Alone and Unafraid (American Praetorians Book 3) (17 page)

I knew I was dead.  There was no way I was going to throw it and either get clear or shoot him before he shot me.  But I thought
fuck it
, yanked the pin out and chucked the grenade at the gatehouse, even as the masked gunman brought his AK up and opened fire at me.

Only the famous shitty marksmanship of the Iraqis saved my ass.  A storm of bullets snapped and snarled through the air over my head as I dropped flat on my face as soon as the grenade left my hand.

I can’t say I’ve ever been the greatest pitcher, but that throw was definitely one of my best.  The frag hit the concrete barrier right in front of the booger-eater shooting at me, and ricocheted inside the gatehouse.  A second later, it exploded.

Dust and smoke billowed out of the gatehouse with a tooth-rattling
thud
.  Little Bob ceased fire, and I picked myself up off the ground, moving quickly toward the gate, sensing more than seeing the rest of the team behind me falling in, weapons up.

The first one I could see was the fighter who’d been shooting at me.  He was crumpled on the ground, his AK sticking out from underneath him.  Through the smoke, he didn’t look like much more than a pile of black rags.  I shot him twice, just to be sure.  Then I was pausing at the lip of the entrance, just long enough to feel Bryan’s knee hammer into the back of my thigh, as he said, “With you.”

The knee strike practically catapulted me into the gateway.  I shot across the five meter opening, my barrel tracking across it as I went.  Another black-clad figure was picking itself up off the concrete.  He had an AK.  I shot him, saw him drop, and moved to the next target.

The rest of the team was spreading out in the gatehouse behind me.  I ke
pt moving; staying in one place, even with armor, is a good way to get killed.  As I swept forward into the gatehouse, my sector of fire collapsed forward, staying ahead of Bryan, who was tracking along the opposite wall.

There wasn’t a lot of cleanup to do within the gatehouse.  The frag had done its work well;
only a few of the shooters were still moving as we entered, and they were quickly dispatched.  We started to focus forward, toward the front of the control point.

There was movement near the barriers, still somewhat obscured by the smoke that hadn’t all drifted out of the gatehouse.  I wasn’t in my sights, but the rifle was only a couple inches below my eye.  It would take only a twitch to get on target.  I moved forward smoothly, gliding around a body.

A head and a G3 popped around the barrier in front of me.  I was already taking up the slack on the trigger as my crosshair settled on the black balaclava, and the trigger broke before he could even get the G3 level.  My rifle
boomed
thunderously in the enclosed space of the gatehouse, and spat almost a foot and a half of flame, clearly visible in the shadows.  There was a splash of red behind the balaclava, and the gunman dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, the G3 clattering over the top of the concrete barrier to hit the ground in front of it.

The gatehouse was clear. 
What we could see outside the gate was empty, aside from smoking debris from the car bomb and at least one body.  I glanced over at Bryan.  We exchanged a nod, then moved forward to the threshold, rifles tracking to collapse our sectors across the opening.

I got a better look at the carnage as I scanned across the entry control point. 
At least four of the Marines and State contractors were down, lying mangled on the concrete.  What was left of the truck the bad guys had used to deliver the explosives was lying in the center of the chute, little more than the twisted remnants of the transmission and part of the frame.  Slumped forms behind it were probably more bodies.  The stink of explosives, hot metal, blood, shit, and burned flesh was heavy in the air.

I was almost starting to hope that we’d killed their assault team
, in spite of the continued rattle of automatic fire outside, but as my eyes and muzzle tracked toward the entrance of the ECP, I saw two truckloads of more black-clad fighters unloading frantically just outside.  One of them was already facing the gate and aiming an RPG.

I snapped a shot at him and
missed, but it spoiled his aim and he corked the RPG off high.  It hit the gatehouse just above my head and detonated, the shockwave slapping me in the head and showering me with stinging bits of concrete.  It damned near knocked me to my knees.

