Reflexive Fire - 01 (43 page)

   “Work with us.  We have a place for someone like you.  Call off your men and we can work something out.”

   Deckard had no interest in nihilistic explanations or apologies.  They were making an offer because they were desperate.  He pressed on, knowing they wouldn't be reaching out to him unless the rest of the battalion had been having their own successes.  They were getting close.

   “Join us.”

   Deckard looked into one of the security cameras as he passed and spoke.

   “What the hell did he just mouth to the camera?” Chad asked no one in particular.

   “Uh,” one of the Indians struggled for the words. 

   “I think he said:
go fuck yourself.
”

   Chuck Rochenoire came awake to the sound of gunfire.

   “Sorry pal,” someone was saying.  “Nothing personal.”

   Chuck leaned up on his elbows, taking stock of the situation.  Looking down the hall, he saw Adam down on his knees, his back pushed against the wall.  One of the American mercenaries stood in front of him, a pistol pointed at Adam's face.  A trio of trigger men stood around their leader, gawking at the captured man.

   He hadn't been spotted, not yet.

   “Business is business and Chad pays.”

   Blinking away the stinging sensation out of his eyes, he struggled to play catch-up.  He lay among a pile of dead bodies.  Two contractors came down the corridor, dragging a limp form under each arm. 

   “Fuck you,” Adam said, glaring.

   Chuck pushed a lifeless body away, reaching for a discarded AK-47 lying nearby. 

   “I'm sorry you think so.”

   The contractor had a smile on his face as he pulled the trigger, splattering Adam's brains against the wall.  The Samruk intelligence agent's body hit the floor with a hollow thud.  Chuck gritted his teeth against the pain in his side, his fingertips brushing against the Kalashnikov.

   “Who's next?” the executioner laughed.

   Sergeant Major Korgan was forced to his knees alongside Adam's corpse.

   “Where the hell did all these Afghani fuckers come from?”

   “Afghanistan?” one of the gunman's boys ventured.

   “Very funny,” he said, pressing his Glock into Korgan's forehead.  “Guess it doesn't really matter what kind of Hodji this guy is.”

   The mercenary's finger tightened around the trigger as Korgan leaned forward, into the barrel of the pistol.  With the slide pushed backward he had effectively knocked the weapon out of battery.  The contractor snarled in frustration, the pistol seized up in his hands, refusing to discharge.

   The staccato chatter of 7.62 rounds put a halt to the cold-blooded murder, Chuck holding down the trigger as the hallway turned into an ultra close-range firefight.  Bullets crashed through bulkheads and shattered light fixtures as Chuck went cyclic, the contractors firing hastily aimed shots in return.

   The AK barrel flexed as the former SEAL sprayed fire down the hall.  One contractor wisely took a knee, avoiding the rounds that snapped over his head.  Firing off a burst of his own, sparks showered off Chuck's AK.  Still in a seated position, Chuck was thrown backwards and lay still.

   Reaching for the downed executioner's pistol, Korgan stood and placed the muzzle against the shooter's temple.  He squeezed the trigger just as someone fired, a muzzle flash catching his attention farther down the hall.

   Catching a round in his side the Kazakh fell alongside the corpse he had just made, and struggled to breathe.  He knew he was breathing at half capacity, the still rational part of his mind telling him that he had a punctured lung.

   Clutching the pistol in his hand, he heard voices approaching.

Thirty Six

   Jarogniew's heart threatened to thump right out of his chest.

   He stopped, gasping for breath, his body having been exerted beyond his limit.  Gunfire sounded all around him.  Bodies were everywhere, death displayed on a grand scale.  In other circumstances he would have basked in it as he had in countless wars engineered under his guidance.  Terrified, he knew his last chance was to make it to a lifeboat.  Once he activated the search and rescue beacon, his people would pick him up eventually.

   Carefully, he stepped over the fresh corpses.  Lifeless eyes stared at him questioningly.  Flecks of blood were smeared across his expensive Italian loafers as he tried to tiptoe through the carnage.  Some of the bodies belonged to the contractors employed by the moronic Chad Morrison.  Kammler Associate's Human Resources Division fucked that one up at inconceivable levels of incompetence.

   Others belonged to passengers.  The chief executives of Fortune 100 companies, foundation members, even a former prime minister lay on his back full of bullet holes, unblinking eyes fixed on the over headlights.  Still others looked Central Asian.  They weren't under attack from some rogue military unit.  This was their own creation, their own puppet, like Pinocchio finding a life of its own.

  
This situation can still be salvaged
, he thought to himself, if he could just get away.  There was always a back-up plan for the back-up plan.

   “Hey, mate.”

   Jarogniew turned, hearing the wheezing words.  An ashen faced man leaned wearily against one of the walls.

