One Rough Man

* * *

I entered a small room that appeared to be a butler area, stuffed with shelves holding all sorts of kitchen utensils. Swinging my weapon in an arc, I attempted the impossible task of covering three hundred and sixty degrees simultaneously. A frightened man dressed as a servant stood up, throwing his hands high above his head. He clearly wasn’t a threat, but I had no way of detaining him and didn’t have the time even if I could. My success rested primarily on my ability to keep the enemy from knowing an assault was under way, but speed was a close second. If an alarm was raised, the only thing that would keep me alive was keeping the enemy from knowing where to orient their efforts. If I maintained enough momentum, going as fast as I possibly could, the enemy wouldn’t be able to pinpoint my position and would hopefully attack areas after I was through them.

I squeezed off a double tap to his head and raced to the next door before he even hit the ground. I suppose I should have felt some pity, but there was only relief at the fact that the weapon I held had hit what I aimed at. He was collateral damage. Nothing more. He knew who he was working for. Fucker should have picked a better employer.

I entered the next room and dropped a man in military kit racing for a weapon propped against the wall. I scanned the room for other targets, settling my sights on another man sitting in a large wing-backed chair smoking a cigar. Apparently a study, the room was paneled with dark wood and lined on one side by a giant bookshelf. The other side housed a fireplace, with the husks of a long dead fire sitting on an iron grate like a blackened skeleton. The man was dressed in a business suit, smiling, with his hands outstretched, the Cuban cigar wafting smoke toward the ceiling.

“You must be the infamous Mr. Pike. Jake was right — you are full of surprises. I’m assuming you’ve come to bring me my package.”

I eased off of the trigger. “Where’s the girl?”

“All in good time. She’s fine. First, where’s my package?”

I felt the time slipping away, like lifeblood flowing from an open wound. “Where — Is — The — Girl.”

The man leapt up in a rage, shouting, “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you can enter my house, attack my people, and walk away unscathed? You think—”

Before he could finish his sentence, I blew out the back of his head with a high-velocity hollow point, watching him fall backward into the chair. Who do I think I am? I’m the man with the gun, dumbass.

I moved on, clearing room after room. The majority of the mansion was unoccupied, which made the clearing fairly fast. My assault was only into minute number twelve by the time I had cleared the first and second floors, encountering only two more men, killing both. I went to the third floor, clearing it and finding no trace of Jennifer. I couldn’t believe I was still alive and felt my luck evaporating by the second. Where the fuck is she? Exiting the last room, I moved at a light jog in the direction of the stairs. While I was still twenty feet away, a servant appeared at the top. Seeing me, he whirled around and began racing back down the stairs, screaming at the top of his lungs. I snapped off a couple of rounds but missed. Shit. Now the race is on.

39

The lead guard bent down to unlock the shackles on Jennifer’s ankles. She lashed out with both feet, hitting him squarely in the chest and knocking him flat on his back. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to fight, reacting only by instinct. She decided her instincts were correct. Given a choice, she’d rather be beaten to death. Motherfucker’s going to work for this. She rotated on her back, feet out toward the group.

The other guards laughed at the man she had kicked even as they moved in on her. Two circled around her. She tried to stay with them by spinning on her back, but it was impossible. One slapped her hard in the face with an open hand, stunning her. Two other guards grabbed her manacled arms, holding her down. The lead guard got back up, dusted himself off, and walked back to her. Standing over her, he spit into her face, then stomped on her stomach with his full weight, taking the wind out of her and causing her to double up. He bent down and unlocked the manacles on her legs without a further fight. Grinning at her pain, he pulled out a tactical knife and sliced off her clothes. She curled up in a ball, wondering how long her body had left before it was shattered.

* * *

Stairwells were the worst area to fight through. There was no cover at all and only one way to move. It was a funnel that required several men working as a team to successfully clear. I had a choice, either sprint down the stairs in an attempt to beat anyone setting up at the bottom, or wait for them to attempt to come up. I split the difference, deciding to wait for them on the second floor. It was a calculated risk, as it would allow the alert to reach everyone in the compound, but I didn’t like the odds of beating the enemy down three flights of stairs. If anyone was at the bottom by the time I got there, I would be easy to pick off. Better to let them do the hard work.

The stairs had one advantage in that it would limit the men coming up to two abreast, thus preventing them from bringing their total fire-power to bear, and allowing me to fight no more than two at a time.

As I reached the second-floor landing I heard the rush of men on the hardwood floor below. I switched magazines, replacing the one in the weapon with a full thirty rounds. I waited in the darkness, my back to the wall, the stairwell opening up five feet to my right. I heard the shouting of the men below as they attempted to organize a collective response, then the pounding of feet on the stairs. I waited for a couple of heartbeats, getting control of my adrenaline. Here we go…. Don’t miss…. Don’t miss. I checked that my holosight was still functioning, then turned into the stairwell, flipping my weapon from safe to semiautomatic.

I saw seven men rushing up the stairs, the first three with a look of shock when they saw me coming. They were all outfitted like the guard outside. Without conscious thought, I shifted my aim to their heads to avoid any body armor. I began firing controlled pairs, pulling the trigger so fast the weapon sounded like it was on automatic. The first three men died instantly, two perfect holes appearing like magic between their eyes. One fell backward, blocking my shot at the remaining men. The four were firing wildly back at me.

Like inexperienced soldiers everywhere, their initial shots went high, but with this much lead coming my way, the odds were against all of them continuing to miss. I clipped one in the shoulder and was turning to move back to the cover of the second floor hallway when one of the wild rounds struck me directly over my heart. The armor plate saved my life, but the force from the kinetic energy of the bullet still knocked the shit out of me, causing me to fall backward. Lying back, momentarily stunned, I poured fire down the stairwell in an effort to suppress the guards, desperate to finish the fight before one of them could calm down enough to shoot straight.

Realizing I was dead meat if I remained on the floor, I forgot about the cover and launched myself straight into them. The one I had wounded was holding his shoulder and crawling back to the first floor in an effort to escape. Of the other three, one was changing magazines and two continued to shoot ineffectually. One of the guards, shooting wildly at my charge, apparently thinking the noise alone would stop me, hit the man standing in front of him in the back of the head, killing him. Deadeye quit shooting, shocked at what he had done. Nothing like a little luck. I killed him while moving at a dead run down the stairs, close enough to see the look of shock on his face as his soul fled his body.

Continuing to move, I reached the third man before he could work the bolt release of his weapon. I jammed the barrel of the 416 into the man’s forehead, causing an imprint of the flash suppressor on his skull and knocking him out. I double-tapped the unconscious man’s head as I vaulted over him, feeling the weapon lock open on an empty magazine. Intent on stopping the man with the shoulder wound from getting away, I wasted no time trying to reload.

The man was on the ground floor and on his feet, moving toward a door off the huge, cathedral-like den at the base of the stairs. He was shuffling along like Quasimodo, looking back over his shoulder as if he was being chased by the devil, his shattered arm dangling uselessly beside him. I caught him just as he reached the door. Dropping the 416 on its assault sling, I reached across the man’s face, pulling his head back by digging my fingers into his eyes and yanking upward. I hammered his windpipe above the thyroid cartilage with my other hand,