Proportionate Response

by Dave Buschi

  Marks could hold his breath for three and a half minutes underwater. Less when he was exerting himself hard. Message to himself: keep this smooth. You have time, but don’t take all day.

  Marks moved forward, crouched, padding softly. He was careful to keep his treads light. His hearing was toast, so he couldn’t rely on hearing whoever was ahead of him in the smoke.

  His eyes parsed through the battlespace, looking through the gray vapors, past a canister that was still spewing its toxic fumes. He’d been through the house once; knew it blind. What he didn’t know is how many he was dealing with. And who he was dealing with.

  He’d heard two shots, which had been fired almost simultaneously. Those fired rounds had told him this wasn’t SWAT or FBI or any of the good guys. They don’t fire unless hostages were in play and the risk to them was imminent. That was standard M.O. and they don’t deviate.

  No, these were bad guys. He’d already seen one of them. The guy with the leaf blower. The man had distinctive features. A long face and a long nose with drooping cheeks, sunken eyes and eyebrows that curved up, rather than down. It was a baneful face, almost Mephistolian in a way. And he’d seen it before. Just a slice of it; not a full view like through the window. It had been one of the photographs taped up in Johnny Two-cakes’s office. A partial shot of a man’s face.

  He hadn’t connected it right away—and he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure—but when he’d dove behind the kitchen counter, the similarity had clicked between the leaf blower’s face and one of those pictures on that wall with the other Russian goons. More of the Gol’yanovskaya crew, then. Apparently those chumps hadn’t had enough. Wanted another round, another piece of him. Fine by him. Do the same thing, expect a different result. Some people never learn.

  Marks moved through the smoke.

  There. The back of someone. It was a figure, and he was moving, weapon in his hands. Gas mask and eye gear. No identification on the jacket. No SWAT or FBI in white letters. Just a jacket.

  Confirmation. Bad guy. That made this easy. But the glimpse was too brief to act on. Man had already disappeared ahead, going down the far corridor, away from Marks, towards where Lip was. Without a visual, Marks couldn’t risk a blind shot. Lip might have moved from the office.

  Tick tock.

  His lungs were telling him to suck in a breath. Give us something to work with here. Not yet…

  Time to move. Marks went forward and rounded the kitchen. Off to the left was the privacy screen for the front foyer. Some light was breaking through the smoke. That’d be the open door. Daylight out there. Air too.

  He hesitated. Save Lip? Or go out and breathe?

  Tough choice. Lip buddy, the things I do for you.

  He ignored the door and headed towards where the man had disappeared. Something broke his peripheral vision in the denser part of the smoke. It was something moving! Central room. Marks pivoted, smooth motion.

  It was a man. Silhouette was too skinny for Lip. Bad guy!

  Marks didn’t aim for center mass; man would have body armor. No, he locked on the head; did a minute correction on the target and squeezed, twice in quick succession. Both .45 ACP rounds hit the man right through his goggles.

  Man dropped. Half his head didn’t go with him. Marks scooted sideways behind a couch. He was in the thick of the soup now. Whoosh sound was subsiding in his ears. A tear gas canister was five feet away, cloaking him in its petering smoke.

  He couldn’t stay here. Lungs were complaining. He eyed the corridor, barely able to see it. The guy he just took down wouldn’t be alone. The man’s partners certainly would have heard the weapon’s fire, but they weren’t returning any. They couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see them.

  Marks eyed his rear, looking at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside… more beautiful air.

  Tick tock. Couldn’t sit here all day, while they could.

  Decision time again. Had to move. Sorry Lip.

  Marks swung his arm and aimed for the windows. Three shots. All in a triangle. Window went away. Big doorway now. He was going out.

  Move your ass, meat.

  There was a slight delay, though. A red flag popped up from his peripheral vision. Man coming from the corridor! Moving fast, in a crouch. Marks swung his arm. No time to fix on the target. He got off two shots. One hit. One didn’t.

  It didn’t slow the man down. Just made him pissed. Man’s weapon started cracking. Marks dove back behind the couch.

