Lycan

by John O'Brien

  Offshore, Lynn patrols in the Spooky, keeping the list of hotel guests up to date, vetting all new arrivals and reservations. Over time, I rotate out to replace Gonzalez while Greg heads inside to change positions with McCafferty. I leave the pool area extremely thankful that Mr. Richard Thong had found interests elsewhere and had been nowhere to be seen. I’m just not overly interested in watching some guy in a G-string attached to a balloon.

  A few parasols dot the beach next to the resort, the chairs below them filled with sunglassed faces sipping drinks with umbrellas. Most have books opened or Kindles as they ignore this world in favor of another one. White streaks of sunscreen mar plenty of noses, cheeks, and shoulders.

  Several couples prowl the shoreline, periodically venturing into the waters and letting the waves roll over their sandaled feet. Two families wander the sands, shouts coming from one set of parents as wayward children dash for the water. Another scolds a complaining child who wants to return to the comforts of the pool.

  Although I can understand the concept of wanting to go on vacation, and I see the allure of the Mexican coastline, I still can’t fathom disregarding the current travel advisories. The reality of these people doesn’t include a world that can indeed suddenly sprout violence. I guess they don’t think they could possibly become involved in something like that; they assume their privilege will somehow shield them from any carnage. I suppose they think that kind of shit happens to other people and the closest they’ll come to it is watching the news or YouTube videos. After all, there are people being paid to ensure that such bloodshed doesn’t ever touch their lives.

  Small crests crash faintly offshore, turning into a sizzle of waves rolling up the sandy beaches. Footprints mar the darker wet sand where waves periodically smear the deep imprints and obliterate the evidence. Far off, the sapphire waters join with the western horizon, the colors nearly merging. Walking along the shore, it’s hard to fathom this place becoming a harbor of violence.

  As the sun winds across the cobalt sky, the shadows from the palms and umbrellas creep across the sizzling concrete. Several times we’re brought to a heightened alert by staff wheeling towel carts out to the pool or bringing supplies to the restaurants. Unless trenchcoated desperados come storming up the beach, my money is on staff members or someone disguised as them. Each time, however, proves a false alarm.

  Toward evening, I’m tired from the hours spent in the heat. I find myself wishing the banditos would just show up so we could get this party started; get this shit over and done with. The fact that we constantly have to be on alert is draining.

  Once evening arrives and the pool clears, we’ll be able to focus on the restaurant. Henderson or Denton will still keep an overwatch on the beach and pool area while two of us remain on the outskirts of the eating areas. That will give two the chance to rest, and then we’ll begin the two-person shifts once the diners eat their fill and head off on whatever adventure they have planned for the evening.

  McCafferty planted two hidden cameras in the lobby to give clear views of the entrance and hallway doors. This way, we’ll be able to monitor them during the night instead of actually posting someone down there. Our response time will be increased, but we won’t be as conspicuous to the hotel staff and their security.

  * * * * * *

  Two days and nights have taken their toll as I stroll out to the pool area early on the third morning. My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep and my brain feels like mush from the days spent in the heat. I notice the lack of my usual charm when at breakfast I grunt my replies to questions and attempts at conversation.

  Planting myself in a shaded spot, I’m ready for another day of heat and boredom. The pool area soon begins to fill with people wanting to take advantage of the cooler temperatures. The splashes are endless as kids plunge into the pool, their screeches of fun echoing off the surrounding brick and concrete walls of the resort.

  “Four policemen just entered the main lobby, all carrying sidearms and shouldered weapons…three M-4s and one AK,” McCafferty radios.

  “Police cars?” I ask.

  “Already checking…standby,” she calls.

  “I don’t see any in the parking lot,” McCafferty answers after a minute. “The four are sitting in the café, ordering food and drinks.”

