The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (6 page)

Gunfire from two separate weapons from behind us someplace averted our attention. A three round burst of semi automatic fire was followed by a double
tap-tap
of a handgun.

Scar Face obviously decided to throw stealth and caution out of the window. He immediately booted in the front door, which flew inwards and banged against the wall to the right. The wooden doorframe splintered under the impact and Scar Face marched into the porch with an expression of malice and his big handgun held out in front of him. Smith didn’t move and I stayed alongside him in the hallway entrance.

Scar Face’s expression briefly changed to one of shock and surprise when he noticed Smith and I crouching in the hallway door. He attempted to re-aim his handgun at us but was a fraction of a second too late. I couldn’t tell who fired the first round but I opened up with a couple of shots that thudded into Scar Face’s torso and Smith fired a three round burst, which ripped through the hostile target’s head. Blood and brain matter splattered across the doorframe and spiraled in a plume outside. Scar Face jerked backwards, the gun spilling from his hand and he slumped to the ground outside the front door.

Time seemed to stand still for a few moments before bellowing shouts and raucous yells of panic seemed to be coming from all directions. The stench of fresh blood and cordite burned in my nostrils and it took me a couple of seconds to regain some kind of self-control.

Smith was already on the move, still crouching but shuffling towards the open doorway. I followed behind him and saw the two remaining guys out front backing off from the property. The guy in the black bobble hat was looking at Scar Face’s corpse and calling out his name. The other guy in the combats edged towards the side of the house, obviously searching for his companions. Both men looked as though they were in shock and unsure what to do.

The guy in the black bobble hat raised his handgun and randomly fired a few rounds through the front windows of the house. Leaning against the door jamb, Smith re-aimed his M-16 and fired another burst, which thudded into Bobble Hat’s chest. The penetrating rounds generated a neat crescent shape of holes in the left side of his torso. He groaned once before collapsing onto his back into the snow.

More handgun fire followed by the boom of a double shotgun blast echoed through the hallway and I swiveled around towards the back of the house. My attention was drawn back to the front when the glass panels in the front door exploded, showering Smith and I with broken shards and small chips.

Smith rocked backwards inside the porch, to the left of the door. I couldn’t see what was going on outside as Smith blocked my view but he was desperately trying to reload his rifle.

“I’m out of ammo,” Smith yelled. “They’re getting away. If they escape they’ll bring back that whole damn gang with them. Don’t let them get to that vehicle, Wilde.” His eyes glinted with steely menace and I knew he meant business.

I nodded and scrambled to the doorway. A man in a blood soaked puffer jacket was aided by the guy in the combat clothing. Both men headed towards the garden gate at the front of the property. They fumbled with the gate latch, anxiously glancing back towards the house.

I recognized the expression of abject terror on their faces when they saw me aiming my M-9 at them. The guy in the combat gear made to raise his own weapon but I released a quick fire double tap before he had a chance to aim. Both rounds hit him in the back, slightly below his shoulder blades, producing two, large bleeding holes. He silently fell to the ground and the remaining guy in the blood stained puffer jacket stumbled backward, to the left of the gate. He looked as though he was going to burst into tears and made an attempt to raise his hands in a surrendering gesture. He was unarmed as far as I could tell but I couldn’t run the risk.

“Sorry, man,” I muttered before I fired off another three rounds.

The shots hit the target, plowing through the guy high in his chest, slightly below his neck. I’d aimed a little too high. The guy fell backwards into the hedge with his arms flailing above his head.

I stepped over Scar Face’s corpse in the doorway and moved towards the two motionless bodies by the garden gate. I had to check they’d been totally eliminated.

The guy dressed in combat clothing lay on his front with his head pointing towards the road. His eyes remained open and blood pooled in the snow beneath his torso. I turned my attention to the other man, half buried in the hedge. To my horror, the guy was producing a horrible wheezing sound and his eyes fluttered rapidly. Rivulets of blood ran around the sides of his neck and I could see the meaty mess of an open bullet wound at the top of his chest. Fuck! He was still alive.

I heard approaching footsteps crunch in the snow behind me and turned to see Smith slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He stood next to me studying the mortally wounded guy embedded in the hedge.

“Jesus, Wilde. If you’re going to put three bullets in a guy, at least have the decency to kill him.” Smith took the M-9 from my hand and stepped forward towards the hedge. He aimed the barrel at the guy’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.

The pop from the shot echoed around the street. The guy’s head jerked and he wasn’t wheezing anymore. Smith handed me back the M-9 and gave me a brief nod as if to say ‘
job done
.’

“Don’t forget to reload,” he called out as he strode back towards the front door.

I stared at the two dead bodies for a brief moment, knowing their drained, lifeless faces would come back to haunt me at some point. I didn’t want to think about it too much but I’d just shot and killed two men in cold blood when they were trying to run away. The fact that they’d been trying to hunt us down still didn’t seem to make what I’d done right. I turned away and followed Smith towards the house, trying to block the guilt from encompassing my mind.

We stopped in our tracks when Batfish appeared at the front door. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide with anxiety. I noticed she had smears of blood around the side of her face and over the front of her combat jacket.

“What is it?” Smith asked her.

Batfish’s bottom lip trembled before she spoke. “It’s Cordoba. She’s been shot.”

Chapter Nine

We rushed through the house and entered a large, pale blue and white, shaker style kitchen at the rear of the property. All kinds of emotions rushed through me as we hurried into the room. A combination of sadness, guilt and a failure to fully appreciate Cordoba filled my mind.

I stopped moving, breathing heavily when I saw her lying on the kitchen floor. Thick, crimson blood pooled on the white tiled floor either side of her shoulders. Her foul weather combat jacket had been removed as well as her sweater. She wore only a blood stained white vest on her upper body.