Bryan acted as I recovered, button-hooking around the corner of the gatehouse and firing three quick shots before a fusillade of fire hammered the front of the gatehouse.  “Where the fuck are the towers?” I heard somebody yell behind me, as I came to a high knee and started picking targets.

They were more cautious than their dead lead element, moving to cover behind the barriers under covering fire from a DShK and a PKP on the trucks.

Where
were
the towers?  There were two guard towers flanking the ECP.  Both were supposed to have belt-fed machine guns, and a clear line of fire on those trucks.  So why the flying fuck weren’t they cutting these motherfuckers to ribbons?

The answer was obvious enough
after a moment.  A lot of the 7.62 and 12.7mm fire wasn’t aimed at us, but at the towers.  Even if the guys up there had gotten a couple of bursts off, it appeared that they were now properly suppressed, which was putting the entire gate in jeopardy.

The volume of fire
now being directed at the gatehouse was actually forcing us back, away from the ECP.  The heavy rounds from one of the DShKs were actually starting to chip away the concrete barriers at the front of the gatehouse.  Every time I tried to get a shot at one of the foot-mobile fighters, another burst of machine gun fire damn near took my head off.

I didn’t want to fall back any further; if they got one of those technicals a clear shot in
to the gatehouse, we were well and truly fucked.  But without more fire support, we couldn’t touch them from here.  We were now just as thoroughly bottled up as the lead element of the assault had been trying to get in.

I keyed my radio.  “Kemosabe, Hillbilly,” I roared over the cacophony of gunfire and bullet impacts echoing through the gatehouse, “Get those towers up and shooting.  We need fire on two technicals and foot-mobiles in the ECP.”

“On it,” was all Jim replied, barely audible even with my electronic earplugs.

It seemed like forever, those few minutes pinned down in the gatehouse.  We managed a few sporadic shots at black-clad fighters who tried to rush forward.  I caught one as he ran between jersey barriers, and he staggered, bouncing off the concrete barrier before hitting the ground and
dragging himself behind cover.

By this time, we had fallen back behind the middle of the gatehouse, limiting our field of fire, but also limiting theirs.  There wasn’t much we could use for cover; a couple of guys were trying to get the pop-up steel gate to rise, but for some reason it wasn’t working.  Whether it was somehow because of the blast, or just neglect, I had no idea.

Then I heard the most welcome sound I’d heard that day—the stuttering hammer of two 7.62 machine guns opening fire from the towers.

The attacking fire slackened considerably, then stopped altogether. 
Almost as one, we got up and moved in a low glide toward the ECP.

Both towers were now pouring fire into the two trucks and the
fighters on foot, most of whom were now crouched in cover behind the concrete barriers that lined the ECP.  Some were trying to crawl away.  I saw one inadvisably get out of the cover of the concrete, crawling toward the road, and get chopped into by a burst of 7.62.  His head flopped to the street in death.

Gradually, the fire slackened, then ended.  I hadn’t fired another shot, as no more targets had presented themselves.  Finally, I was about to call Jim again, but he beat me to it.

“Hillbilly, Kemosabe,” he called.

“Go for Hillbilly,” I replied.

“I’ve got eyes on three more vehicles to the north that have been sitting there and are starting to move.  They appear to be moving away; it just looks shady, especially given what’s just happened here,” he said.

“Do you have positive ID?” I asked.

There was a pause.  “Negative.  I can’t see any weapons from here.”

“Let them go,” I said.  “We’ve got our hands full here.  Cover
us; we’re moving out to secure the ECP.”

“Roger.”

I nodded to Bryan, and we pushed out into the Entry Control Point, scanning the street and the buildings within view, ready to drop flat at the first
crack
of a shot.  We spread out without a word, taking up security positions at the corners, kneeling behind bullet-chewed concrete barriers to cover up and down the street and the surrounding buildings.  Fuck whoever placed this gigantic fucking target.  There were too many potential firing positions, particularly in the high-rises to the northeast.

