Reflexive Fire - 01 (3 page)

   Pat approached the side entrance to the parking garage, finding the large metal door already partly ajar.  Stepping inside they found themselves in total darkness, stumbling around as intermittent gunfire blasted somewhere deeper in the compound.

   Setting J-Rod down on his good foot, Deckard and Pat began sweeping around in the darkness for a light switch.  Suddenly the overhead lights blasted on, causing them squint as their eyes attempted to readjust.

   The automatic gunfire was deafening as the sound reverberated off the walls.  Hitting the cement floor, a fusillade of rifle rounds punched through the thin metal wall behind Deckard as he rolled behind the wheel well of a 1966 Shelby Mustang.

   Pat followed Deckard's lead, taking cover next to him, J-Rod crawling behind a Camaro.

   “Lights!” Deckard yelled.

   The three Americans aimed towards the ceiling, systematically shooting out the florescent bulbs above and around them, creating shadows deep enough to hide in.  Hearing a gruff voice barking orders from the other side of the garage, it was clear enough what had happened.

   After heading off Ramirez and his lackeys at the grotto, and the Colombian military depriving him of his escape plan, Ramirez had the same idea they did, doubling back and finding another means to make a getaway.

   Deckard pulled free his final 5.56 magazine and slid it across the ground to J-Rod.

   “Keep them occupied.  We'll envelope.”

   The Delta men nodded, J-Rod taking a knee and putting a few suppressive shots down range to give the enemy something to think about.  Breaking off, Pat went left and Deckard went right, staying behind cover whenever possible and sticking to the shadows when it wasn't.

   Sliding up alongside a Ferrari, Deckard could hear J-Rod sending volleys of fire towards the drug lord and his bodyguards.  All he had to do was keep their heads down long enough for his teammates to get into position.  Moving in a crouch, he continued to make his way to the other end of the garage, weaving his way through Ramirez's car collection.

   Breaking a corner around another Ferrari, he spotted one of the gunmen taking refuge behind a BMW convertible, fixed in position by J-Rod snapping rounds over his head.  Taking aim, Deckard was ready to make a head shot from less than ten feet away when the Ferrari rocked up and down on its suspension, glass showering both him and the gunman.

   Dozens of holes suddenly appeared in the roof, spilling laser-like beams of daylight into the darkness of the garage.  Somewhere above them the Black Hawk gunship must have been made aware of shots fired inside the garage and took action to protect the Colombian assault team outside.

   Hundred thousand dollar sports cars were stitched from fiberglass hood to trunk by 30mm autofire, crumpling frames and shattering windows, the massive holes seeming to appear from nowhere.  Utilizing the opportunity, Deckard fired.  Acting on muscle memory, he put the round right through the bridge of the bodyguard's nose, effectively dropping his target to the ground.

   Edging deeper into the warehouse, he picked up the pace as the large bore automatic cannon above tore through the roof as if it wasn't even there.  From the sound of J-Rod lowering his rate of fire to just a shot every few seconds, he knew he had to act quickly.  J-Rod was almost black on rounds.

   At the last row of classic cars he lay down on his side, looking under the frame of the vehicles for any bad guys, finding one foolishly kneeling down on the cement and occasionally firing a shot or two, attempting to seek out J-Rod's position.  Still on his side, Deckard swung the M4 up horizontally to his shoulder and lined up the red dot sight on the man's ankle.  Triggering a single shot, the Colombian fell to the ground howling, allowing Deckard to easily deliver a fatal shot to the back of his head, spraying a wash of gore across the floor.

   Another crack sounded as Pat fired on someone, just as another salvo came bursting through the rooftop from above.

   Swinging out around the vehicle on one knee, Deckard gained target acquisition on the nearest asesino standing a few meters behind the corpse he has just made.  His finger was tightening around the trigger when a crash thundered down in front of him, throwing him on his backside.  With his finger on the trigger he accidentally discharged a round into the air.

   The man had been split end from end, a 30mm round tearing down through the ceiling had sliced through flesh and bone, cracking him open like a lobster.  Two arms and a leg could be made out amid the intestines strewn out across the floor, but that was about all that was recognizable.  Deckard swallowed.  His nose filled with the sickly smell of blood, he realized he had been hosed with bits of bone and gore.