  Craacckk craacckk craacck craacckk craacckk…

  Couch was being torn to all bloody hell. Pillows, frame, shredding like Swiss cheese. Jesus. He’d really pissed that guy off. Man wasn’t letting up. Marks took a moment to jack in his last magazine, and load one in the chamber. He scrambled ahead on his belly. Made it to the edge of the couch, rolled out, got a bead on the man. Squeezed twice. Double tapped him. Donut hole in Adam’s apple territory—took out the man’s second cervical vertebrae along with the neck. Man’s head apparently got the message.

  He fell back. Two down. How many more left?

  Marks’s lungs were past complaining. They were screaming now. Air. He needed it. He moved backwards on a wood floor now, feeling the dimness that asphyxia brought. Couldn’t take much more of this. That rear blown-out window was calling.

  More gunfire. Shit. That had come from outside, from his six. He spun on his belly; did a one-eighty.

  Saw more windows get blown out. Rounds started to chew up everything to hell all over again. Pillows were shredded; splinters of wood, wall debris, books and down feathers going everywhere…

  Craacckk craacckk craacck craacckk craacckk…

  Not good. He needed air, and outside in that backyard was someone who didn’t intend to give him that luxury. He crabbed back to the rug, moving away from the gunfire, behind furniture, heading towards the front door.

  The front door was more than thirty-five feet away. Across the vomit rug, across the tiled corridor, and into the foyer. Might as well be a football field’s length. His lungs were past screaming—they were sucking vapors.

  Crunch time. How bad you want this, Marks?

  88

  NO response from Pyzik. Monster cursed. He clicked his mic again.

  “Pyzik, respond, are you hit?”

  There was nothing. Only silence. The shooting had stopped.

  Monster digested what had just happened. Both Pyzik’s and Dolinski’s mics had gone dead. The gunfire did not bode well. He’d heard his men return fire briefly, but it had stopped.

  He could not understand how this was happening. The man shooting, who’d taken out his two best men, did not appear to be affected by the gas. How was that possible? He should be worthless, hacking, blinded. Instead, the man had picked off Pyzik and Dolinski. He was shooting in here?

  Should not be possible. The man had to be blind, and yet…

  “Yuri, ‘Vich… do you see him?” Monster said into his mic.

  “Not here.”

  “Nyet. Should I fire again?”

  “No,” Monster said. “Stay alert.”

  He looked down the smoke-snarled corridor. Visibility was almost nil. Going down it, following the path of Pyzik, was not an appealing proposition. The man they were hunting was biting. He was not going down easy.

  Monster was nestled in a doorway, out of the line of fire. He appraised the room behind him, which he’d already searched. It was full of junk on the floor, boxes, and other garbage. Across the room the curtain was partially pulled away and there was an open sliding door.

  Visibility in here was better. Some of the smoke was eking outside. This is where one of the men had been. The man who’d been hacking and coughing. He’d made enough sound that there was no doubt he’d been affected by the gas. That man had crawled through the door and was now in their hands.

  Why had the other man not been affected the same way? That question grated and stuck in his head. Information, as he well knew, was necessary for success. Understanding and know
ing your enemy. This was a man they were hunting. A man of flesh and blood. He took in air; needed eyes to see…

  And yet…?

  The gas was not affecting him.

  He’d managed to take out Pyzik and Dolinski. Two men who were fully armored. One lucky shot might be possible. But two lucky shots? Not probable. Almost impossible.

  Monster grimaced inside his gas mask. He did not like when things could not be easily explained. It brought variables into play that became impossible to predict. What he could not understand, he could not capture. But he was past that now, he realized.

  Capture or kill? At this point, he would take either. Yes, payment was due, but he was not so rigid that he’d drop one bone from his mouth to foolishly bite at another.

  He made a decision. “I am coming out. Through the curtains, sliding doors. Do not shoot.”

  He heard ‘Vich grunt in affirmation. They had one. As for the other, You can stay in here and burn.