Wingate knelt beside Cordoba, furiously applying pads and dressings from her limited medical kit. She pressed one blood soaked pad on a gunshot injury to the top of Cordoba’s left bicep but Wingate’s main concern was a bullet wound, high on the left side of her patient’s chest. Cordoba was still breathing but the gunshot wound made a sickening sucking sound every time she inhaled. Batfish hunkered down and wiped Cordoba’s sweaty forehead with a paper towel.

I felt sick when I looked at Cordoba’s pale face. Her eyes were open and she looked almost peaceful even though she struggled for breath. Jimmy stood beside a set of shattered French doors leading to the back garden. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he cradled his shotgun with both barrels pointing through the broken glass panes in the set of doors. 

“What happened?” I blurted. I knew it was a stupid question as soon as I’d uttered the words. “
Durrh! She got shot, asshole. What the hell do you think happened
?” I heard my alternative self whisper in my ear.

“We were in the hall and heard a noise from the back,” Jimmy sniveled. “I followed Cordoba into the kitchen and we saw two of those dobbers trying to get in through these doors.” He nodded at the battered French doors. “Cordoba shot first. She got one of the guys. He’s dead outside there, by the way. But the other bloke fired on us. Cordoba shoved me back. She saved my life but she got tagged in the process.” Jimmy struggled to speak. He was wracked with emotion. “She went down so I fired the shotgun at the bastard. Boom, boom! Both barrels. I think I hit the shitebag but he legged it back around the front.”

“It is okay, Jimmy,” Smith said softly. “We got him. We got all the others. They won’t be doing no more shooting. You did good, kid.” He slowly walked to the French doors and stood beside Jimmy, looking out through the shattered glass. Smith glanced back in my direction and nodded. “One dead bad guy in the garden,” he muttered.

I moved to the doors for a closer inspection. A blood spattered man lay splayed on his back in the snow. Bullet holes peppered the front of his puffer jacket and blood seeped from the wounds in his chest. I gazed beyond the corpse and saw a long garden with tall trees running in a vertical line either side of what was probably a lawn growing beneath the snow.

Cordoba groaned when Batfish helped Wingate roll her on her side. Wingate went to work, patching up the bullet’s exit wound at the bottom of Cordoba’s shoulder blade. Smith rubbed his hand through his hair and took out his pack of smokes. He offered them around, Jimmy shook his head but I gratefully took one. Smith lit us both up and we blew the smoke out through the broken windows in the French doors. Spot the dog scurried around the kitchen and cocked his leg against one of the kitchen closet doors. He seemed happy to be free from the restraints of the harness Batfish carried him in. 

“Jeez, what a day,” Smith muttered.  

Wingate sighed, stood up and joined us beside the French doors. She wiped the blood from her hands with a paper towel then rubbed her forehead. Her face was etched with tension and deep concern.

“What’s the bottom line?” Smith asked. “How bad is it?”

“Well, it isn’t good, Smith,” Wingate sighed. “It’s as pretty far from good as you can get.”

“But, she’s still alive,” I stammered, immediately regretting my outburst. No gunshot wound to the torso was good.

Wingate flashed me a reproachful glare but didn’t utter any admonishment. “I’ve put a plastic pad over the wound as well as padding her up but she needs proper medical attention in a hospital, otherwise she’s likely to bleed to death. I think the bullet might have nicked the lung and I don’t like the sound of her breathing. I’ve only managed a patch up job. At best, I’d say she had about four hours. Worst case scenario, I’d guess she has around twenty minutes. It’s difficult to tell when I don’t have any proper medical equipment. All I’ve got right here are battle dressings and bandages.”

“Oh, shit,” I whispered. My legs buckled slightly and my head swam in a mental spiral. “What do we do?”

Smith turned to Jimmy. “Where is the nearest hospital from here?”

Jimmy wiped his face and nose and muttered in thought.

“I’m not certain I’ll be able to do anything for her even if we make it to a hospital,” Wingate groaned. “The place will probably be all locked up and we won’t even be able to get inside. Plus the doctors are more than likely all dead or still walking around
although
they’re dead. It’s going to be a total nightmare.”

Smith ignored Wingate’s pleas. “The nearest hospital, where is it, Jimmy?”

“There’s the Southern General on Govan Road or the Western Infirmary on Dumbarton Road but there’s one problem.”

“What’s that?” Smith snapped.

“Both those hospitals are north of the motorway.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Smith said. “Is she okay if we move her?”

“I guess we’ll have to,” Wingate sighed.

“Okay, let’s go.” He turned from the French doors and moved speedily towards Cordoba on the floor. “Give me a hand here, will you, Wilde?”

“Sure,” I muttered.

I stuffed my handgun into my jacket pocket and rushed to help Smith lift Cordoba.

“Okay, take it easy,” Smith said, as we took hold of Cordoba.

“Wait, we need some blankets,” Wingate said. “We have to try and keep her warm. That cold air outside could send her into shock.”

“I’ll go check upstairs,” Batfish volunteered. “There should be a duvet or something in the bedrooms.”

Wingate nodded and Batfish scurried out of the kitchen and out into the hallway. I heard her thudding up the staircase heading to the bedrooms.

“We’ll take that Range Rover out front,” Smith said. “Those guys don’t need it no more.”

Cordoba groaned as we lifted her. Blood dripped onto the tiled floor and I worried we’d dislodged the pads and bandages. Smith and I edged to the hallway with Cordoba’s body firmly held between us. My hands gripped around her shoulders and Smith held her legs. Wingate and Jimmy followed us into the hallway. I didn’t realize how light Cordoba was. She felt so weightless and looked so helpless. A horrible feeling of hopelessness rushed through me as we staggered through the hall.

“Try and keep her body level,” Wingate instructed. “She can’t afford to lose much more blood.”