growled to himself.
“All right,” Fat Mike said. “Your target’s on your left.”
The truck stopped. The air brakes chuffed loudly enough to be heard over the warbling motorcycle engines.
“I’m coming around,” Fat Mike advised.
Victor glanced around at the men who were riding with him. All of them were seasoned criminals. Most of them had killed before. Some of them had been to prison before. Going back didn’t scare them, but they didn’t intend to do that.
A moment later, Fat Mike pulled the trailer’s back door down. Bright sunlight cut into the gloom.
“All right,” Victor said over the headset that connected him to the rest of his men. “Let’s ride.” He twisted the accelerator and let the clutch out.
Victor took the lead and roared down the inclined ramp leading out of the trailer. When he reached bottom, he brought the motorcycle around and headed into the gravel parking lot. The other motorcycles trailed only a short distance behind him and flared out in a phalanx of thundering metal.
Shel McHenry, the other man, and the dog were caught out in the open. Victor grinned as he saw the Marine look in his direction. With one quick grab, Victor yanked the shotgun from the shoulder scabbard and pointed it at the Marine. As cut-down as it was, the shotgun was more pistol than anything else.
He squeezed the trigger. Double-ought buckshot exploded from the shotgun’s throat and sped toward Shel McHenry. The abbreviated weapon jumped erratically in Victor’s grasp, but the semiautomatic function fed a new shell into place.
36
›› Mooney’s Tavern
›› Jacksonville, North Carolina
›› 1417 Hours
“Max!” Shel roared as he slapped his thigh to bring the dog in close to him. By then Shel was already in motion. The Purple Royals’ colors stood out and identified them at once.
Remy broke for cover at the same time but in a separate direction to split the attention of their attackers. That was how they’d been trained for urban area action. Split, but not far, and regroup as needed. It made them harder to hit, more difficult to cover, and gave them overlapping fields of fire.
A cloud of double-ought buckshot punched through the windshield of a parked Ford pickup. The loud report almost drowned out the noise of the breaking windshield, barely audible anyway over the rumbling Harley engines. Cube-shaped glass crunched under Shel’s feet as he beat a hasty retreat. He drew the SOCOM. 45 from his hip and took a two-handed grip as he crouched behind an SUV.
Bullets peppered the vehicle.
Shel felt Max braced at his knees, ready to take action. The SUV sagged suddenly as the front tire blew. A quick step put Shel at the rear of the SUV. Pistol held high, he peered around the vehicle, then singled one of the bikers out of the pack. He aimed for the man’s center mass and fired twice.
The first bullet took the mirror off the motorcycle’s left grip. The mirror had slid over in front of the biker’s chest. The second bullet hit the biker in the chest. He lost control of the motorcycle but didn’t let go of the handlebars.
Before he could recover, the motorcycle ran into a parked car. The bike flipped onto its side and threw the rider to the ground. The biker pushed up on his hands and tried to get to his feet.
Body armor, Shel realized. Their attackers had come loaded for bear, as his daddy would say.
Remy wheeled from cover and took deliberate aim. One of his bullets struck the man’s helmet. The 9 mm round ricocheted off the helmet’s hard surface. The next two struck the biker in the neck. He struggled for a moment, then slumped to the ground.
As he watched the man die, Shel hardened his heart. The way they were outnumbered, he knew they couldn’t afford to leave their enemies able to fight.
Another biker brought his Harley around and planted his feet. He lowered an Uzi and unleashed a torrent of rounds in Remy’s direction. Remy ducked back immediately. Bullet holes chased him.
Shel shifted and fired two shots into the man’s back without hesitation. This wasn’t one of the Louis L’Amour stories where two men faced each other and slapped leather like the books Shel had grown up on as a kid. This was war. In war, a warrior didn’t always call another man out and take him on face-to-face.
The biker jerked and fell sideways. The fact that there was no blood reinforced to Shel that the men wore body armor.
A Harley engine blasted to Shel’s left and raced closer. He turned and watched as the biker lifted a machine pistol in one big, hamlike hand. Shel stood his ground and fired instinctively. Running was only going to get him killed a heartbeat later, and by then the biker could have taken cover.
Bullets cut the air only inches from Shel’s head and face. He didn’t hear them passing, but he felt the heated wind tug at his hair and pulse against his jaw. Two of his bullets caught the biker in his helmet. One of the rounds glanced from the rounded surface of the helmet, but the other crashed through the faceplate.
The biker, suddenly slack, toppled. The motorcycle dropped with him, momentarily engaged gears, and spun out. The rear tire threw gravel like shrapnel. Then the engine sputtered and died.
Down to five rounds in his pistol’s magazine, Shel took the opportunity to reload. He shoved the partially spent magazine into his back pocket so he could find it if he needed it. Then he ducked and ran around the SUV in order to change his position.
Three attackers were down. Shel pulled up a mental image of the bikers. There had been ten of them when the shooting started.
Shel stayed hunkered down behind the pickup while two motorcycles zipped by. The bikers sprayed the truck.
Shiny chain links draped over the side of the pickup’s bed grabbed Shel’s attention. Judging from the mud caking the vehicle, the driver spent considerable time off-road. Moving quickly, Shel yanked the chain down with his free hand, then underhanded it at the next motorcycle.
The chain struck the motorcycle’s side and wrapped up in the rear wheel. Before the biker knew what was happening, the motorcycle’s rear tire locked up. The rider flew over the handlebars and managed an inelegant face-plant.
Conscious of everything around him, Shel watched as the downed biker forced himself up to his knees and halted there for a moment. Before he could move again, Shel took aim at the man’s neck and fired. The man rolled over and was still.
In less than a minute, the parking area was riddled with bullets and spent brass. And nearly half of Victor Gant’s would-be murderers were down.
Victor himself sat almost seventy yards away calmly reloading his cut-down shotgun. Shel took a bead and fired. The round slapped against Victor’s helmet and rocked his head back. Then he engaged the clutch and the accelerator and shot forward. He raised the shotgun before him and fired.
Shel ducked the blast and felt the vehicle behind him shiver with the impacts. Victor Gant roared past him, followed quickly by the other survivors of the attack. When the last of the five went past, Shel stepped out and took aim at the last motorcycle’s rear tire.
The tire exploded. Rubber came loose and flapped against the wheel housing. Out of control, the biker slammed into a twentysomething-year-old Trans Am. He didn’t get back up.
Gun in hand, forcing himself to move, Shel crept toward the last man they’d downed. As Shel kept watch, Victor Gant’s bikers roared out onto the street. Shel reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone.
Remy maintained his cover with his pistol extended and ready to use.
Shel called NCIS headquarters and got Will on the phone. Briefly he outlined what had just taken place. Beneath his fingertips, the biker’s pulse was fast and weak.
“Stay there,” Will advised. “Secure the site. Estrella’s already notifying Jacksonville PD and the sheriff’s
