The heft of the MP-5 gave me a fool’s confidence. I was cold, wet, scared, and mad. I started back toward the main complex with the submachine gun braced against my hip, my thumb on the safety. The gentle mist of rain was now a drizzle.
The dude who worried me the most was the one in the ghillie suit. When you are playing with guns in the woods, the man who sees the other fellow first has a huge advantage. The ghillie suit was the ultimate in camouflage, but only if the person wearing it stayed immobile, settled in to become one with the surrounding landscape. Movement negated the value of the suit.
Nearing the clearing, I stopped behind a tree to look and listen. Took a few steps to the dubious safety of another tree and scanned everything. I crawled the last twenty yards to a large tree that gave me a view of the house and yard.
I was thanking my stars the bushes and weeds were well leafed out, providing me some cover, when a large SUV drove up the road and stopped in front of the main house. The driver didn’t turn off the engine.
“I’m here, Joe.”
This had to be the ride they were waiting for, the one that dropped the man I killed.
Flat on my belly, I eased the muzzle of the MP-5 through the bushes and settled the red dot of the sighting reticle on the driver of the vehicle. The range was perhaps a hundred yards, maybe a few yards less.
The thought of the guy in the ghillie suit stopped me from pulling the trigger. Without moving my head, I scanned everything I could see in that gloomy wet universe.
They had undoubtedly heard the pistol shot and knew their man hadn’t reported on the radio. My only edge was that they didn’t know where I was. I hoped.
The guy in the ghillie could be anywhere in the brush surrounding the clearing waiting for me to reveal my position. I had no illusions — with an MP-5, he didn’t even have to be a good shot. Any one of that clipful of 9 mm slugs he could hose at me would be quite sufficient to terminate my miserable existence.
A man in a camo suit with a weapon in his hand came out onto the porch. He looked around, then keyed the radio on his belt. “Report.”
The silence that followed that word was pregnant.
The seconds ticked by one by one, then another male voice spoke into my ear. “This intruder must have boogied, Frank. Maybe we’d better get the hell outta here, too.”
“I never saw so much goddamn paper.” That was the man on the porch, I thought. “Take at least an hour to burn all of it in the fireplace.”
“We don’t have an hour, man.”
“Come help. We’ll set the house on fire and get the hell out of here.”
That was when a bush off to my right began to move down the hill toward the house.
The man on the porch went back inside. The driver of the SUV turned off the ignition and climbed out. He took the steps to the porch two at a time and disappeared inside.
I waited until the walking bush was nearing the porch, then eased the red dot onto him. Bracing the gun against my shoulder, I thumbed the fire selector to full automatic, then squeezed the trigger. The noise was about as loud as a.22 rifle. The weapon walked off target and I muscled it back on, then released the trigger.
The bush collapsed on the ground; his weapon fell several feet away.
I had fired about a dozen rounds, I thought. A one-second burst or a little over. I pointed the MP-5 at the porch and waited, examining windows. Perhaps I should have moved, but I was betting they didn’t know where I was. Movement might give me away.
A flicker of light showed in one of the ground-floor windows. The bastards had indeed fired the place. The fire grew quickly in intensity.
They must have used thermal grenades!
I snuggled the weapon in against my shoulder and waited. Anyone desiring to leave by SUV was going to get perforated.
They went out the back.
I didn’t see them go, but after a minute or so several of the lower windows shattered and smoke began puffing out of the upstairs windows. I didn’t think they were going to immolate themselves, so concluded they must have gone out the back and over the hill, precisely the way they had come in.
I took a deep breath and sprinted for the cover of the SUV.
That sprint would have gotten me a roster spot in the NFL. I have never run so fast in my life.
No shots. As I huddled behind the SUV and listened to the fire in the house snap, crackle, and pop, the thought occurred to me that one of those dudes might have stayed behind just for the fun of icing me point-blank as I went up the porch stairs.
If so, he was behind the door.
I emptied the magazine into the door, put in a fresh magazine, then put a burst into each window.
Feeling a tad bit better, I ran up the stairs and into the house, ready to shoot the first thing that moved.
They had used thermal grenades. The heat and smoke were intense. Yet the fire looked worse than it was. Crouching, I could see that the main room was covered with paper, heaping piles of it. And three bodies.
Two more bodies in the kitchen.
The back door was standing open.
I threw caution to the winds and hurried through the building, looking for anyone still alive. And sorta hoping I’d meet a bad guy, so I could have the fun of shooting him with the MP-5.
I did find someone, hiding in an upstairs closet.
She screamed as I jerked her out of there, screamed and went for my eyes with her fingernails.
I pushed her roughly, and she fell to the floor. “Goddamn, lady, get a grip. I’m one of the good guys.” I must have shouted it, because I was pretty pumped.
She stared at the submachine gun with eyes as big as saucers as the smoke roiled through the room. Her eyes rose to my face. I must have looked like something from the Black Lagoon standing there with that weapon in my hand, soaked to the skin, and covered with dirt and leaves.
“Who are you?” she whispered, staring at the weapon, her eyes wide.
“Let’s get the hell outta here, lady, and do the introductions some other time.” I jerked her off the floor and pushed her toward the door.
“The suitcase,” she shrieked, pointing back toward the closet.
“We ain’t got time for your fuckin’ clothes. The goddamn house is burning—“
“That’s what they came for! That’s what they wanted!”
I jerked the suitcase from the closet — it must have weighed fifty pounds — and pushed it at her.
“Get down the stairs and out of the house, right now, while I check to see if anyone else is alive up here.”
She disappeared into the smoke dragging the suitcase — it was just a bit too heavy to carry.
I ran from room to room, looking in closets and under beds, coughing and shouting. I didn’t find anyone; not that I searched everywhere, but I just ran out of time. The smoke was bad and getting worse. I could feel the heat in the floor and walls. I charged for the stairs hoping that I hadn’t waited too long. The staircase was like a chimney, funneling smoke and heat to the second and third floors. I held my breath and went down blind.
At the bottom of the stairs I tripped on something and went sprawling. She had collapsed coming down the stairs and lay in a heap beside the suitcase.
The fire was raging by then and the heat was unbelievable, but there was a little clear area near the floor, maybe two feet high. I crawled over to her, grabbed her by the arm, and began pulling. I couldn’t manage both girl and gun, so I abandoned the weapon.
When we reached the porch I half carried, half dragged her down the steps into the yard.
Then I lost my footing and dropped her. I went to my knees, gagging and retching and trying desperately to get some air. I stayed down until my head cleared somewhat. She was breathing shallowly. I put her on the grass, turned her over on her chest, and began pushing and pulling on her arms. After about thirty seconds of that she gagged, then gasped, “The suitcase! For Christ’s sake, get the suitcase!”
Okay, she was going to make it.
Figuring she knew more than I did, I went spider-walking back into the house for the damned suitcase and the MP-5. I wanted the gun more than the suitcase. The guys who iced these people and set the house afire might
