Threat Level

by William Christie

  Beth retrieved the 10mm MP-5/10 submachine gun from under her seat.

  “Brace your feet and keep a good grip on the rifles,” al-Sharif said to Omar. He told him what he was going to do.

  Omar make sure his seat belt was tight. Al-Sharif pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard.

  “There he goes,” said Moody, speeding up and closing the distance.

  “Will it work?” said Omar.

  “They talked about it in prison,” said al-Sharif. “I practiced it a few times on the street, but never for real.”

  There was an unmoving line of taillights up ahead at an intersection. Al-Sharif wasn’t sure he could get around them. Alternating brake and gas, he made a skidding high-speed turn onto the next side street.

  “Son of a bitch can drive,” Moody exclaimed.

  In between calling in their location on the radio, Beth said, “He’s a car thief. Been running from cops all his life.”

  “Get ready,” al-Sharif said to Omar. He took his foot off the gas to slow them down without showing brake lights. The flashing blue lights had closed to almost behind them. He hit the brake hard, cut the wheel, and yanked on the emergency brake.

  “Shit!” Moody yelled. He tried to drive around, but the Blazer was turning broadside in the street. They hit it at nearly full speed.

  Beth’s eyes instinctively closed at the impact. A thunderous bang and air bag deployment; then eyes open, and the side of the Blazer point-blank in the cracked windshield. They hadn’t stopped moving yet, and she’d lost her grip on both the radio and the submachine gun.

  “Give me the rifle!” al-Sharif screamed to Omar.

  Omar pushed it over the seat to him. He couldn’t get the safety on his off—the AK’s was awkward. Finally it slid down and he fired through the now-glassless side window.

  The cracked windshield exploded, and Moody shouted in pain. Beth ducked down below the dash, glass showering her like rain. She tried to get lower, but was hung up on her seat belt. She had to twist around to find the button. It wouldn’t unlock. Bullets were breaking the sound barrier an inch over her head. She yanked at the belt with all her might and when it finally came free the momentum threw her under the dash.

  Beth started feeling around on the floor for the submachine gun before she realized how stupid that was. Still wedged under the dash, she grabbed the door lever and kicked the door. It was jammed too. No, it wasn’t. It was locked. She leaned forward, flipped the latch, and kicked the door again. It creaked open, taking another kick to make enough room for her to get out.

  Somehow her hair was stuck to her face and she couldn’t see. Beth raked it out of the way and swept the Glock 22 pistol off her hip. The stress had dilated her pupils and she had to blink hard to focus on the pistol front sight. She opened fire on the yellow muzzle flashes inside the Blazer. Metallic screaming as bullets began to punch through the door beside her.

  “Motherfucker!” Storey exclaimed when he saw the Blazer spin out and hit the sedan. Troy had already switched his radio to the FBI command frequency and was calling it in.

  Al-Sharif dropped his rifle on the seat and grabbed the wheel. They were leaving, and even if they weren’t dead those cops were not going to be following.

  “Hold on!” said Storey, stepping on the gas. Muzzle flashes were blossoming inside the Blazer. The FBI sedan was under fire at point-blank range.

  Storey spun the wheel, making a looping half circle to line the front of his ram bumper up with the front of the Blazer.

  Al-Sharif saw the approaching headlights and groped for the shift, trying to get moving and out of the way. Not fast enough. When the other car hit, it felt as if his neck had snapped in half. Rebounding from the impact, he hit his head on the steering wheel.

  Storey stayed on the gas, ramming the Blazer right up over the sidewalk.

  For a second Beth hadn’t been sure what happened. Another huge bang in front of her, and the sedan spinning sideways, knocking her out of her kneeling position and onto the street. Then from the ground, the sight of the Blazer sailing by under the power of the Cherokee.

  When the Blazer hit the curb, al-Sharif’s seat collapsed, throwing him into the backseat.

  Storey kept his right foot down, the Cherokee swerving as the tires threw up dirt, aiming the Blazer into a line of trees. He braked just before that happened, to put a little separation between the two vehicles. The Blazer continued on and hit the trees.