   Wearing khakis and a collared shirt left open to reveal a large gold cross, Ramirez sat at the edge of the pool of blood.  His pistol lay at his side while he had both hands on his forehead, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

   Snarling at the turn of events, Deckard got to his feet as Ramirez's face suddenly bulged outwards, the back of his head disappearing as it was taken off by a gunshot.  At this point Deckard was so deaf he didn't even register the shot.  The drug lord collapsed backwards, his blood mixing with that of his late comrade.

   “Mission complete,” a voice said from the darkness.

   Deckard spun toward the sound. 

   “Let's get the hell out of here,” Pat said stepping out of the shadows.

Two

   Depressing the magazine release on his M4, Deckard acknowledged two rounds in the mag, plus one in the chamber.

   “Grab what you can.  We need to go,” Deckard said.

   Pat ran back to retrieve J-Rod while Deckard consolidated the enemy's weapons.  The battlefield recovery netted a gold plated AK-47, one FN P90 sub-machine gun, a jewel encrusted 1911 pistol that had belonged to the former drug lord, and a CZ75 pistol with a spare magazine that Deckard shoved in his waistband. 

   A little cliché for a drug baron, but that was the kind of stuff they'd go in for, Deckard figured.  The way things were heading, he just hoped they all went 'bang' when he pulled the trigger.

   Pat made it back with J-Rod over his shoulder, just as he spotted the key box and flipped it open.

   “The Ferrari looks like it's about done,” J-Rod said, pointing to the Italian car riddled with 30mm craters.  “Maybe we can take the Lamborghini out for a spin?”

   “Not with your bum ankle,” Deckard said, grabbing a key.  “How about something a little more practical?”

   “A little more boring you mean,” he groaned back, following Deckard to a white Range Rover.

   J-Rod sat in the back, handling his M4 and whatever ammunition they had left for it in addition to the AK.  Pat racked the charging handle on the P90, watching a 5.7 round drop out from the bottom to ensure that it was loaded.  He shoved the 1911 between the seat and the center console just in case.

   Turning the ignition and starting the truck, Deckard hit the garage door opener mounted on the sun visor.

   “Hold on,” he said, stomping down on the gas.

   The Range Rover hurtled out of the garage as Deckard spun the wheel hand over hand taking them in a ninety degree turn toward the villa's front gate. 

   Ornamental plants and jungle flew by as more gunfire sounded, the rear window imploding and sending shards of glass everywhere.  The Colombian counter-terrorist team had no idea they were there and assumed they were with Ramirez's crew.

   “Thank the Agency for me,” Deckard grunted, as they drove out the front gate.  “I'm sure they sent the AFEU in as soon as an inside source reported your capture.  They wanted Ramirez dead and didn't care how it got done.”

   “Nice,” Pat muttered, as Deckard sped onto the winding mountain road.

   “No worries,” Deckard assured, cutting around a fork in the road.  “All we have to do is fight our way through a half dozen or so cartel checkpoints and we'll be home free.”

   “Shit,” J-Rod said.  “How did you get up here to begin with?”

   “Took a taxi.”

   Shooting down the crumbling asphalt road, Deckard blasted through the first checkpoint, the cartel men manning it screaming and waving their guns in the air for them to stop.  On their right side was nothing but a blur of green leading to a sheer cliff face.  It was what the conquistadors had called the
infierno verde.
  On the other side, the road immediately dropped off the edge of the mountain, at certain points the mountain actually overtaking the road as huge washouts were created by erosion.

   Nowhere to go but down.

   Downshifting, Deckard eased them around another bend, not knowing what was around the corner.  Straightening out the wheel on the other side, they were greeted by another checkpoint, one of the Colombians manning it speaking into a hand held radio.

   While the gunman was still receiving the message about a runaway Range Rover over his walkie talkie, Pat leaned out the passenger side window, easily maneuvering the stubby sub-machine gun.  Holding down the trigger, he sent a full auto stream of 5.7 armor piercing rounds into the guard's chest, sending him tumbling backwards into a runoff ditch on the side of the road.

