by Robert White
I’d expected the first stage of the warhead to punch a hole in the heavy wood and steel door. Instead it destroyed it, sending razor-sharp splinters and flying masonry in all directions, forcing us to duck down behind the luxury car.
The Merc took the full brunt of the explosion. That said, the porta-cabin that had mysteriously appeared at the side of the rear entrance since the last satellite pass didn’t come out unscathed either.
All its windows were gone and part of the gable was missing. Bits of roofing felt fluttered down to earth.
When the second stage of the RMG ignited, it lit the rear compound up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree. The explosion shook the ground. Flames billowed from the opening where the door had once been and instantly set fire to the easily combustible cabin.
Four guys came barrelling out of it, one screaming, his clothes and hair alight.
I opened up with the PP19 and put him out of his misery.
The three others were all armed with AK-47’s, but their heads had gone. The explosion and subsequent fire had disorientated them and they shot wildly in different directions, missing badly.
I heard Lauren let go several short bursts and seconds later, all four boys were down.
I was about to turn my attention to the main house, when I heard shouting to my left.
We had a different, and very pressing, issue.
MI6 had cocked up again.
It seemed the dozen or so players we’d identified in the satellite shots didn’t go home at the end of each shift after all. Goldsmith must have had some kind of living quarters built in rear of the garage and all his little pals had been on a nice fuckin’ sleep over.
Of course these guys weren’t just mechanics and panel beaters either; they’d been hand-picked from all corners of Eastern Europe, were well trained, well-armed and extremely determined fighters.
In seconds, we began to take small arms fire from the garage crew, 9 millimetre spat and rattled around the already damaged German marque and kicked up dust around us.
A massive guy carrying an AK was splitting the men into two groups. Without a shadow of a doubt it was Red George, who had most definitely not been sleeping in the main house.
Thanks again, Cartwright.
About half of George’s crew were going to attack our position whilst the rest, including the big fella, were making to the front of the house and Rick, who was still alone.
I tapped Lauren on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the threat.
She instantly dropped into prone and started to lay down covering fire, clipping a couple of guys and sending the rest scurrying for cover.
Matters got immediately worse, when I heard glass being raked out of the upstairs windows of the main house.
As I’d suspected, it wasn’t good news and multiple shooters opened up from the upstairs. Big calibre rounds slammed into the Merc and we were well and truly pinned down. The bullets pierced the roof and the floor of the luxury car, before burying themselves in the ground beneath our feet.
For the briefest moment, I clocked one of the boys on the first floor. That unmistakable blond hair, that scar, the M16A4 rifle…it was none other than Stephan Goldsmith.
I popped up for as long as I dared and squeezed off a dozen rounds in the bastard’s direction. All I succeeded in doing was to push him back deeper into the house and into cover. In a flash, he reappeared and peppered the Merc with 5.56 forcing me back into the dirt.
I tapped Lauren on the leg as she emptied her PP19 in the direction of the approaching garage team.
We were in the shit. It was only a matter of time before the boys in the upstairs got lucky with a ricochet, or a round just sliced through the Merc and took one of us out.
“We need to move, now,” I shouted, and pointed toward a large stack of cut logs that would give us cover from Goldsmith’s M16 and allow us to return his fire in cover.
I depressed my comms pretzel.
“JJ, we have shooters exiting the garage area adjacent to red face, and approaching our positions.”
I heard JJ’s rifle crack once, then seconds later, a second report split the sky. His dulcet voice was monotone in my ear.
“Two down,” he said. “I kill some more, then go to Richard.”
Lauren pulled herself into the kneel and reloaded. I fired short bursts, first in the direction of the approaching crew, then above my head toward the first floor of the house.
It was nothing more than a token gesture, buying precious seconds.
Lauren snapped her mag in place, swung the PP19 around her back and pulled her two
Zastava CZ 99’s from her belt.
“You go first,” she barked. “Then cover me.”
As I sprinted for my life to the log pile, I heard her cracking off shots with both pistols, in a desperate attempt to keep both sets of enemy down and quiet.
However, Goldsmith and his pals on the first floor were protected by thick stone walls, and the small windows kept them well concealed.
They could almost fire at will.
As I did my best impression of Linford Christy with a rocket up his arse, the boys upstairs had clear shots and although I weaved as best I could, as I reached the logs I caught two rounds.
The first nicked my right calf, tearing my skin and slicing away a nice lump of muscle. I felt the searing pain of the white-hot round as it cauterised the wound in an instant.
The second caught me square in the back, and I went down.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
The moment I’d discharged the RMG27 I knew something wasn’t right. It fizzed and faltered on its way to target. It did manage to tear a hole in the front doors and did explode, but it was as if only half of the weapon had worked. There was smoke and some flame, but the front rooms of the house remained relatively unscathed.
Nobody had run out toward me in panic. In fact, the whole plan had seemed as damp a squib at the rocket I’d just fired.
Then all hell broke loose.
Two bodies appeared at the upstairs windows, smashed the glass and opened up on my position with AK-47’s on full auto.