  As soon as they stopped Troy was out the door. But as he brought up his M-14 he realized it was too dark for his telescopic sight. He could see the red luminous crosshairs perfectly, but nothing else in the dark circle to aim them at. With no time to rip off the scope to uncover the iron sights, he fired instinctively, hammering rounds into the windshield and hood.

  Omar opened his door and rolled out. He rose up on his knees, trying to get the AK into the V-shaped notch between the car body and the door window.

  Storey saw the door open. Then he noticed the shadow of a leg beneath it. Extrapolating upward, he settled his sight on where he imagined the body would be behind the door. Just as he was about to fire, something appeared above the door. Storey shifted, and the red dot of his Aimpoint sight floated upward. As soon as the dot stopped, Storey slapped the trigger.

  The 7.62mm armor-piercing round caught Omar at the tip of the shoulder and took his entire left arm off. The force spun him completely around and dropped him on the grass.

  It took al-Sharif a moment to realize that he was in the back of the Blazer. His vision was fuzzy, but he knew the vehicle was being shot to pieces. He thrashed around like a drowning man trying to find the surface, and his arm hit his AK-47. Grabbing it, he scrambled over the seat, falling into the cargo area. He landed on something metal. One of the pipe bombs. He stuck it into his belt.

  Storey saw Omar go down. He threw himself flat on the ground so he could fire under his door. He saw what looked like a leg first, and knew a lot could happen while you waited around for a better target.

  Omar was bleeding out from his severed brachial artery, but at least for the moment pumping adrenaline was counterbalancing dropping blood pressure. He tried to tug the pistol from his belt with his right hand.

  Until Storey’s next round hit him above the knee and shattered his femur. Omar let out a howling scream.

  Now Storey could make out the body and fired five more rounds in rapid succession. The 7.62mm went right through Omar’s vest. He was dead after the second round, though since each impact kept jerking his body, Storey kept firing.

  The scream had driven al-Sharif into motion. He dug around in his pocket for the butane lighter. With one hand on the latch of the rear hatch, it took three spins of the wheel to get the lighter to ignite. He pushed the flame into the fuse of the pipe bomb in his belt. The fuse ignited.

  Al-Sharif twisted the latch, and as the hatch sprang up he threw first his rifle and them himself out onto the ground.

  Troy saw the hatch go up but didn’t have an angle for a good shot. That didn’t stop him from emptying his magazine into the back of the Blazer.

  Beth saw al-Sharif spill out the back of the Blazer, and she had the angle. Bracing herself against the car door, she settled the three glowing tritium dots of her pistol sight onto the form. As it sprang up she fired.

  As al-Sharif threw the pipe bomb he felt as if he’d taken an incredibly hard punch to the chest. It knocked his wind out and sat him back down on the ground.

  Storey saw the sputtering fuse spinning in the air, not the pipe bomb. He’d been in the process of getting to his feet, but instead yelled, “Grenade!” and threw himself back down.

  Troy didn’t see the throw but he heard the warning. And whether that grenade was incoming or outgoing made no difference—grenades tended not to discriminate. He dove face-first onto the grass.

  The FBI training curriculum skimmed over immediate actions to grenade attack, so Beth hadn’t developed the same instinct. She was still upright when the pipe bom
b blew. The blast did what the warning hadn’t—knocked her down.

  Regaining his breath, al-Sharif grasped the rifle. Though he didn’t know it, his vest had stopped both of Beth’s .40-caliber pistol rounds. At the sound of the explosion he was off and running.

  Troy saw al-Sharif disappear into the trees. “One tango moving!” he shouted.

  As he advanced on the Blazer, Storey cautiously circled around until he got a good look at Omar. “Other one’s down,” he called back. “Let’s go!”

  Beth was already back up on her feet. She ran up to Troy. “I’ll stay behind him—you go wide to the right.”

  Troy recognized the wisdom. Storey was already out on the left. If there was an ambush, spread out they were less of a target. And one of them might just be able to cut him off.