   As they flashed by, the dead man's partner reacted, firing on the truck as it passed.  J-Rod returned fire, getting several shots off with his M4 through the already shattered rear window before running out of ammo and transitioning to the AK-47.  He was fairly sure he missed his mark.  Firing from a moving vehicle wasn't easy to begin with, especially on the mountain road, and especially with Deckard driving.

   “Everyone good?”

   “We're kosher,” Pat replied.

   For a moment the truck was engulfed in a tunnel of green, vegetation spilling into and over the road before they came out on the other side.

   The third checkpoint had gotten the word and was on alert.  As soon as the truck pulled within line of sight of the gunmen, the Columbians opened fire, muzzle flashes giving them away just an instant before bullets peppered the front of the truck.  One shot managed to blast off Deckard's side mirror in a miniature explosion.

   Resisting the urge to return fire, he ducked down and kept both hands on the wheel and his foot on the gas, knowing that he needed to focus solely on driving.  Pat leaned out the window again and began squeezing off rounds as they rushed up to the checkpoint, his bullets kicking up little puffs of debris around the feet of his target. 

   Both continued firing on each other as Deckard watched the speedometer climb to nearly seventy kilometers an hour.  J-Rod was leaning out the rear window on Deckard's side with the AK and firing at the second checkpoint guard.  He held his breath and pointed the Range Rover straight ahead, knowing that the seventy kilometer an hour jousting match would continue until some people starting dying.

   Just a few meters away, Deckard exhaled.  The two gunmen now lay still on the side of the road, victims of the Delta operator’s handy work.

   Cutting around the next bend, the Range Rover went right through the next checkpoint.  He hadn't expected another one so close, and the guards looked just as surprised as they bolted by them.  Clearly they hadn't expected them to make it this far.

   Looking for his side view mirror, he remembered that it wasn't there anymore and turned to the rear view mirror in time to see the cartel thugs pile into a beige colored Dodge pickup truck.  Cranking the engine, they powered up behind the Americans.

   “Heads up.”

   “I see 'em,” J-Rod answered.

   The pickup was quickly gaining on them as they entered a straightaway.  Deckard let them, he didn't want them on his tail by the time they hit the next checkpoint.  Letting up off the gas pedal, he let them shoot ahead, leaving the cartel shooters leaning out the windows, fingers on the triggers with a confused look on their faces.

   Stomping back down on the gas, he matched their speed, coming up on their right side, allowing J-Rod to rake the Dodge with AK fire.  Reaching into his waistband, Deckard pulled free the CZ75 pistol.  Craning his neck, he flicked off the safety and began pumping rounds into the gunman sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup while steering with his left hand.

   The gunman shouted as crimson blossomed on his shirt around the shoulder and forearm, causing him to drop his MP5 sub gun out the window.  Pulling the trigger a third time, Deckard skipped a beat, the expected bang never happening. 

   A quick look showed him the pistol had stove-piped.  An expended casing failing to fully eject from the pistol, it got jammed between the barrel and the slide.  Turning the Czech handgun upside down, Deckard wedged the rear sight up against the Range Rover's steering wheel and pushed the pistol forward.

   The spent shell fell between his legs, and letting the pistol up off the wheel, he heard the slide slam home with a satisfying metallic smack as it chambered a fresh round.  Crossing his right arm back over his left, he watched as J-Rod beat him to the punch.  The 7.62x39 bullets shook the passenger back and forth in his seat as if he were having convulsions.

   Deckard was about to try to fire on the driver, but the pickup truck simply wasn't there anymore.

   “Holy shit,” J-Rod yelled, looking back over his seat.  “The erosion ate up the entire side of the road right there.  They just drove right off the edge.”

   “Long way down,” Pat laughed.

   The humor didn't last long as they spotted two black Sports Utility Vehicles parked nose to nose across the road.  Three camouflage clad cartel shooters stood in front of the blockade, confident in their plan.

   “Lay on everything you got left,” Deckard ordered.  “I have to slow down if we're going to make it through in one piece.”

   Ducking down, Deckard aimed the Range Rover directly between the two SUVs.  Speeding up, the Delta men opened fire as they closed within a hundred meters.  Bullets thudded into the truck, sounding like massive raindrops pounding into and through the vehicle's metal frame.  Over the dashboard he saw one of the AK-47 wielding shooters go down, the other two still blazing away.

