Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  He scooped up the rebar, stepped out of the window and hooked the sides of his shoes onto the ladder and slid, the rebar against the metal instead of burning the crap out of his hands. Less friction means more speed. Shit.

  Had it not been for the soft body at the foot of the ladder, he could’ve and probably would’ve done himself some serious damage, not fatal, well, not until the agents shot him a few times.

  He took a second to check the agent was still breathing, as soon as he got up off his knees from the man’s chest. Okay, wheezing a little from a few busted ribs, but still sucking in God’s free air.

  So now the whole board was reversed. He was on the ground and the guys with guns were up on the second floor. They were going to be pissed. That was just fine. In combat, a good touch of rage spikes up the muscles. And dulls the wits. Ask Bruce Lee, pissing opponents off was right up there with making weird noises.

  There was another agent on the other ladder. Ethan knew it. He also knew he wasn’t shooting because his target was leaning over his buddy, but the moment he was clear…hell, a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

  Still crouched, Ethan took a half-step forward and dived through a hole where a scenic window was going to be. There could’ve been anything on the other side of the hole. Rubble, machinery, or a drop to nowhere. But none of it was as bad as nine mils chopping up his body.

  Of the things that could’ve been there, the pile of broken junk and splintered wood was the best result. Hurt like stink, but not fatal. A shard of glass tore his pants and sliced his calf. He told himself he’d cut himself worse shaving and the limping was just attention seeking. He could have a little whimper and a worry later; right now staying alive trumped a little nick, even it the little nick was right down to the bone.

  He felt the weight of his Colt under his jacket and thought about it as he scrambled over the rubble and out of the room. Rambo First Blood. Yeah, but Rambo was nuts, PTSD, but nuts. He wasn’t ready to shoot the good guys and knew he never would be, even if it was a calming fantasy. So it was the rebar. And that was going to get him killed. He’d been lucky so far, but in a firefight luck only gets you into a better position to get your head blown off. He needed a new tactic.

  Good luck with that.

  He cut left down the corridor and was back at his Cherokee. Not that it was going to do him any good nose against the wall and buried in a shoulder-high pile of sand next to the cement mixer. He started to turn back to the doorway but then looked back at the mixer.

  A stupid idea. It wouldn’t work. Like a cowboy putting his hat on his rifle and waving it about to see where the Indians were. He was still thinking how stupid it was as he scrambled over the sand and pulled the mixer away from the Cherokee.

  He hadn’t got a hat to wave, so took off his coat and hung it across the handles of two spades shoved into the sand. Maybe in the gloom of the unlit building, men in a heightened state, nervous maybe. It could work. Yeah, and maybe Santa would swoop down on his sleigh and carry him off to the North Pole. What the hell, every other plan ended with him reprising Bonnie and Clyde’s final scene.

  The cement mixer fired up on the first push of the starter. He climbed over the sand and sat in the darkest corner of the room. No cover, unless he counted the empty paint tins and plastic buckets.

  He didn’t hear the agents coming, but they could’ve been playing ‘Marching Through Georgia’ on a bugle and he wouldn’t have heard them above the din the mixer was making as the bricks he’d dropped in rolled around in the steel drum. A bit of overkill maybe.

  They were there; he felt the subtle change in his perception and rested his Colt on his drawn-up knees.

  Two through the door to the left, one through the door to the right, all three blasting away at his coat. So that was his jacket and his pants ruined. He liked that jacket too. Lightweight hunting jacket with lots of useful pockets and a hood stashed in a little pocket. Now it was full of holes so not so windproof.

  The agents moved into the room, their weapons fixed on the deadly jacket and spade handles. The nearest agent pulled the jacket off the spades and threw it at the mixer. He said something, but it was lost in the din. He climbed up the sand and pushed the off button. The sudden silence was like a drink of water to the ears and the agents relaxed a little.

  “You know what a Colt M forty-five CQBP is?” Ethan asked quietly.

  The reaction wouldn’t have been less if he’d set off a firecracker.