  Storey caught sight of al-Sharif running through the park, but a 7.62mm round flew a long way and he wasn’t going to be sending any out into the darkness until he knew just what was behind his target. He tried the radio, but only Troy was on the net with him. Beth must have lost or broken hers. He thought about putting in a call to the FBI command center, but this was no time to change frequencies and lose contact with Troy.

  Al-Sharif was running flat out, and so were they. The park wasn’t large, and they soon crossed it. There was some kind of nonresidential building up ahead, all lit up. At this time of the evening? “What’s that building?” Storey said over the radio. Al-Sharif was heading right for it.

  “Looks like a school,” Troy called back. “Parking lot’s full of cars.”

  From the sound of his voice you could hardly tell he was running. Now Storey saw it better. It was a school, and there were people walking all around. What the hell were they doing at a school at this hour? Parents’ night? Damn it.

  Al-Sharif crossed the street and sprinted for the parking lot. A pair of headlights popped on in front of him, the sign of a car starting up.

  The driver just stared at the man with the rifle running up to his car, as if he couldn’t believe it because it was the suburbs.

  Al-Sharif had done this before. He yanked the unlocked door open, grabbed the driver by the hair, and dragged him out of the car. In the prison yard they always said it was easier to drag a live motherfucker who wanted out anyway than a dead body. The woman in the passenger seat was screaming. He’d get rid of her later, when he had time.

  Al-Sharif gunned the car into reverse to get out of the parking space. With a ride under him he was as good as gone.

  Beth draped herself over the hood of a nearby car to make a stable shooting platform. But the woman passenger was right in her line of fire. All she could do was shout, “FBI! Shut off the engine!”

  A command al-Sharif had no intention of complying with. He shifted into drive.

  Storey fired a whole twenty-round magazine so fast that, even though he wasn’t, it sounded as if he were on full auto. But not at al-Sharif—the woman passenger was in his line of fire too. Storey shot out the front and back side tires with his first two rounds, then put the rest right into the engine block. The engine blew and smoke began pouring from the hood.

  As soon as the first rounds hit, al-Sharif crawled over the woman and out her door. He got his left arm around her neck and dragged her, still screaming, behind him. He fired a couple of rounds one-handed to discourage pursuit.

  “Get around to the back of the building,” Storey radioed Troy. He and Beth followed al-Sharif, moving from cover to cover. He knew he’d have to get a head shot, but the light was variable and the opportunities were fleeting.

  Al-Sharif pulled the woman up the walkway to the door, staying crouched down behind her. The door was locked. Someone inside had heard the shooting and locked it. Al-Sharif fired one-handed at the long glass window beside the door. After three rounds the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. He was out of ammunition. He let go of the woman and frantically swung the rifle to smash the glass.

  Storey edged around the corner and got his first view of the door alcove, which was recessed into the building. He snapped off a quick shot just as al-Sharif swung the rifle again.

  The bullet skimmed past al-Sharif’s head, struck the brick wall, and peppered him with masonry. He dropped the rifle and crashed through the window.

  Storey made a radio call to Troy. “He’s inside the school, but he lost his rifle.”

  Al-Sharif pulled the pistol from his holster and ran down the hallway, screaming parents scattering before him.

  Beth covered Storey as he went through the window. The woman hostage was sitting on the concrete walkway, still wailing. Storey was halfway down the hall when Beth got inside, and she sprinted to catch up.

  Storey was crouched down low, exposing only one eyeball before he went around the corner. As Beth came up behind him he pointed to the floor. Al-Sharif had cut himself on the window, and was leaving tiny, almost unnoticeable blood drops on the linoleum. Not that they couldn’t track his passage from all the screams they were hearing.

  Al-Sharif knew he had to get out of the building before they surrounded it. He was almost at the back. There had to be a door somewhere. As he turned the corner he ran into a knot of people. They were scared, bunching together in a herd instinct without ever realizing what they were doing.

  Al-Sharif screamed, “On the floor, all of you!” As they dropped he grabbed a woman by the arm. Women didn’t try to be heroes.

  “Please, not me!” she begged.

