Chapter 46/47
Chapters Forty-Six & Forty-Seven
Mon/October/2008 07:00 AM
Chapter
46
Nick took the stairs two and three steps at a time. He felt the weight of the handgun in the pocket of his cargo pants. It banged against the outside of his thigh each time he took another leap upwards. He should pull it out, be ready for whatever he might stumble across up here, but he was nervous of firing on the wrong person, or stumbling and setting the damn thing off -- Some way to die. Instead of the hero, he’d be the asshole who fell and shot himself in the head.
Didn’t that happen in a movie he’d seen recently?
Which one?
Hell, it didn’t matter. He just didn’t want to be that guy.
Course, just worrying about stumbling guaranteed that it would happen, and it did.
At the landing to the seventh floor he grabbed the hand railing, started to spin himself around the corner and head up the next flight of stairs, but he caught his toe on the lowest step. His body sailed forward as his feet dragged behind. The famous sack of potatoes. He tried to slow his fall, grabbing at the railing at the last possible moment, but he went down harder. His shin and knee hit the concrete steps with a sudden, nauseating thump. He had a mental image of the bone inside turning bruised and purple.
Don’t think about it.
Shake it off.
He got back on his feet. His leg screaming at him. Up another level, grab the rail, spin, and up again.
Then there he was.
Slumped against the wall in the middle of a mess of debris: Agent Ransom, who sat there, his gun held high, aimed directly at him.
Brick’s eyes were half shut. They were red and running with tears, but the face behind the eyes didn’t match. His expression was set, the features held in one cold, stony arrangement.
“Who. Goes. There?” Ransom asked.
“It’s me.”
“Oh Good. The rescue squad.”
Chapter 47
Blood burped through Luke’s fingers as he pressed them, clawlike, against the bloom of shredded skin that burst from the fabric of his pant leg. The pain was almost bearable at the moment, which scared him, he was probably in shock, or slipping into it very quickly. A pattern of bullets rippled the wall above his head, leaving the plaster and concrete torn to shit. Glass tinkled to the hospital floor around him.
Gomez stood to the left side of the lab entrance, that was as far as he’d gotten since the assault began. Things had not gone smoothly, not from the get go. They hadn’t planned on going in firing, but that’s how it had played out. Tim’s, or rather Griffin’s guys have been ready for them. The moment they set foot on the floor the bullets had come blasting through the glass, which made Luke think that wired doorway had a bit more to it than just serving as the electrical match to a keg of dynamite. They must have had some sort of alarm hooked up too.
Gomez pulled a two inch square mirror from his pocket, lifted it towards the door’s shattered window, then turned it at an angle to catch a glimpse of the lab. He could see about seven guys in the front room, none of them wearing masks, all of them armed. At least two other figures paced the back room, training their guns on something, probably the hostages. Luke was down the hall from him, sitting under a six foot long window, circled by a fringe of glass shards. Luke looked at him and Gomez held up four fingers, once, then curled them in and opened thre again. He jerked his thumb towards the window.
Luke nodded and held up three fingers.
Ten Guys. That they knew of.
Luke gave another nod, then he was on his feet, face screwed up in pain.
Luke lifted his gun over the edge of the window, firing off seven rounds, aiming, firing, aiming, firing, then hitting the floor again.
Gomez spun up to his feet, aiming through the doors broken glass, firing shots at the three remaining figures. Either the others had been hit, or they’d hit the deck. A wise move.
Boom!
The first shot hit one of the men in the side of the neck, slicing through the tendon then kept his head from wobbling free. It wobbled, and blood sprayed out in like ketchup from a diner bottled.
Gomez fired again.
The second shot took off the guy’s head.
A twist of the gun and a turn to the left, and the next shot hit a second guy square in the face.
By the time the gun had turned again, the third man was gone.
Smart guy.
The glass crunched under Luke’s bloody boot as he stood again, the muzzle of his weapon once more pivoting on the window’s edge. He waited, then climbed to his feet, leaning his weight against his right shoulder, which he pressed into the wall for support. He angled his rifle up and over the edge of the window, spraying the floor inside with a shower of bullets. Then he hazarded a look inside and damn near lost his head for the trouble. Three bullets tore through the wall beside him-
Thoom thoom thoom!