  The agents spun around, their Sigs pointing this way and that as they searched desperately for the speaker.

  “Basically,” Ethan said, still quiet, “it’s a revamped classic .45. Blow your heads clean off.”

  He hoped Dirty Harry wasn’t listening.

  They couldn’t find him and jerked left and right like puppets with a drunken operator.

  “I could’ve killed you all by now and had time for coffee,” Ethan said. “Be nice federal agents and put your weapons on the little sand dune. Before I change my mind and shoot you in the ass.”

  Nobody moved for several seconds. They just stayed dead still, their eyes searching the shadows, but they were done and knew it. The performance was just so they could face themselves in the mirror and not look away. Ethan let them have that.

  “I think I’ll shoot the blond one in the balls,” Ethan said.

  The blond agent jumped a little, then threw his weapon onto the sand. That was all the others needed. Three Sigs on the sand said this little bit of fun and games was over and it was time to wash up for supper.

  Ethan stood up and stepped out of the shadows, his Colt still pointing at the blond agent’s balls, just in case he’d thought it was a bluff.

  “I’m going to take one of those cool blacked-out SUVs,” Ethan said, nodding towards the ramp down to the alley. “It’s not like stealing. I’ll leave it someplace you’ll be able to find it. Not planning to wash it or anything; you’ll have to handle that yourselves.”

  He backed off towards the ramp, gave an exaggerated wince and stopped. “Now look, getting all excited about the SUV and I almost forgot.” He pointed at the sand then waved his Colt casually at the blond agent. “Collect up the guns and drop them in the mixer.” He twitched his gun. “Now in the movies I’d say something like, real easy. But I don’t need to say that, do I?” He gave them a beat. “Because I’ve got this Colt .45 and you know you’re just not fast enough.”

  He let the blond glare for a moment before picking up the guns and dropping them into the mixer. He turned and did a bit more glaring. Scary stuff.

  Ethan sighed. “Look, you’re bright boys or you wouldn’t have passed the agent entrance exam.”

  They didn’t get it.

  “Start the mixer.” He pointed his Colt at it. “The green button.”

  The blond pressed the button and the mixer went back to creating an ear-splitting cacophony of clangs and bangs. As it mangled the Sigs.

  “Going now,” Ethan said loudly, moving sideways down the ramp. “Don’t come running out or it’ll be like Butch and Sundance.” He stopped for a moment. “You’ve seen the movie, right?”

  They didn’t answer. Looked like they were upset about something.

  He could’ve done something dramatic like shooting out the tires of the other vehicles, but no point, the Secret Service had plenty more. He glanced in the rear-view as the SUV took off down the alley.

  Looked like the agents had seen Butch and Sundance because they stayed inside the building.

  Winter was nervous and had to think about the emotion to identify it. He wasn’t afraid for himself, that would be just stupid, he was afraid for his friend. Sure, Chuck could look after himself, and had proven that a hundred times, but then it had been just them and him. Now his two kids and his wife were the targets, and that would blur any man’s focus.

  He was late, he knew that; the plane had landed two hours late because of crew rotation, whatever the fuck that meant. Nobody cared; it was just a couple of hours. What dif
ference did that make to anybody? Wasn’t as if it was life or death.

  Gunny’s house was on a quiet street close to Salmon Creek, though that was little more than the proverbial dark and spooky wood right then, it being full dark and no moon yet.

  Winter left the rental at the end of the street and closed its door quietly. There was nobody around, not a soul even though it was barely midnight. He guessed that was how normal people lived, or at least not military. Still struck him as being a strange way to live, knowing that you’d be in bed at the same time every night and up at the same time every morning, doing the same thing with the same people every fucking day. He did that, sooner or later he’d take his Sig into the john and just get the fuck out of it. Thing being, sooner or later that same daily crap was what he’d be doing. The Marines would kick him out one day and he’d be just another old soldier leaning on the bar and telling anybody who’d listen what a great life it was shooting bad guys for a living. Right. The john and the Sig.