  Monster walked out into the air. From the grayness to light. Not but fifteen feet away, he saw one of the men trussed up. The man was on his side; his wrists and ankles shackled with plastic cuffs.

  Monster shook his head in disgust. Pédik! He was a flabby worthless piece of shit. How had this killed his brothers? Vásja Púpkin. He pulled off his eye gear and withdrew another ten paces. His eyes raked the house as he pulled his gas mask down. “Yuri, stay where you are. We will flush him out.” He looked at ‘Vich. “Incendiary. Now!”

  ‘Vich nodded. He did not even question the order, or bring up the fact that Pyzik and Dolinski were still inside. The man loaded his rifle launcher with an incendiary grenade. He aimed and pulled. The projectile shot into the house. A fiery explosion ensued.

  Monster took a defensive position behind the stone wall that bordered the patio. He directed ‘Vich to move down to cover the back and side of the house. They each watched as flames took hold in the big room. “Now we wait,” said Monster. “Should not be long.”

  Gunfire erupted from the other side of the house. It was brief and stopped just as quickly as it began.

  Monster tapped his mic. “Yuri?”

  No answer.

  “Yuri?”

  Silence.

  Chërt!

  Monster looked at ‘Vich and motioned for him to advance to the left. Monster moved to the right. He gripped his shotgun in his sweaty hands. He stayed low. His head was racing. Pyzik, Dolinski and now Yuri?

  Monster was overtaken with a strange feeling. It crept into his consciousness. Foreign as night was to day, he did not recognize it. It took him a moment to realize what it was. It was fear. Monster moved around the house, gripped by it.

  There was a single shot. Crisp. Loud. He stopped at the edge of the wall. Waiting…

  “‘Vich?”

  No response.

  “‘Vich?”

  A voice came over the mic, not ‘Vich’s. It was gravelly. The voice said, “I’m coming for you now.”

  89

  MARKS dropped the mike he’d taken off one of the dead. It had served its use. There just appeared to be one left. Hopefully his comment had unnerved the man. He’d used his best gravelly voice.

  Asymmetric warfare. Get in their head.

  And I am coming for you, chump.

  Marks kept low. Fifty fifty chance here. The guy was either going to sit tight, or move. Hopefully his comment was making the latter happen. A moving man made for an easier target. Marks’s peripheral vision had never failed him. If something so much as twitched, his eyes picked it up. An unmoving hidden target was a different story. If the man kept his wits, he’d find a spot and sit tight. Wait for Marks to move and expose himself.

  That was the risk here. Marks was a big fan of that tactic. Sit tight and wait. He’d opted for that option himself thousands of times and it usually paid off.

  Time, however, he figured was more on his side here. Man would be thinking of police. Knowing that the explosions and gunfire would soon bring visitors. Second big firefight in metropolitan area in less than twelve hours—SWAT, FBI, you name it, were going to be all over this, any minute now.

  Man probably knew that. That’s why Marks wasn’t looking at this truly fifty fifty. More like seventy thirty. Thirty said he was sitting tight. Waiting right now. Marks moved to the stone wall that encircled the grill area. There was the cabana structure off to the side. Good spot to hide out. Couldn’t just leave that there.

  He moved towards it. Nothing in the windows. No reflections.

  He moved around the structure. Nothing. Man wasn’t here. Quick check inside showed it to be empty. He circled around, checking out the grill area. Big grill with a cover on it. His eyes parsed every available hide that a person could take advantage of, looking for any movement.

  Nothing.

  He moved across the patio, not liking how exposed he was. He spied something before he made it to the next good cover. It was on the ground, near the house. He aimed, but didn’t squeeze. It was Lip. His partner was on a smaller patio area. Not but fifteen feet from the house. He wasn’t moving.

  Marks moved towards him, trying to get better than just an oblique look. Flames were dancing inside the house. Thing was going up quick. All those books made for good kindling.

  Marks moved, keeping low. Lip was tied up. That was good—meant he was alive. Hang in there, buddy.

  He couldn’t move any closer to examine him. He’d be too exposed. First priority here was to find and eliminate the last one. Secure the scene. Then attend to Lip.

