The Fog of Dreams
Page 93
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Strickland hit the stairwell and began a careful progression upwards, immediately hearing the clattering slam of a door opening a couple of floors above. Muffled footsteps told him four or five men were pouring into the narrow stairway, intending to turn it into a deadly tunnel of gunfire. Evidently taking the time to cautiously climb the stairs was no longer an option. Within the narrow stairwell, the metallic steps went up in a zigzag formation, without much opportunity for cover. With his duffle firmly strapped to his back and his SCAR slung over his shoulder, Strickland bent his knees and propelled himself upwards, grabbing the metal railing of the landing on the second floor in a single huge jump. He pulled himself up and over the railing even as gunfire echoed from above, sending a barrage down the thin empty area between the stairs. The landings were concrete, and Strickland pinned himself to the metal exit door leading to the second floor, managing to barely avoid the stray bullets screaming down the stairwell.
As he moved, he grimaced, clutching his right shoulder, where the pain of the bullet now resonated. With no immediate danger of bullet strikes, Strickland noticed the window on the outside of the stairwell facing the building next door. The sunlight glinted, and he swung swiftly to the left, rolling across the wall. A .50 caliber slug from the sniper rifle plowed through the glass window, carrying a trail of broken shards behind it, then slammed into the metal door at full velocity. The impact of this massive bullet punched a dent in the metal door and struck with such force that it pulled the door clearly off its hinges and sent it crashing onto the floor. The resounding crack and crash left the hallway oddly silent as gunfire halted, leaving just the faint repeating echo as Strickland considered his next move.
The sniper peeked over his massive Barret M107 rifle and cursed quietly to himself.
All five men suddenly ran down the stairs, with weapons raised, and were somewhat surprised to see the entrance door to Level 2 was actually gone completely. Just as the first man reached the doorway, William Strickland spun around it, with his leg pulled up tight, and then thrust out, striking the lead agent directly in the chest. The strength of the kick tossed him backwards, where his hip struck the railing behind him and carried him tumbling over, falling the two stories to his concrete-covered death. In such tight quarters, the other four agents couldn't get their bearings. Two men directly in front of Strickland raised their pistols, but the ex-NSA contractor whipped his right hand aside and struck one man in the temple with the butt of his pistol, then kicked the left knee of the other man, twisting it the wrong direction.
As he went down like a deflated parade float, Strickland squeezed off four gunshots and the last two men took 9-millimeter rounds to the face. He stepped over the fallen bodies and ran up the stairs towards the third floor landing, hearing steps on the concrete just behind him. Halting on the third level, he spun to face the first man to reach the top of the stairs and he surprised him with a sidekick to the chest, knocking him back against the wall behind him. Ducking under his flying comrade, a second pursuer pulled off five gunshots with his pistol, and Strickland took three shots in the Kevlar, but managed to spin away from the last two, clutching for support on the wall. Before the second guy could get off another shot, Strickland pushed himself from the wall and swung with his left fist, crashing it against the man's jaw, sending him stumbling.
His breath coming in painful gasps, Strickland careened over to him, but he wasn't at full strength, and the NSA agent dodged his advance and returned with a couple of strong blows with the butt of his own pistol, trying to force him back so he could take a shot. The NSA agent swung his pistol down in a quick vertical arc, but Strickland thrust his arm up and blocked it, then delivered a rock-like punch to the exposed ribs of his attacker. He gasped and doubled over, allowing Strickland to grab his collar, swing around, and toss him over the railing of the third floor landing. The agent flew across the stairwell, tumbled down a level, and then struck the external window on his descent, breaking through the last bits of intact glass and somersaulted out into the afternoon air without even a scream to signal his doom.
Recovering quickly, Strickland took a quick inventory of himself and shoved backwards, pinning himself against the wall. Calming himself to focus, he regulated his breathing, checked the ammunition load on his pistol, and unslung his SCAR to check that weapon as well. He remembered his trek down this hallway the last time? remembered the trap set, and the fake "Records Room." He also clearly remembered the name on the plaque next to that very "Records Room."
Richard Grace.
Judging by his office placement, he certainly seemed to be the one in charge, so Strickland maintained hope that he could perhaps take Grace alive. One last deep breath sucked into his lungs.
He flung open the door and chaos reigned.