t on the street. And you know what that
Barry looked at him with confusion. “They
are already in the house, Barry.”
Jack quickly moved away from the window. He picked up the
shotgun from the floor next to the door where he had left it before he went to the window. Jack left the room with the gun raised. It took Barry a brief mo
ment to process all of the information, but once his mind had caught up, he was quick to follow Jack’s lead.
Jack stood on the landing with the shotgun raised, and the butt of the weapon firmly pressed against his right shoulder. He listened
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intently for sounds of movement coming from the ground floor of the building; there was nothing. His eyes dashed from shadow to shadow as he tried to pick up on any movement. There was nothing. For a few serious, deadly, intense moments, the whole house was gripped by a suffocating sense of foreboding. Jack knew that sooner or later one of them would lose their nerve and fire first. It would be a blind shot in the dark because if Jack could not see them, then they could not see him. And unless it was a very lucky shot, all it would serve to do would be to betray the position of the shooter to Jack and Barry, and as the unlikely comrades responded, their first shots would be much more considered, and deadly.
Several tense minutes passed. It seemed like hours. The adrenaline that was pumping through Jack’s body had completely numbed him to the pain that he had suffered as a result of the car bomb. The hormone also gave strength to his muscles to such an extent that he hardly noticed the shotgun in his hands, and holding his arms in what
amounted to a stress position didn’t even cause him a second thought. What happened next was so incredible that it completely caught both Jack and Barry off guard; if only for a brief moment. There was sudden movement from the living room, to the side of the front door. A busy shuffle was accompanied with a long shadow moving out of the room and into the hallway. Jack took a double take when the gunman left the living room and he then stood in the open in front of the door. Jack wondered if the others hadn’t told the man that they were upstairs; why else would the man be looking in the direction of the kitchen, and without even giving a slight glance upward? Another bloody amateur, Jack thought scornfully.
Jack looked at Barry. The shot somehow didn’t seem fair; to either one of them. But this was war; this was life and death; this was survival of the fittest at its most basic, and most devastating. Barry took aim. Although the shotgun was already primed, Jack simply had to do something to give the man a chance to defend himself—even if it really was nothing more than a token gesture. He pumped the gun, sending a perfectly good shell spinning out of the side of the weapon, only to be replaced by an identical, fresh cartridge. The sound from the shotgun caught the attention of the man standing in the hallway. As he looked up towards Jack and Barry, he began to raise his gun. It
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was a machine gun of the type that the housing complex guards had been carrying; and there was every possibility that this man actually took the weapon from one of the dead guards.
Jack would have loved to allow the man just a little more time so that he could get his gun into a position to get a meaningful burst of fire, but he couldn’t take the chance. The blast from the shotgun had two devastating and very powerful effects on the unfortunate target; it blew a football sized hole in his chest. Blood and tissue exited the man’s body at the back and it sprayed the wall next to the front door with bloody human slurry. The second effect was to send the mortally wounded man spinning backwards, landing in an undignified heap on the ground in front of the door. To say that the exit was now blocked would have been to exaggerate, but the body would still have to be moved, and while that was taking place either Jack or Barry would have to hold back the rest of the attackers, as they allowed the other one time to shift victim number one.
Barry looked at Jack with comic annoyance on his face. Barry was enjoying this far too much, in Jack’s opinion.
“The next one is mine,” Barry said.
“Mate, you can take all of them if you want,” Jack replied.
“OK then, I might just do that,” Barry added, before stepping onto the stairs.
Barry quickly moved back up onto the landing when bullets tore through several of the steps, sending large splinters of oak several feet into the air in an unnatural eruption. Barry looked to Jack for instructions. Jack was already one step ahead of him. Barry watched Jack with a mixture of genuine interest and blind panic as Jack pulled out the pin on a grenade. Without even pausing to take aim he threw the grenade as hard as he could. The small device flew through the air at high speed, which looked even faster given the confined space in which it was moving. It bounced off the wall at the side of the front door, almost hitting the blood splatter caused by the shotgun blast. It then hit the hard wood floor with a loud thud, before rolling back towards the kitchen. The explosive device was now directly under Jack and Barry.