   A bullet tore through the headrest, splaying it open in a burst of yellow foam.  It would have drilled Deckard in the face had he not ducked down, eyes still looking over the dash.

   At twenty five meters Deckard eased down on the brakes. The battered truck squealed in protest as the frame twisted back and forth.  Meanwhile, Pat drilled a second AK gunner with a two round burst.  Deckard almost brought them to a complete halt.  If he attempted a break out at high speed, he would destroy the Range Rover, ending their chances of escape, if not killing all of them in the process.

   The truck was stitched back and forth, shattering the few remaining windows, a round burning across Deckard's forearm, causing him to flinch off the wheel for a split second.  Pushing the muzzle of his gold plated AK out the window, J-Rod finally put an end to the gunman's erratic fire.

   Just a meter away from the roadblock, Deckard grasped the wheel and hit the gas, powering through.  The Range Rover made contact, jarring their molars and pushing the SUVs outwards to clear a path out of the kill zone.

   Speeding back down the road, Deckard shook out his arm.  The bullet had only grazed him but burned like hell.

   “You okay?” Pat asked.

   “Yeah, we got lucky.”

   “What do you got for ammo, J-Rod?”

   “Ten rounds maybe.”

   “Shit,” Pat said, inspecting the translucent magazine the laid horizontal across the top of his sub-machine gun.  He had about the same left in what had been a fifty round magazine.  “Me, too.”

   “Maybe fifteen rounds for the CZ,” Deckard added.  “Only fire if it's a sure thing.”

   The road continued to weave its way downhill.  Deckard could see his objective in the distance, just passed the two cartel triggermen pulling a Nissan across the road.  The ridge line on the opposite side of the checkpoint opened up into a saddle, a thin reprieve from the green hell, and their only chance at escape. 

   No way were they making it through another half dozen checkpoints lining the road down to the valley floor.

   Deckard got them as close as he dared.  Hearing the staccato rip of gunfire, he slowed the truck before pulling the emergency break and power sliding to the side of the road.  With the Range Rover still rocking on its suspension, Pat and J-Rod threw open the doors and escaped onto the clean side of the vehicle to take cover behind the wheel wells.

   Climbing across the center console to avoid coming out on the contact side, Deckard could hear the enemy's AK-47 rounds bouncing off the asphalt and slamming into the side of the truck with one thump after another.

   Getting to his feet alongside the Delta soldiers, he saw one of the enemy collapse under his own weight, one of J-Rod's shots coming in a little low and knee capping him.

   Lining up his front sight post over the next shooter's face, Deckard knew he had to aim high.  A fifty meter shot with a pistol wasn't easy even on a good day.  Holding the CZ75 in a modified weaver grip, he rested his hands on the hood of the truck to steady his aim.

   Firing, he let the recoil ride up his arms.  The gunman doubled over for a moment, touching his stomach in disbelief until Pat fired a shot that took a chunk out of his neck.  Falling to his knees, the wounded man did a face plant in the middle of the road.

   The third shooter was a little smarter but not by much.  He had taken cover behind the Nissan but not behind the protection offered by the metal and rubber around the wheel well.  The two Delta operators triangulated in on the man, bouncing their final rounds off the asphalt under the truck.  The ricochets shot out as shrapnel into his feet and shins, causing excruciating pain that sent the cartel shooter wailing to the pavement.

   Deckard loaded his only spare magazine before breaking cover and heading towards the dead and dying.  The Delta men dropped their now empty weapons, and Pat yanked the 1911 out from between the seat before lifting J-Rod over his shoulder to carry him.

   Standing in front of the would be killer, now laid out with a neck wound and gut shot, Deckard watched him gasping for breath, knowing from hard experience that it wouldn't be long.  Leveling the CZ, he delivered a mercy shot between the Colombian's eyes.  Approaching the third gunman behind the Nissan, he found him in a similar state and efficiently repeated the process.

   There was no satisfaction; it just was.

   Grabbing up two of the dead shooter's AKs, he slung one and carried the other, tucking the pistol back into his pants.