  Marks used the next cover; some more of the stone wall. He scooted around and was able to see the other side of the house. There was movement on the streetscape. A man running with a shotgun. It was the leaf blower.

  Seventy went to a hundred. One hundred percent confirmation. Man hadn’t sat tight. Marks stood up and took his most accurate shooting position. A boxer’s stance so that his left leg was ahead, right leg back, and knees slightly bent. It was automatic, body adjusting without thinking it. His shoulders were slightly forward. Nose over toes. Two handed grip. He drew a bead. It was a ninety yard shot… through trees… moving target.

  Crazy shot with a pistol.

  Hands were steady, wrist rigid, strong hand high on his grip, only the pad of the finger on the trigger. He took in a breath. Let it out. Slow and easy. He squeezed, straight back, smooth and uniform with the pull.

  Man jerked, stumbled, dropped.

  He’d hit the back of the man’s leg where there wasn’t any armor. But the man didn’t stay down. He jerked up without his shotgun and hobbled towards a black SUV. Tough fucker.

  Second squeeze. Man jerked again, didn’t drop. He managed to make it behind the SUV. Marks moved forward, but the man had fallen from sight. Yard was too big, too much space separating him from the guy. He didn’t have another shot.

  Seconds later, the vehicle started up.

  Shit.

  Two hits. Man was bugging it. Wounded, but not out. Marks watched the SUV pull away, down the street.

  90

  “LIP, give me something here,” Marks said.

  There was blood on the back of his partner’s head that had matted a patch of his hair. Marks examined the cut. The bleeding, which seemed to have stopped, had come from an ugly split welt where Lip presumably had been hit with something blunt. Marks looked at the plastic cuffs on Lip’s wrists and ankles. Fine time to not have my knife, Marks thought.

  “Lip?”

  His partner’s eyes opened behind his glasses. “Can’t catch a wink for a minute, can I?” Lip said.

  Marks smirked. “Nope. Listen, I need to get a knife. Sit tight, I’ll be back.”

  Lip hacked and coughed. “Like I’m going somewhere. Bring water.”

  Marks hustled. House was really starting to burn. He’d pulled Lip far enough away that he should be okay.

  PD and FD were going to be here any second now. Was going to be tough to explain this to them, particularly with the arsenal they had in
their borrowed car. They needed to be out of here… like yesterday.

  Marks peeled around the house. Flames had engulfed some of it. The big A-frame roof was on fire. Garage too. It was going up like a Roman Candle. All those newspapers in there were lighting that thing up.

  The heat was intense. Marks looked at the car. It was too close to the house. Oh snap. Keys. Lip had them.

  He couldn’t start it up and move it. Least the door was unlocked. He reached for the handle and paused. For a brief second he considered the possibility those men might have booby trapped the vehicle. No, if they were going to do that they wouldn’t have bothered breaching the house. They would have done it and left.

  Theory was sound. Still, he did a visual check, under, in, and around the car. It was a quick eyeball job, but it looked clean. He opened the door. No explosion. Least none yet. He glanced at the garage. Noises, popping sounds, were erupting from inside. He realized any moment those flames would ignite the Beemer’s gas tank. He couldn’t just leave the Suburban here, not this close. He considered running back to Lip, but by the time he got the keys it’d be too late.

  He needed to move their vehicle, and do it now. Marks got in the front seat and tapped the parking brake off. He put the vehicle in neutral. He left the driver’s door open, and went to the front of the vehicle. The driveway was level, not sloped. That should help.

  He’d never pushed a vehicle this size from a dead stop, but he’d done it with plenty of other vehicles. It was always easier than it looked. This thing might weigh three tons or more, but the actual inertia point was probably only about two or three hundred pounds to get it unstuck. Exert that force and the wheels should break and start to move.

  Nothing to it.

  Marks planted himself in front of the grill. Felt like an oven was open behind him. Not good, considering that Beemer. It was either now or never. He got a good stance and placed his hands on the grill. Shit, it was hot. He ignored the singeing heat and pushed. Nothing.