Jack turned to Barry and grabbed him.
“Run!” Jack said, as he pulled Barry towards the stairs.
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Jack let go of Barry once it became clear that Barry understood the need to get back down the stairs. The lack of gunfire from below them told Jack that the grenade had done what he had intended for it to do; force those on the lower level into a retreat, and in the process give Barry and himself a small window for escape. They got to the dead man in seconds, and Barry appointed himself look out, as he took up position with his gun trained on the kitchen and living room, in a nervous, constantly shifting action. Jack pulled the man back by the legs until there was enough room for them to get out through the front door. Jack left the house first but Barry was right on his tail; almost pushing Jack out of the way as he made his escape. They had only cleared the small lawn at the front of the house when the grenade went off. It was only a small device but it was the best. The high explosive at the heart of the weapon gave a new meaning to the very description, high explosive. The grenade was designed to obliterate rather than frighten an enemy. Jack’s home was at first collateral damage, and then a burning pile of rubble, in very quick succession. Both men hit the ground; not from the force of the explosion, although it was substantial, but rather in an effort to avoid the shower of debris that was raining down on top of them. Luckily they were not hit with anything bigger than a toaster sized piece of wood; but even those small, non-lethal objects left their calling card as both men suffered several small cuts and bruises.
When he felt that rain of death was over Barry looked back towards where the house had once stood, and then he turned to Jack.
“You are one crazy bastard Jack. Did anyone ever tell you that? Are you entirely certain that there isn’t a bit of Irish in you?”
Jack smiled.
“If we had stayed in that building a few seconds longer, there would have been more Irish in me than I would have liked,” Jack retorted.
They got to their feet.
“We had better get the hell out of here,” Jack said. “If the gunmen aren’t dead they will soon regroup. If they are dead then it will not take the police very long to head this way. Not after that. And I have a funny feeling they will be in a shoot first, ask questions later, kind of mood. There is a garage at the back of the complex, next to the exit. If we can get there without taking a bullet to the back then I will be able to get my hands on a car.”
Barry looked relieved.
“OK Jack, my life is in your hands.”
“Barry old friend, your life has been in my hands for a little while now, in case you hadn’t been paying attention.”
Barry smiled slightly.
“Right back at you, Jack,” Barry returned.
Jack took the lead as they to tell if all of Robert’s men but there simply wasn’t enough time for them to check at the back of where the house once stood, as there was no way of knowing when the police would arrive on the scene.
Jack found new energy as he ran towards the garage—he wasn’t sure if this sudden burst intended to kill him, or accept Barry seeing any weakness; or more likely, it was probably a mixture of both. Barry wheezed and puffed as he struggled to keep up with Jack—his obvious respiratory distress a result of a lifetime spent smoking cigarettes like they were going out of fashion.
The large garage unit sat in complete darkness; though this w
asn’t always the case, not even that late in the evening, as the residents could call on their drivers and their cars at any time of the day or night. Jack, like every other resident, had the combination to a lock on the small door at the side of the garage. Jack didn’t draw breath as he effortlessly punched in the combination and entered the garage, followed immediately by Barry, who looked back nervously towards the smoke rising from the bombed out house; no one was following them—as far as he could tell.
Jack couldn’t remember which switch operated the lights at the far end of the garage where two of his cars were currently parked up, and so he flicked them all into the on position. Without saying as much to Barry, Jack decided that the lights coming on would signal to the outside world that they were in the garage. The fluorescent lights stuttered to life to reveal every small boy’s dream room. There were over one hundred luxury, and classic cars; all of them gleaming with the made their escape. There was no way had been neutralised in the explosion,
Deadly States (Seaforth Files by Nicholas P Clark Book 2) Page 10