Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  Beckman raised his hands and spoke in a loud voice, “Intruder, sir!”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Peter said.

  Corbett leaned over the railing on the catwalk. He squinted his eyes as he stared past Beckman into the shadows. Then he saw it; a glimmer of light off the muzzle of a pistol. The rest of the gun, and the hand holding it, were obscured from view. How long had the intruder been standing there?

  “Guards!” Corbett shouted.

  Immediately, four armed men appeared on the catwalk aiming MP5 submachine guns in the direction of Beckman and the intruder. Bright beams of illumination lanced out from the lights fastened beneath the gun barrels. Others took up defensive positions behind computer consoles and desks across the control room, pointing weapons in the direction of light beams from the catwalk.

  Outgunned and outnumbered, the only thing Peter had going for him was the shadows, and the gun-mounted flashlights were eroding that advantage. Even so, he knew the guards would have a very difficult time aiming within the bright flood lights that were shining in their eyes. He reached forward and grabbed Beckman’s shirt, yanking him forward. Then he pressed the SIG pistol against Beckman’s forehead and ordered, “Turn around. And keep your hands up.”

  The technician did as he was told. Peter clamped his left hand onto Beckman’s collar and pulled him in close. It would be just about impossible for the guards to shoot Peter without hitting their own man. Still, that gave Peter little comfort. Honor among psychopaths was very rare.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Corbett,” Peter yelled. “I’ve got your man in front of me.”

  The light beams danced back and forth, attempting to zero in on the voice. Seconds later, they settled on Beckman’s head and the intruder right behind him.

  Corbett recognized the man immediately, even though his face was partially shielded by the technician. “Well, Mr. Savage, I see we meet again. I’d thought the gunshot I heard earlier signaled the end of your meddling in the affairs of Dr. Ming.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. What can I say? I’m a survivor.”

  Corbett shrugged. “No matter.” He made a show of motioning to the guards to either side lining the railing, weapons steady and aimed in Peter’s direction. “Your luck has run out.”

  Eyes squinting from the bright beams on his face, Peter was not aware of guards closing in from the sides. But his instinct told him that to remain in one position was a losing proposition. He had to move, and there was only one direction to go—back out the door.

  Maintaining a firm grip on Beckman’s collar, Peter started to edge to his left, to the door he’d entered.

  “Stop him!” Corbett shouted.

  “But we don’t have a clear shot,” the nearest guard objected.

  “Shoot!”

  “Sir…” another guard started to speak. In exasperation Corbett drew his sidearm. He leveled the sights on Beckman’s chest and squeezed off two shots in quick succession—a double tap—and then gazed down over the gun sights, expecting to see Beckman and Peter slumped to the floor. Instead, Beckman’s face grimaced in pain, but he remained standing. Peter was still pulling him to the door.

  As if the two pistol shots were understood better than the verbal order, the guards on the railing opened up, delivering a storm of copper-clad 9mm bullets into Beckman’s torso. With each strike, the technician jerked in pain, and a continual agonizing cry could be heard over the gunfire.

  s

  With shotgun in hand, Danya broke cover and dashed for the barn just as Peter entered a side door. She cut the most direct path to the building, which happened to land her very close to the severed electrical cable, still sparking vigorously from the live feed. She cast an approving glance at Peter’s handiwork.

  A torrent of gunfire exploded from within the building. As long as the gunfire continued, she had to assume Peter was still alive. Should she follow his path, and enter through the same door? She could provide crucial backup and superior firepower with the tactical semi-automatic shotgun. On the other hand, she could also run into an ambush.

  Where in hell was that damn dog? Danya knew from experience that Diesel possessed very effective skills when it came to defending his master. When she first met Diesel, she was the opposition force. Now, she wished the canine was here to be her ally.

  She opted to trust Peter’s survival skills and go the other direction around the barn, find a second entry door, and hope to catch the guards in a murderous cross fire. In theory, it sounded like a winning plan.

  Trouble was, she knew that combat rarely unfolded according to theory.