  Al-Sharif ground the pistol barrel into her cheek. “Shut up or I’ll blow your head off.” Then to the others, “The rest of you stay down there.” He looked around. There was a fire door. Finally. He dragged her to the door and pushed it open.

  Troy heard the fire door first, then saw the flash of light as it opened. Al-Sharif with a woman in front of him. This would have been a great time to take a shot with the ACOG scope. Too bad he’d already taken it off the rifle. Putting it back on would be useless. He wouldn’t dare take that kind of shot without rezeroing the sights. And he wouldn’t try a head shot behind a hostage barrier with iron sights. At least not at that distance.

  If al-Sharif didn’t have a hostage, Troy wanted him outside. But with a hostage he had to be inside the building and contained. Troy fired a shot into the wall right above al-Sharif’s head.

  The woman screamed and al-Sharif pulled her back inside. He’d been hearing those big booming rifles all night. He didn’t know who they were, but that wasn’t the usual cop firepower. He had to find another way out. But he couldn’t move dragging the bitch along with him. He threw her back onto the pile of people on the floor.

  Troy checked the compass on his Suunto wristwatch. “Tango tried to come out afire door on the north side,” he radioed Storey. “I drove him back in. He has a hostage. White female.”

  “Roger,” Storey replied curtly. He checked the next corner. There was a bunch of civilians huddled on the floor, but they were all white. “You people all right?”

  “He went that way,” one of the men blurted out, pointing.

  “Get up, get out that door, and get away from the building,” Beth ordered.

  “Civilians coming out,” Storey radioed Troy.

  “Roger,” Troy replied. Through the windows lining that outside hallway, he caught sight of al-Sharif running. “Got a visual. Tango’s heading for the west side of the building. Just turned the corner. No hostage, I say again, no hostage.”

  “Roger,” Storey replied. Now he and Beth could move a little faster.

  Al-Sharif saw two wooden swinging doors and crashed through them. The lights were all out, but enough outside lighting was coming through the windows for him to easily make out the cafeteria. There had to be a door to the outside near the windows.

  When Storey heard the thump of the doors he went around the corner without his usual caution. He signaled Beth that he was going right, and she should stay low.

  Keeping both hands on his rifle, Storey hit the door with his shoulder, darting across the f
atal funnel of the doorway.

  Just like Troy, al-Sharif saw the flash of hallway light as the door opened. He turned and snapped off two quick shots, ducking down below the tables.

  Beth was coming through the door at a crouch, and the rounds hit the wood over her head.

  Storey fired at the muzzle flashes but didn’t hear anything to indicate a hit.

  Al-Sharif felt as much as heard the two bullets going by. By God, this bastard was good. And he had just a pistol against that rifle. He had to get out of there. He looked down the even line of tables and saw another side door. Not daring to show himself, he moved down the aisle on his hands and knees. By God, every time he stopped moving and started again, his body hurt worse. His head was aching something terrible.

  Storey edged along the wall, scanning the cavernous room. Nothing was visible above the tables. He dropped down on one knee, but there were too many chair and table legs to see well underneath them in the darkness. He tried to listen carefully, but after shooting a high-velocity rifle one’s hearing wasn’t at its best.

  Al-Sharif reached the end of the row of tables. He had to cross maybe twenty feet of open space before reaching the short hallway that funneled into the door. Rising up into a crouch, he said a prayer for help, hoping he had another sprint in him. Then he burst from the blocks.

  Storey saw the movement and swung his rifle around. Not fast enough—the figure disappeared, and Storey didn’t shoot just to make noise. The echoing boom of another door opening, and he and Beth were in pursuit again.

  Al-Sharif found himself in the middle of a totally empty hallway. He knew he’d never reach either end in time. Instead he dashed right across the hallway and into a classroom. The lights were off in all of these, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

  Storey shouldered his way through the door, staying low. He bobbed his head out into the hallway, drawing it back immediately. Empty. He couldn’t have gotten down it that fast. Then Storey looked down and saw a blood drop that had been smeared along by a shoe, pointing right across the hall.