Gomez dove to the other side of the door, glass tinkling against his leg, one piece slicing through his pant leg and ripping into the flesh. He clenched his teeth, shuffled to the bottom left corner of the window, then bobbed up.
Bam! Bam!
He hit the guy in the corner of the left eye. Bullet hit bone hit eye, and POP, the whole side of the guy’s face ruptured and rippled down the front, even as the next bullet whizzed through the mass of falling flesh and blood, and ripped into the guy’s throat, sending his arms and leg shooting straight out to the sides as he fell backwards, stiff as a board.
Gomez dove to the floor as another man emerged from behind a lab bench. Gomez aimed, fired, and got him perfectly. Like his associate before him, the man’s arms and legs went straight out to the sides as a spatter of blood bloomed at the center of his forehead, exactly at the point where Luke fired another single, clean shot.
Thoop.
The body tumbled to the floor and the room fell silent.
Gomez sat on the ground, breathing deeply.
Luke was crouched on one knee, shaking from the adrenaline. He lowered himself to the floor, propping his body up with one arm.
Then the door in the back of the lab opened, and one by one, men and women, dressed in lab coats and carrying backpacks began filing out. They murmured softly to one another, their voices barely whispers, many of them uttering only prayers.
Luke turned to Gomez, his brow crimped in the middle.
Gomez lifted a hand to shield the glare from an overhead light that now dangled from the ceiling, spinning a lazy fluorescent twirl in the draft from the ventilation system. He looked past the crowd moving out of the lab, now filing out into the hallway, and through the crowd he could just make out the figure of a little man. A little man with a moustache and a tense, drawn up body, who stood near the door of the backroom, holding a canister in his hands, and shouting something to three more gunmen, who stood in the back corner, their guns slung back over their shoulders, their hands raised in the air.
The little figure turned to the doorway to see the progress of the captives as they slipped away to freedom, then he redirected his attention to the men in the back, and lifted the canister a bit closer to his chest.
Nick took the stairs two and three steps at a time. He felt the weight of the handgun in the pocket of his cargo pants. It banged against the outside of his thigh each time he took another leap upwards. He should pull it out, be ready for whatever he might stumble across up here, but he was nervous of firing on the wrong person, or stumbling and setting the damn thing off -- Some way to die. Instead of the hero, he’d be the asshole who fell and shot himself in the head.
Didn’t that happen in a movie he’d seen recently?
Which one?
Hell, it didn’t matter. He just didn’t want to be that guy.
Course, just worrying about stumbling guaranteed that it would happen, and it did.
At the landing to the seventh floor he grabbed the hand railing, started to spin himself around the corner and head up the next flight of stairs, but he caught his toe on the lowest step. His body sailed forward as his feet dragged behind. The famous sack of potatoes. He tried to slow his fall, grabbing at the railing at the last possible moment, but he went down harder. His shin and knee hit the concrete steps with a sudden, nauseating thump. He had a mental image of the bone inside turning bruised and purple.
Don’t think about it.
Shake it off.
He got back on his feet. His leg screaming at him. Up another level, grab the rail, spin, and up again.
Then there he was.
Slumped against the wall in the middle of a mess of debris: Agent Ransom, who sat there, his gun held high, aimed directly at him.
Brick’s eyes were half shut. They were red and running with tears, but the face behind the eyes didn’t match. His expression was set, the features held in one cold, stony arrangement.
“Who. Goes. There?” Ransom asked.
“It’s me.”
“Oh Good. The rescue squad.”
Chapter 47
Blood burped through Luke’s fingers as he pressed them, clawlike, against the bloom of shredded skin that burst from the fabric of his pant leg. The pain was almost bearable at the moment, which scared him, he was probably in shock, or slipping into it very quickly. A pattern of bullets rippled the wall above his head, leaving the plaster and concrete torn to shit. Glass tinkled to the hospital floor around him.