   “Who are you?” he demanded.

   “Name's Richie.”

   The British man was breathing hard, blood speckling the side of his face.  A wound in his abdomen had dyed his field uniform shades of red. 

   He was one of them
.

   “Where are the rest of your people?” Jarogniew said, bending down to be eye level with the dying man.  “You may still be of some use to me.”

   “Don't be such a fucking cunt,” the Brit choked out.

   “Just a damned minute--” Jarogniew grabbed the younger man by the collar. 

   “Piss off,” Richie spat back.

   Looking down at his hands, Jarogniew was too late to stop him from squeezing the Claymore clacker.

   Deckard leaned out from behind the bulkhead and rattled off another burst from his M4 before the bolt locked on an empty chamber.

   “Black!”

   Shifting back behind cover, he loaded his last remaining magazine for the captured assault rifle.  Pat took a knee and fired his own rifle, laying down fire for Deckard's movement as he bounded down the corridor.  The enemy was sending their final wave forward, the last resistance to their forward progress.  Attrition had nearly exhausted all of the Samruk men as they neared the operations center in the heart of the ship.

   Shooting a controlled pair into two advancing Serbian mercenaries, Deckard indexed both targets center mass.  Behind him, his two remaining Kazakhs bounded up to his position.  Ibrashev and Garri moved into position with practiced precision.

   Underhanding a frag grenade, Garri yelled something in Russian.  The Americans needed no translation and braced themselves for the blast.  Before the smoke cleared, they were moving forward, when the four survivors collided with the enemy.

   The Serbs came pouring out of one of the side corridors, physically running into them.  The Samruk mercenaries operated in synchronization almost like a gestalt.  Each broke down their individual sectors of fire, overlapping with their comrades' sectors to the left and right as they swept the corridor. 

   In the narrow confines of the hall, the enemy was unable to mount a flanking maneuver; all they could do was attempt to force their way forward.

   Serbian gunmen in the back pushed forward, stepping over the bodies as the battle quickly transitioned to ultra close quarters.  Pat released his grip on his rifle as it cycled on empty and grabbed his Glock 19 pistol out of its holster in one fluid motion.

   Garri grabbed the barrel of the closest enemy's M4.  Pushing it away, the muzzle flash mushroomed with automatic fire that shredded the ceiling tiles.  Finally he freed his own sidearm and managed to dump half a magazine into the Serb before he went down.

   Pat engaged a second target with his pistol.

   Ibrashev pushed the enemy closest to him away, attempting to create some space to spare him the fraction of a second he needed.  Freeing his Glock, the Kazakh took up a two-handed grip and began shooting.

   Deckard squeezed off another double-tap with the M4, and the dead mercenary in front of him was quickly replaced with a live one.  Shooting again, the Serb soldier for hire disappeared in a cloud of blood.  Locking on empty, Deckard brushed aside an enemy's rifle barrel as he attempted to bring his weapon into play.  Getting inside the Serb's space, Deckard drew his 1911. 

   Pushing the muzzle up under his opponent's chin, he squeezed the trigger.  The top of the man's head turned into a fountain of gray-white matter that sprayed the ceiling.

   With his Glock in slide lock, Pat executed a combat reload in a blur of motion.

   Ibrashev lost his pistol as he went hand to hand with two Serbs who were attempting to wrestle him to the ground.

   Garri collapsed, lights off, a circular bullet hole appearing between his eyes.

   Pivoting, Deckard snapped a shot into one of Ibrashev's attackers before having to turn his attention back to his front as he was charged.  At least he had helped even the odds. 

   Two .45 caliber rounds ended the foolhardy attempt to rush him.

   Ibrashev managed to draw his combat blade, sinking it deep into his second attacker's neck.

   Pat snatched his final pistol magazine from his combat harness and racked the slide.  Deckard stepped over a corpse, triggering two more shots into the next would-be shooter.  The Kazakh pulled his knife free from the Serb, allowing him to bleed out on the floor.

   Catching the man he shot before he fell to the ground, Deckard used the body as a human shield while burning off the rest of his magazine, firing one-handed down the crowded hallway.  It was almost impossible to miss at such close range.

   Pat dropped his empty pistol and bent to pick up one of the enemy's weapons.  Acquiring an M4 from a fallen enemy, he sent half a magazine ripping into the Serbs’ ranks.  A shotgun blast ended the fusillade that threatened to drive the enemy back a final time.  Pat collapsed against the bulkhead before crumpling to the floor.

   Deckard released his hold on the corpse and went down to the floor with it.  Kneeling he reloaded and thumbed the slide release.

   Ibrashev's head snapped back, a stream of blood leaking from his forehead.