I’d been kneeling behind a brick wall that enclosed a well, probably forty meters from the main dwelling. It was as old as the house itself and around three feet thick. This was extremely helpful as the AK fires a 7.62×39mm cartridge with a muzzle velocity of 715 meters per second. The boat-tail bullet is powerful enough to penetrate interior walls or the metal body of any standard vehicle, but thankfully, not my wall.
Even so, the sheer onslaught of the rate of fire had me pinned to the ground as shards of brick and cement were torn from the masonry.
I managed to pop up and return fire with the PP19, firing in bursts of three and four. Even though I had a sixty-four-round mag, I didn’t want to have to reload any time soon. I’d some success too, catching one guy in the left-hand window full in the face, dropping him instantly.
My comms had been crackling away, and were working about as well as the fucking rocket. I’d heard Des say something about the garage, but it wasn’t until I’d caught the crack of small arms, and shouting off to my right that I was aware that we were fighting on two fronts.
Approaching my position were maybe half a dozen guys, all carrying various automatic weapons. These boys were no mugs, and were using the many stationary vehicles dotted about the compound for cover, so they could get around me and finish the job.
They hadn’t, however, banked on the Turk.
The closest guy to me was perhaps fifty meters away. He was hunkered down, knees bent, carrying an M16 by its handle and shuffling forward a few meters at a time.
The report of JJ’s rifle rattled around the compound like a jet breaking the sound barrier. The boy instantly dropped his M16, and fell to one side, his feet kicking as his brain stopped functioning; half his head was splattered against the passenger door of a silver Lexus.
Less than five seconds later the Turk found his second victim, with the same resu
lt. This time the guy was sprinting between two cars. The Swiss-made 7.5 x 55mm cartridge that the Karabiner used would start to yaw (tumble) at about 700 meters. This gave the weapon its appalling effect on the human body. Surprisingly, you may survive being shot at close range by a high velocity round, but once the bullet begins its little dance in mid-air, and becomes unstable, it will tear you apart inside.
The round caught the boy in the centre of his back and exited through his throat, devastating his central nervous system. It was as if he’d been switched off. He fell and was instantly still.
This gave the others something to think about, and they gave up on trying to make ground on my position for a moment or two.
Then, for a couple of seconds, my comms burst into life and I heard Lauren, there was terror in her voice. “Man down!” she bawled. “We have a man down…Des…Des is down.”
I was in shock, my brain as useful as the bloke’s who’d just had his splashed all over the Jap car. I squeezed my eyes together, pinched the bridge of my nose and fumbled for my comms pretzel.
Before I could speak, someone very big and extremely strong clubbed me from behind.
I was out cold.
Lauren North’s Story:
I saw Des fall, saw the first round clip his leg, saw the splash of blood, saw his body buck as the second bullet hit, then saw him go down. I was instantly consumed by a mixture of blind panic and withering grief. Every bone in my body screamed at me to go to him, to help him, comfort him. But I could not, dare not. I would be cut down just as he had.
Tears rolled down my cheeks soaking the inside of my balaclava. I ripped it from my head, what was the fucking point now?
I waited for Rick to reply to my mayday, but nothing came...nothing, just static. My mind tortured me. Was Rick shot too? Was he dead?
I tried the radio again and again, and got more nothingness.
All-encompassing fear held me in a vice. My hands shook uncontrollably as I gripped weapons I was too scared to use.
Self-doubt filled my very soul. What had I been thinking? I just couldn’t do this without Rick and Des, I just couldn’t. I hadn’t the physical strength or the mental bottle to do it. They had it all. It had all been about them, all the time. How stupid was I? Without Rick and Des, I was nothing, just a nurse pretending to be something I fucking wasn’t.
I sat with my back pressed against the Merc, my knees up to my chin, as salvo after salvo of gunfire rained down on me from the first floor of the house. As their bullets got closer and closer, I almost wished for one to find its target and put me out of my misery.
More small bursts came from the direction of the garage. More men, intent on killing me; all tucked into cover, firing at me. Did they not realise that I was just a frightened, useless nurse?
Their rounds were kicking up the dirt just inches from my feet. It would only be a matter of time before they realised there was no return of fire, and they would be upon me.
Even in that certain knowledge, I could not move. I dared not move.
From above my head the shooting suddenly stopped, and a voice shouted down to me, his accent a blend of American and Dutch, educated yet as callous as a jackal circling its prey. I didn’t need to look up to see who the voice emanated from. I didn’t need to see the blond hair fall across his face, or the bite mark on his cheek.
“Why are you sitting there, Lauren?” shouted Goldsmith. “Your boyfriend Fuller’s waiting for me downstairs with Red George for company. I’m so going to enjoy playing with him. And that funny little Scottish chap, well, you can see for yourself, eh? It’s just you now, Lauren. And you haven’t fired a shot in a while. Have you run out of ammunition, Miss North?”
Goldsmith’s voice became an animal-like snarl. “Or guts? Have you run out of guts, my English rose?”
Ashamed of my cowardice, I let my head fall.