  Even worse, whatever could go wrong, usually did.

  s

  As quickly as it started, the shooting stopped. Beckman’s body was prone on the floor. But the searchlights failed to show Peter. The door was cracked open, sunlight spilling through the thin opening between door and jamb.

  “Did anyone see where he went?” Corbett said.

  “Must’ve gone out the door,” a voice replied.

  “Three minutes!” a technician announced from the control center on the main floor, refocusing Corbett on the priority to restore power before they had to abort the mission. “Gedde, get outside and manually close the transfer switch.”

  The technician rose from his console and ran for the door. He paused a second to look at Beckman—he was lying motionless, but there was no blood.

  Then, he grabbed the door latch and pulled it open. He was already thinking through the task. The transfer switch was mounted next to the two backup generators. In the event of a power outage, it was supposed to automatically disconnect the grid power lines and connect the generator electrical output to the control center. So why had it failed? He knew from the gauge readings that the generator was running normally.

  Gedde took two strides out the door. Even before the door latched closed, he was beginning to turn toward the generator housing when a blur of motion from across the lawn drew his attention. He froze in absolute terror.

  The red pit bull reached full speed of thirty miles per hour in three long strides. His mouth was open wide, drawing in copious amounts of air, expanding his already large chest even more. The inch-long canines gleamed white in the sunlight; his eyes were dilated so large they appear to be black marbles. The huge, blocky head was low, a streamlined missile aimed directly at Gedde.

  The technician managed to make one step backwards, hoping to return through the entry door for the safety of the control center. Diesel leaped, his full forward momentum smashing into Gedde’s torso. The canine dug his rear claws into the technician’s thighs and kicked, propelling his open mouth higher. He clamped down on the man’s throat, choking off his scream and turning it into a pained gurgle as he tumbled backwards. His head and shoulders pushed the door open again, blocking it in place.

  Diesel was thrashing his head wildly has he bit down with enough force to break bone, easily crushing the man’s trachea. Every twist and pull ripped skin and muscle. In seconds, the carotid artery was lacerated, and blood spurted from the hideous wound. But even then, the pit bull pressed the attack. Only when Gedde was still and silent did Diesel release his bite.

  “What the hell?” a guard exclaimed upon witnessing the mauling from just inside the doorway. He was only feet away from Beckman, planning to check for signs of life and then continue the search for Peter Savage, who had seemingly vanished.

  Stunned by the unexpected and ferocious attack, the guard hesitated before raising his pistol. He aimed the weapon toward Diesel… and fired.

  Chapter 42

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  The weight of Beckman’s body on top of him made it hard for Peter to breathe. He didn’t know how many bullets had struck the guard. Probably well north of a dozen. Fortunately, Beckman was wearing a level II ballistic vest, designed to stop most handgun ammunition. It was a relatively thin garment, not as bulky as standard bullet-proof vests worn by law enforc
ement personnel. Which is why Peter had failed to recognize that Beckman was wrapped in one. Although the 9mm rounds had not penetrated the vest, they did cause blunt-force trauma, akin to being hit in the chest with a hammer. And in sufficient number, blunt-force trauma could prove fatal. At the moment, Peter had no idea if the body he was hiding under was dead or alive.

  He glimpsed another guard approaching cautiously. He appeared to be attempting to see into the dark shadows, his eyes still affected by the bright illumination he’d just left. He stopped only a few feet away—had he seen Peter’s arms or legs beneath Beckman?

  Suddenly, the exterior door burst open and a furious commotion spilled into the doorway. Diesel was on top of another man, the one named Gedde, his jaws clamped down on the man’s throat.

  “What the hell?” the guard closest to Peter said. Then he raised his SIG, aiming to fire. Swiftly, Peter pulled his gun arm from beneath Beckman and snapped off a shot just as the guard fired.

  The guard jerked as the bullet slammed into his chest. His shot went wide, gouging a hole in the door frame and missing Diesel.