   Firing wildly from side to side, Deckard ran forward with bloodshot eyes.          

   The Serbs back-stepped as a fresh salvo of .45 caliber hollow points slammed into their front line.  The mercenaries saw that only one of them was left and were ready to overwhelm him.  As they cut loose with a dozen automatic weapons, Deckard saw the open door and dived through it.

   Bullets zinged through the operations center in three hundred and sixty degrees.

   Rolling behind a rack filled with electronic equipment, Deckard stole a glance backwards.  A half-dozen Serbs were mowed down by not-so-friendly fire from the OPCEN staff.  Whoever they were, they were spooked, causing them to engage anything that appeared through the door.

   Squinting, Deckard saw him from across the operations center.

   Hieronymus was pressed up against the wall, his hands clenched around the edge of the table with white knuckles.  His jaw hung slack, eyes glazed over as a torrent of gunfire slammed into the console that Deckard lay next to.

   Straight-arming his 1911, Deckard saw the front sight post align perfectly with the rear sight, blocking out his target's nose.  The old man stared into him with pure hatred.  Deckard's finger tightened around the trigger.

   The hard rubber sole of a combat boot stomped the side of Deckard's head, sending his pistol spinning across the floor.  Before he could react, a second blow knocked the wind out of him, the booted foot coming down on his unprotected ribcage where the body armor didn't cover.

   “Everyone out,” a seemingly disembodied voice said.  “Disappear!”

   Coughing hard enough to gag himself, he heard a dozen or so footsteps as technicians in black uniforms fought each other to get through the door first.  Hieronymus stood frozen in place for the briefest moment before rushing to follow them out.

   Rolling to his other side, Deckard attempted to sit up, when hands grabbed his collar and pant leg in an iron grip.  The next thing the former soldier knew he was airborne, sailing across the command center until a wall broke his fall.

   Collapsing to the hard steel plated floor, Deckard broke out in another fit of hacking his guts up as pain racked his entire body.  He was dizzy, too disoriented to gain his bearings.

   “I'm going to take my time with you, asshole.”

   It was the voice that had spoken to him over the PA system.

   His body stiffened, pain shooting through every nerve ending.  Left unable to move, he could only hear a detached howl of agony that he was vaguely aware of escaping from his own throat.  Just when he thought it would be over, the pain continued, stretching on for seconds that turned into forever.

   Finally, the pain subsided and he was able to breathe. 

   “Heard about you from those pricks at Bragg,” the voice snorted.  “Said you were some kind of badass.  Don't look so badass to me.”

   The pain exploded inside him a second time, every muscle in his body pulled taunt.  Now it was only gurgling that sounded from his lips.  Seconds later, it was over and he was able to take another deep breath.  His nerve endings were frayed and still firing wildly.

   With his vision clearing for just a moment, Deckard looked up at the hulking figure.  A boxy pistol-like device was in his hand with two wires running out of the front of it.

   “I can do this all fucking night,” the man said with a sadistic laugh.  “Holy shit, I am gonna fuck your world up.”

   Deckard rolled over, grinding his rib cage hard against the floor.  The twin metal barbs broke off inside him, separating from the Taser prongs that had been embedded in his skin.

   Chad squeezed the trigger on the Taser, a look of surprise washing over his face as Deckard pushed himself up on all fours, unaffected with the leads broken off under his skin and detached from the wires that led to the control unit.

   “Piece of shit,” the steroid-head snarled.

   Chad detached the cartridge that had fired the prongs and discarded it.  Moving forward, he squeezed the trigger again and the Taser clicked repeatedly as a charge ran across the leads sticking out from the front of the unit.  Reaching down, he was prepared to drive stun Deckard back into submission.

   Deckard's hand was a blur as he went on the offensive. 

   Chad recoiled, stumbling backwards into a console and dropping the Taser.  The blade's edge was so sharp that at first he didn't feel any pain but saw his own blood leaking across the floor.  Deckard clutched his side as he struggled to his feet, a bloody Ka-Bar fighting knife in his other hand.

   The larger man flicked his hand back and forth before letting it hang limply on his wrist, dripping blood everywhere.  Deckard was bigger and stronger than most, as well as being in peak physical condition before being tossed, stomped on, tased a few times, and completely exhausted from days without sleep.  Chad was easily twice his size.  Thick muscle was pulled across every inch of his body, veins in his neck and at his temples pulsing as his anger grew.

   “Doesn't change shit,” the ex-Delta operator laughed.  “Dickhead.”

   Chad charged him, Deckard attempting to sidestep out of the way a moment too late.  Built like a professional wrestler, he lifted Deckard clean off his feet, slamming him into the wall.  Seeing stars, Deckard was sure he felt something explode inside his abdomen.