  Gunny’s house was across the street. He didn’t even look at it; he just walked on by with a little stumble and a shuffle. Just a drunk heading home for an ear-blasting from his woman. Nothing to see here.

  There was a dark car parked up ahead, tight up against some bushes screening the biggest trailer home he’d ever seen. Maybe that was what he’d get when they kicked him onto the street. See the country, go where he pleased. Except there was no place he wanted to see that wasn’t paled by the places he’d seen. Halo jumping over the Registan Desert before dawn on a winter’s night. Shit, how’s Yosemite going to top that? Maybe he’d go see anyway, just to say told you so.

  He’d be on his own. Maybe he should’ve got himself a wife, imported one of those little things from Thailand. Right, and what the hell was he going to talk to her about? A woman, and a foreign one. Christ, could you imagine it? Driving down the freeway, decide to turn off just for the hell of it, but have to think about a woman. That’s a price way too high. They, women, don’t like you doing crazy stuff. He’d heard the others talking about their wives and the way they fussed when they went off to pull some numb nuts from the fire. What the hell did these women think their man did for a living when they married him? Probably thought they’d tame him. And he’d seen enough of that to know that’s just how it went. Marry a man, cut off his balls, then hate him for being a drunken miserable failure. Marriage. For somebody else.

  There were two guys in the car with rental plates. Watching Gunny’s house, or maybe they were faggots enjoying a handful of cock.

  He stopped up the street and looked around as if trying to get his bearings. They’d be watching him in the rearview. He fell off the sidewalk, caught his balance and staggered up a driveway towards an unlit wooden-clad house. Honey, I’m home.

  In the dark drive away from watching faggots, he stood up straight and looked around. They were here, he had no doubt about it. The only thing in doubt was who the they were. Special Forces sent by SecNav’s replacement, the puppet dancing to whatever tune Orpheus was playing? Or a regular death squad bought and paid for like any other business transaction? Operators wouldn’t be sitting in a rental out in the open, exchanging spit and eating twinkies, they’d have arrived, breached the building, killed their targets and exfiltrated without even waking the dog.

  Death squad. That was good. He had no desire to kill brothers, though if he had to… It still left the problem of how to deal with them. He didn’t have a weapon. He hadn’t had time to pick one up on arrival, and it wasn’t likely boarding a plane with a Sig, the air marshal would come on over and say, “Hey, man, great gun. Can I touch it?”

  But he knew where to get one.

  The faggots were concentrating on the house and listening to talk radio, for Christ’s sake. They almost jumped through the roof when he opened the rear door and got in.

  “Don’t do anything dramatic,” Winter said, and rammed the knuckles of his first fingers into the backs of their seats. “Doctors can do all sorts of stuff, but rebuilding a spine shot to shit by a nine mil isn’t one of them.”

  The men stayed very still.

  “Tell you what,” Winter said, “those guns are fucking up the line of your cheap suits. You pass them back here and you’ll look all smart and turned out.” He jammed his knuckle forward again. “And you know the next bit. Like they say in the cop shows. Nice and slow.” He grinned, his teeth white in the pale light from the dash. “Shit, I always wanted to say that.”

  They looked at each other for a second, but neither was going to be the first to try, he could see that.

  The guy in the driver’s seat lifted his gun off his lap and handed it back over his right shoulder.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Winter said, leaning a little towards the passenger. “You’re thinking to make a play when I reach for your buddy’s piece.” He made a loud sigh. “Now that would be a good move. If I were ten years old and not a marine highly trained at Uncle Sam’s expense.”

  The passenger’s shoulders sagged a little and he took his gun out of his shoulder holster and handed it back.

  So okay, now Winter had two Glocks. Silenced. He felt the weight in his hands. “Glock 17s. You like big ones, don’t you?”

  He leaned back against the seat. “You see that house over there?” He waited for them to look over at Gunny’s house. “That there’s the home of my dear friend. But hey, you know that, you coming here to kill him and his family and all.”

  They started to turn in their seats, but didn’t make it. The two Glocks kicked against Winter’s palms.