Should I just sit here and wait to be killed, or worse still, captured? Oh no, not that. I wasn’t going to be taken again. I couldn’t go through that kind of abuse, that kind of torture.
I took deep breaths.
Better to be shot than taken.
Goldsmith taunted me again.
“What’s the matter, girly? Cat got your tongue?”
At least two other men laughed somewhere inside the house.
I let the CZ’s fall to the floor and grabbed my PP19. Slipping off the safety, I held it to my chest, like a mother would a child. I had never felt such terror, but I couldn’t be taken again.
Closing my eyes, I imagined exactly where my primary target was. Even if I didn’t make it, at least I would achieve what we came for, to kill that bastard. I could see his scowling face as he leaned from the window, full of smug, self-satisfied confidence. All I had to do was twist my body left, straighten my legs, punch the weapon upward and pull the trigger. For the briefest moment, Rick was in my ear. Take them all…no messing…no talking…one movement.
Take them all? How could I? I needed confidence, I needed certainty. Forcing myself to believe JJ was still out there, I imagined him running toward the compound. He must be alive. I’d heard his rifle earlier. I’d counted his shots, he had four left. He must be there, would be there.
He would come for me.
I shuffled five feet to my right, tucked my legs under my backside and got ready to push myself into the open.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I managed to open my eyes.
Someone had removed my balaclava, comms and my body armour. I was aware that my feet were dragging in the dirt and that a bloke the size of Shrek was pulling me through the compound by my collar.
As more of my brain came back on line, I realised that I was being hauled along the ground, one-handed, by none other than Red George.
I think Shrek was an understatement. I couldn’t remember ever seeing such a big guy. I’d seen plenty of soldiers and bodyguards in my time, but never one the size of Gjergj Dushku.
More wires connected in my head.
I twisted my torso to get a better look at where I was going. This movement was instantly met by a slap up the side of my head from Georgie boy and a ringing right ear.
Then I realised, he was taking me to the main house to meet my mate Stephan.
The fucker was striding toward the gaff like he was pulling a shopping cart rather than a sixteen-stone man.
There was no way on this earth, that I was going inside that house with Popeye and Bluto for company. I needed to get to Lauren, and to see what condition Des was in.
I twisted again, expecting the same thug response, and I got it.
George swung his massive ham of a hand in my direction, except this time I grabbed his wrist just before contact.
The boy’s instinctive reaction at having one hand out of action, was to release his other, and that is exactly what he did.
He let go of my collar and I fell to the floor in a heap.
George inspected me as I rolled in the dust. I think he viewed my pathetic attempt at escape as no more than bad or childish behaviour. It was no big deal to him, a mere inconvenience. After all, he’d stripped me of my weapons, he still carried an AK-47 strapped to his back, he was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s big brother, and I was lying at his feet with a lump on my head the size of the Isle of Dogs.
On the other hand, he shared a brain cell with his cousin in Kosovo, and more to the fucking point, he was wearing a pair of snide Timberland boots.
What a twat.
He watched me slowly pull myself up into the kneel. I swayed a little as I did so, something he thought funny.
He laughed, “You want to fight me, fool?”
My head was spinning, but I was not going to lose a tear-up with some fat-faced bastard who, despite driving an AMG Merc, shopped on the fucking market.
I eyeballed him.
Kneeling in the shit, I formed the opinion that if George had wanted to kill me he would have already done so. He wasn’t going to use the AK anytime soon. Oh no,
that would be too clean. I had the distinct impression that Goldsmith had a far more inventive plan for my demise.
Even so, the way people like Red George worked was simple. If his boss said ‘don’t kill him,’ he wouldn’t. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t inflict some pain to his charge in the process. He’d been a bully all his life, he wasn’t going to change now.
George decided to teach me a lesson, drew back a leg, and went to kick me in the guts with his £9.99 specials.
Some guys like to try and smother the actual kick when they find themselves at a disadvantage on the ground. Me, I go for the standing leg.
It was like gripping a fucking tree.
From my kneeling position, I pushed myself forward with both feet and buried my left shoulder into his left knee. George’s swinging leg only served to make him more unstable and went over like a redwood.
He bellowed like a giant as he fell, crashing into the dirt and slapping the back of his head on the ground in the process. He lay on his back, winded and groggy. I knew I wouldn’t have long before he was back on song and able to snap me in half with his bare hands.
Crawling up his body like a demented mountaineer, I smashed my right fist into his nose, once, twice. Then, turning my body and bending my elbow to increase the power, my third punch took out his front teeth. He tried to bat me away with his massive forearms, but I had too much aggression for him. I changed my body position again, so I could twist my torso and use all my upper-body strength. I punched him hard in the jaw with my left…one, two, three, four punches, each one harder than the last. As I connected with his massive square jaw, the pain in my hand shot up my forearms to the elbow, but this was no time to worry about busted knuckles.
Dushku knew he was in trouble and went to grab me, to pull me in close so I couldn’t punch, then use his brute strength to roll me over and gain the advantage.