  Peter shoved aside the motionless body on top of him and pulled the trigger again, sending another bullet into the man’s chest. The guard turned toward Peter, his eyes wide. Already, he was backpedaling, attempting to put distance between himself and Peter.

  Not seeing blood on the man’s chest, Peter surmised that the guards and technicians were all wearing ballistic armor. He raised his sights and fired a third time, and the 9mm round ripped through his throat. The guard threw a hand over the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. In a panic, he stumbled, falling onto his back. Unable to speak, his mouth moved like a fish out of water. A raspy, gurgling sound emanated from his throat as he quickly bled out.

  The four guards on the catwalk, two on either side of Corbett, were stunned by the mauling of Gedde, which they were able to glimpse as sunlight washed through the open door. Their surprise turned to shock when Peter erupted from beneath the prone body of Beckman, and to disbelief as they saw him gun down one of their comrades.

  “Get him!” Corbett shouted. In unison, four MP5 machine guns were snapped to the guard’s shoulders. But just as they took aim, a new sound exploded through the cacophony of shouted orders and gunshots in the control room. It was the sound of gunfire, but deeper and louder than the crack of pistol ammunition.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Four rapid, successive reports, and three of the four guards on the catwalk were hit. Corbett dropped to the decking. The fourth guard spun around and immediately opened fire in the direction opposite from Peter. The deep report reverberated again and the chatter from the MP5 ceased.

  It was the break Peter needed, and he didn’t hesitate.

  s

  While Corbett and his guards had been preoccupied with trying to take down Peter, Danya had approached an entry door on the far side of the structure. Without a key card, she wasn’t going to gain access unless she used the shotgun to breach the door, shooting out the latch mechanism with buckshot. Crude, but effective. Also, very noisy. Anyone nearby would hear the shot and she’d lose the element of surprise.

  As she was contemplating an alternative plan, a technician exited the door. He halted abruptly, startled to see Danya. With both hands she raised the shotgun and rammed the receiver across the bridge of his nose. He took a half step back, blood and mucous flowing from his nostrils even as his nose turned unnatural shades of yellow and purple.

  Danya raised her leg and viciously kicked him in the groin. As he bent over, she slammed the butt of her weapon into the back of his head. He collapsed forward, unconscious but still alive.

  Without wasting more time, she grabbed his key card and opened the door. Once inside, motion on the overhead catwalk caught her attention. And then there was gunfire. She couldn’t see who it was they were shooting at on the far side of the control center, but she had to assume it was Peter. Sliding through the shadows, working her way to a defensible position, she spotted a large barrel and rolls of fabric next to a molded drone airframe resting on a large table. Adjacent to the table, a sturdy steel bin appeared to contain scrap of some type; she couldn’t be sure in the dim light. She moved closer. It was a workstation for fabricating fiberglass and carbon fiber panels, parts for the helicopter drone.

  She checked the barrel. A label indicated it was epoxy resin. She grabbed the lip of the barrel and tried to move it. No joy, it wouldn’t budge. And the top was clean, with no spilled resin, so she judged it to be full. This will make a good barrier, she thought.

  From behind the barrel, she shouldered the FN tactical shotgun and fired round after round, the semi-automatic action functioning smoothly, flawlessly. Four gunmen on the catwalk, all dressed in sky-blue jumpsuits, went down. A fifth spun around and returned fire. Bullets punched into the barrel but the thick, viscous resin worked exactly as Danya had hoped, trapping the 9mm bullets.

  She sharpened her aim and fired again. The cluster of 00 buckshot spread to a pattern a foot in diameter and then hammered the gunman. He dropped his MP5 submachine gun and stumbled backwards. His hand felt for the grip of his holstered pistol, but Danya fired again. The shot was slightly higher, and lead pellets found the man’s head, killing him.

  The other four guards had started to rise, and Danya saw that some had wounds to their legs, but none displayed blood on their torsos. The sudden realization they were wearing body armor forced her to change her tactics. Still loaded with buckshot, and unable to take time to reload, she emptied the last shells into their legs. Agonizing screams and falling bodies were ample evidence her aim was true.