  He put one of the guns under his arm and got out of the vehicle. Two faggots gone to heaven, but this was a four-man squad or these two wouldn’t have just been sitting there looking out for trouble.

  He stayed close to the car for a moment, checking the surrounding houses for any movement that would show he’d been seen, but there was nothing. All the good citizens of Nowheresville were tucked up asleep in their beds. Except for two visitors skulking around someplace out there.

  There was no point joining in the skulking. Nothing says here I am faster than trying to sneak about unnoticed. So he walked to the next house and up the broad drive as if he owned the place.

  Gunny owned it.

  The door was closed but not locked. He took the suppressors off the big Glocks, tossed them and pushed one of the guns into his belt. He only needed one or he wouldn’t need either.

  Gunny and his wife were sitting in big stuffed chairs in the main room, and Gunny had a drink in his hand. Scotch by the look of it. He glanced at Winter as he stepped into the room but said nothing. And that said it all.

  Winter closed the door with his heel and put his back against it. He held the Glock against his thigh and looked across the big room to the two doors. One leading off to the kitchen he could just see through the gap, and the other almost closed. Leading to the bedrooms.

  He watched Gunny’s eyes flicker to the partly closed door. “Hey, Chuck, I see you’ve got visitors,” Winter said. “Maybe I should come back later.” He shrugged. “Or put a couple of rounds through that door there.”

  Gunny shook his head slowly. “Not such a great idea, as much as it appeals to me.”

  The door swung open and a clone of the guys in the car pushed a teenage kid into the room, keeping his gun against the boy’s head. He must have thought it was funny because he was grinning.

  “Wouldn’t want to shoot the kid, would you?” he said, and shifted his gun to the boy’s spine.

  The kitchen door swung inwards and a woman in a dark, body-hugging suit stepped into the sitting room, a cup of coffee in her hand as if she were a welcome guest. The gun in her right hand said different.

  “Well,” she said, smiling at Winter, “this is a surprise.”

  “Think so?” Winter said, resting the big gun barrel in the crook of his arm so that it pointed at her as she moved to her left, putting distance between her and the hostage.

  “This is awkward
,” she said, and put on a frown for show. “We were just…having a little chat with Sergeant Petty here, and his lovely wife.” She glanced at the pale woman sitting opposite Gunny. “Sally, isn’t it? No, silly me. Sally.” She smiled. “Lovely name. And this fine young man is your boy. You must be very proud.”

  She took a tiny step to the side and leaned a little to squint at Winter’s gun. “I see you’ve got a couple of Glocks.” She took a slow breath and glanced at the window. “Tony and Gordon?”

  Winter moved a little to follow her with the gun and then glanced at the one holding an automatic on the boy. “What I see here is a fat broad in a too-tight suit and a sweating guy who’ll have to find some new friends to bend for.”

  The woman’s jawbone stood out against her cheek and her mouth opened to say something, but she got control before she fell into the hole he’d dug.

  “And what I see,” she said through gritted teeth, “is two of us far enough apart that not even the best shooter in the world could get us both. And you’re not him.”

  Not a great prod. Winter’s was better.

  Winter glanced at Gunny. “You got your piece?”

  Gunny brought his Sig from under his leg. “This one?”

  “That’s very clever,” she said. “It’s like a magic trick. But it doesn’t change anything. James there will blow your boy’s spine out if either of you move.”

  James was grinning again, liking the way things were going.

  Winter shrugged. “You’re gonna kill us all anyway. Might as well take you with us.”

  The woman gave a tiny start. And Winter saw it. That had rattled her. She’d thought she had an unbeatable hand, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Gunny?” Winter said and waited for him to glance over. “You see Jimmy’s groin from your comfy seat?”

  Gunny looked the thin man over and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “When this fuckup blows, I’m going to shoot the fat woman in the face. You blow Jimmy’s balls off. But hey, don’t kill him. Let him bleed out awhile and enjoy the thrill of being a eunuch.”