Gomez stood to the left side of the lab entrance, that was as far as he’d gotten since the assault began. Things had not gone smoothly, not from the get go. They hadn’t planned on going in firing, but that’s how it had played out. Tim’s, or rather Griffin’s guys have been ready for them. The moment they set foot on the floor the bullets had come blasting through the glass, which made Luke think that wired doorway had a bit more to it than just serving as the electrical match to a keg of dynamite. They must have had some sort of alarm hooked up too.
Gomez pulled a two inch square mirror from his pocket, lifted it towards the door’s shattered window, then turned it at an angle to catch a glimpse of the lab. He could see about seven guys in the front room, none of them wearing masks, all of them armed. At least two other figures paced the back room, training their guns on something, probably the hostages. Luke was down the hall from him, sitting under a six foot long window, circled by a fringe of glass shards. Luke looked at him and Gomez held up four fingers, once, then curled them in and opened thre again. He jerked his thumb towards the window.
Luke nodded and held up three fingers.
Ten Guys. That they knew of.
Luke gave another nod, then he was on his feet, face screwed up in pain.
Luke lifted his gun over the edge of the window, firing off seven rounds, aiming, firing, aiming, firing, then hitting the floor again.
Gomez spun up to his feet, aiming through the doors broken glass, firing shots at the three remaining figures. Either the others had been hit, or they’d hit the deck. A wise move.
Boom!
The first shot hit one of the men in the side of the neck, slicing through the tendon then kept his head from wobbling free. It wobbled, and blood sprayed out in like ketchup from a diner bottled.
Gomez fired again.
The second shot took off the guy’s head.
A twist of the gun and a turn to the left, and the next shot hit a second guy square in the face.
By the time the gun had turned again, the third man was gone.
Smart guy.
The glass crunched under Luke’s bloody boot as he stood again, the muzzle of his weapon once more pivoting on the window’s edge. He waited, then climbed to his feet, leaning his weight against his right shoulder, which he pressed into the wall for support. He angled his rifle up and over the edge of the window, spraying the floor inside with a shower of bullets. Then he hazarded a look inside and damn near lost his head for the trouble. Three bullets tore through the wall beside him-
Thoom thoom thoom!
Gomez dove to the other side of the door, glass tinkling against his leg, one piece slicing through his pant leg and ripping into the flesh. He clenched his teeth, shuffled to the bottom left corner of the window, then bobbed up.
Bam! Bam!
He hit the guy in the corner of the left eye. Bullet hit bone hit eye, and POP, the whole side of the guy’s face ruptured and rippled down the front, even as the next bullet whizzed through the mass of falling flesh and blood, and ripped into the guy’s throat, sending his arms and leg shooting straight out to the sides as he fell backwards, stiff as a board.
Gomez dove to the floor as another man emerged from behind a lab bench. Gomez aimed, fired, and got him perfectly. Like his associate before him, the man’s arms and legs went straight out to the sides as a spatter of blood bloomed at the center of his forehead, exactly at the point where Luke fired another single, clean shot.
Thoop.
The body tumbled to the floor and the room fell silent.
Gomez sat on the ground, breathing deeply.
Luke was crouched on one knee, shaking from the adrenaline. He lowered himself to the floor, propping his body up with one arm.
Then the door in the back of the lab opened, and one by one, men and women, dressed in lab coats and carrying backpacks began filing out. They murmured softly to one another, their voices barely whispers, many of them uttering only prayers.
Luke turned to Gomez, his brow crimped in the middle.
Gomez lifted a hand to shield the glare from an overhead light that now dangled from the ceiling, spinning a lazy fluorescent twirl in the draft from the ventilation system. He looked past the crowd moving out of the lab, now filing out into the hallway, and through the crowd he could just make out the figure of a little man. A little man with a moustache and a tense, drawn up body, who stood near the door of the backroom, holding a canister in his hands, and shouting something to three more gunmen, who stood in the back corner, their guns slung back over their shoulders, their hands raised in the air.
The little figure turned to the doorway to see the progress of the captives as they slipped away to freedom, then he redirected his attention to the men in the back, and lifted the canister a bit closer to his chest.