  The shotgun magazine was empty now.

  The pause in gunfire was the signal Corbett had been waiting for. Not suffering any wounds, he raised himself and dashed off the catwalk and into the security room, where he disappeared from sight.

  s

  Rolling out from under Beckman, Peter dived for the partially open door. He grunted as his shoulder clipped the doorframe, and then rolled to a stop on the grass. Quickly, he grabbed Gedde’s feet and yanked him out of the opening, allowing the door to close, muting the sound of gunfire from within. Unable to secure the door, he knew others would follow. But at least they couldn’t look through the opening and see which direction he’d gone.

  Diesel padded over and began licking his face. “Yes, I’m happy to see you too,” Peter said as he rubbed the dog’s head and neck.

  Expecting more guards to come pouring out at any moment, Peter rose to his feet, aiming the SIG Sauer at the door. “Time to go, boy,” he said, glancing at Diesel.

  Chapter 43

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  Danya lowered herself behind the resin-filled barrel and reached to the bandoleer hanging across her chest. She’d stuffed both buckshot rounds and slugs in the shell loops. But rather than ordinary lead slugs, she’d packed armor-piercing slugs. And this was just what she needed to overcome the ballistic armor all the bad guys seemed to be wearing.

  With the tubular magazine full, she placed a shell into the chamber and released the bolt. She peaked her head around the side of the drum and glimpsed four guards moving around the side of the control center. They were trying to flank her, while others to the front fired their pistols to keep her down.

  She lay down underneath the table and alongside the rolls of woven-glass cloth and carbon-fiber cloth used to mold the shell of the drones. She steadied the shotgun, knowing she’d have to shoot fast and accurately to take down all four.

  With a momentary lull in the shooting, the cavernous room sounded eerily quiet, and all Danya heard was the ringing in her ears. Then she saw them—boot-clad feet coming around from behind a collection of tall file drawers and bookcases. Pistol fire resumed to the front of her position. The thudding sound of 9mm bullets punching into the barrel sounded odd against the sharp crack of gunfire.

  As the first guard stepped into view, Danya fired. The FN s
hotgun barked and shoved firmly into her shoulder. But she easily absorbed the recoil, and from her prone position, she was rock steady. She fired again and again as the trailing three guards rushed toward her, perhaps putting too much trust in their body armor. The shotgun slugs, designed to penetrate mild steel, blasted large ragged holes in the ballistic vests the men wore. Tissue, organs, and bone fared even worse.

  Danya nudged her head above the stacked rolls of cloth, trying to spot the remaining guards and technicians. Her curiosity was rewarded with a renewed volley of gunfire, although it seemed to be diminishing in intensity. Their numbers had to be dwindling; she’d already eliminated at least eight. The pistol rounds buried in the carbon-fiber and glass-fiber rolls, not able to penetrate through the thick layers of tough fabric.

  She rolled out from under the table, pushed to her feet, and sprinted for the bookcase and file cabinet where she’d stopped the flanking team. Gunfire chased her, but she made it, sliding to a stop.

  Peeking through a gap between the bookcase and file cabinet, she could see much of the control center. She assumed technicians would normally be manning the work consoles, though now the chairs were vacant. Across the room she saw several men clustered near a door. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the hand gestures and waving arms suggested they were planning some action, maybe outside the building.

  From above, she heard a frantic voice. “One minute! That’s all we have. One minute to get the backup generator on line or we risk losing the flight!”

  “Get that goddamn generator online!” a commanding voice echoed.

  The team across the room dashed out the door, leaving Danya alone on the floor of the control center.

  s

  Since Peter hadn’t passed the backup generators on his way into the control center, he continued on a path around the barn, expecting the machines were on the far side of the structure. As he rounded the corner, he saw them. Two large steel boxes sited on concrete pads about ten feet from the wall of the barn. A large conduit extended from each machine and travelled to the wall, passing through a couple feet above the ground.