A shot boomed.  I looked over to see Larry kicking an AK away from the hand of the black-clad terrorist he’d just finished off.  Two more single shots rang out, as wounded fighters tried to bring up weapons or reached for what might be grenades or suicide vests, and were killed.  None of us were going to take chances.

It was only then that I noticed that Haas had come along with us.  He was dressed in his field khakis and wearing a vest, with a PTR 91 slung at his side as he bent to turn over one of the dead tangos, lifting the black balaclava then digging into the pockets.  “Jeff, I don’t think these guys are ISIS,” he said.

“Any particular reason why?”
I asked, without looking over.

“Not really,” he replied.  “Just something about their setup and the way they moved didn’t jibe.  Also, how did they get this close?  The nearest ISIS ‘lines’ are a couple miles from here.”  He kept rummaging.  “I’m not finding any documents or IDs, either.  They’re completely sterile.  Usually these guys at least have some literature on ‘em.”

I just kept scanning the streets and buildings.  “Gather what you can, then get back inside.  We’re going to make sure there aren’t any more surprises out here, then fall back and close the gate.”  I realized that some bureaucratic dumbass would likely try to open it back up to “send a message” or some such bullshit, but if I had anything to do with it, this gate was going to be sealed up for the foreseeable future.  The bomb had severely damaged the ECP, and the positions on the street were not nearly fortified enough.  I wouldn’t want to expose too many men to try to fortify those positions, not after this.  The time to fortify is
before
you’re under the hammer.

I heard movement behind me, and looked back to see the Stahl black shirts moving into the gatehouse.  A few looked a little shamefaced that we’d come in and hammered the attackers back when they’d been holding the ECP and gatehouse to begin with.  I suspected they’d be a little more hard-nosed after this.

Two of the Stahl contractors were lugging MAG-58 machine guns, and started setting them up at the ends of the ECP.  The skinny guy with the beard, it turned out, had come out with us, so I grabbed him.  “If you guys have got this, we’re going to pull back in.”  He nodded, and I made sure to catch his eye.  “If I were you, I’d pull back in and seal this gate,” I told him.  “This won’t be the last attack.”

“I’ll see if we can,” he said.  “It’s ultimately the client’s call, not ours.”

“Yeah,” I said.  I held out my hand.  “Hillbilly.”

“Creeper,” he replied, shaking it.  I couldn’t help but grin.  Somehow it fit.

The black-shirted Stahl guys had taken their positions, and my team was already moving back to the gatehouse.  I’ll confess, I was glad to get out of the ECP.  It just felt too damned exposed out there.

Of course, we were somewhat exposed on the inside, too, just for different reasons.

As we walked back toward our vehicles, I saw Cyrus among some of the Stahl guys.  He was still dressed in his own t-shirt and khakis, with his chest rig and SIG 716, instead of the Stahl black polo and M4, but he was obviously working with them.  At least, he had been.  At the moment, he was talking to Collins.

I slowed down a little, watching the two of them, trying to master my rising anger. 
Is that how it is, Cyrus
?  I thought.  They sure seemed to be getting along all right, relaxed, amicable.  When Collins handed him a card and walked away, I strode over.

“Not enough to leave, is it?” I demanded.

“What are you talking about?” he replied, his face going rigid.

“Have a nice talk with Collins?”
I said through my teeth.

He blinked.  “You really think I’d compromise you to
him
?”  He seemed genuinely taken aback.  “Hell, Stone, I might not like you very much, and I might have washed my hands of your recklessness, but I’m not that spiteful.  We’ve gone our separate ways, that’s it.  I may not share your outrage at what Collins and his people are doing, but that doesn’t mean you should get all paranoid about me sabotaging you.  Not everything around here is about your little secret mission.”

“So, it was just coincidence that Collins approached a former Praetorian, who happens to be a
disgruntled
former Praetorian?” I asked sarcastically.