  “Keep an eye on them. The mix of weapons isn’t right. Denton, wake Henderson. I want him down with McCafferty yesterday. Denton, you’re our eyes. Greg, Gonzalez, group together on the southern end by the restaurant, I’ll take the north. If this is going down and others show up beachside, they have two possible points of entry. If they use the northern entry, Greg, Gonzalez, reposition to the south of it. If it turns out to be the southern one, I’ll move. If they split entries, you two have the south and I’ll take the north. Stay close but remain as hidden as you can. We don’t want to be identified as primary targets for their first volley,” I brief. “Lynn, did you catch all of that?”

  “Copy. I haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary radio chatter.”

  Rising and grabbing my bag as casually as I can, I move past the poolside bar and maneuver through the plethora of chaise lounges. Sounds fade into the background as I survey the courtyard with a more focused determination. As I’ve done many times in the past few days, I visualize gunmen entering the courtyard and the avenues they may take. Their attention will be on the most crowded area.

  Leaving the pool area, I move up a side path and park myself on a grassy lawn next to the beach wall. Sitting down, I’ll be hidden from view from both beach and courtyard but in a position to move quickly behind any shooters who show up. I unzip my bag lying next to me and pull out a book in case someone strolls by, doing my best to look like I’m just enjoying some alone time. Greg and Gonzalez radio that they’ve found a similar place on the southern side.

  “One of them just spoke into a radio; they’re moving,” McCafferty radios.

  “Is Henderson with you?”

  “Just arrived,” Henderson states.

  “Stay with them,” I say.

  “They’re moving down the hall toward the pool,” McCafferty states.

  “Jack, we just picked up a VHF radio transmission in Spanish: ‘We’re here and moving in. Five minutes.’”

  “Copy. Denton, anything?”

  “Nothing in view…wait, four policemen just entered the beach from the adjacent condemned resort. I count four carbines, shoulder slung and carried casually. Sir, line of sight is going to be tricky on your side.”

  “Copy that. Greg, can you peek over the wall on your side?”

  “Standby…yeah, there’s four others dressed in white uniforms below me…all armed the same.”

  “Okay, folks. It’s go time. Watch your timing and fields of fire. Pick your targets and move quickly. There’s going to be civilian casualties, just remember that we’re here to minimize them, so don’t move until we have verification. Don’t engage until weapons are drawn; then, mow them down. This will be over quickly. Primary escape route is in effect,” I brief, putting my book away and reaching into my bag. “Again, remember that we’re not here to prevent this from going down, we’re here to limit the violence. So, don’t engage until there’s clear hostility.”

  My heart is beating a solid rhythm, my breathing forced down to stay steady. If all of this goes right, we’ll be behind the shooters and will take them out before they know what hit them. Then, in the ensuing panic, we’ll slip away and be on our way home by noon. I just hope not too many civilians get hit. I hear the screams of the kids splashing in the pool and hope they live through what’s about to happen.

  I clear the area around me, making sure I’m still alone. In my implant, I hear Denton calling distances. Both parties are nearing the sandy entrances from the beach.

  “Okay, those to the north have moved carbines into ready positions and started walking quickly. Those four on Greg’s side just rounded the wall and are in view, also walking quickly,” Denton reports.


  “The four inside have moved in front of the doors, their weapons still shouldered, but I can sense their tension,” McCafferty calls.

  “Just entered the courtyard on the north side,” Denton calls. “South side fifteen feet away.”

  I pull out my M-4 and peek around the corner of the wall toward the pool. Four white-uniformed men stand several feet away, their backs to me with their hands gripping forestocks and triggers. They raise their weapons. The nearest vacationers resting in their reclined positions see the weapons suddenly aimed at them, widened eyes on faces filled with sudden confusion and fear.

  “Engaging,” I call.

  Rising, I round the corner, bringing my M-4 up. The small crosshair of my SpecterDR centers on the back of one man’s head, just below the rim of his white booney hat. Even though a shot hasn’t been fired, I’m all in at this point. There’s little doubt in my mind that the men dressed in police uniforms are about to unleash tragedy on the families encircling the pool. However, there’s that one little part of my mind that screams that I’m about to kill a policeman in a terrible misunderstanding—that we’re all about to kill twelve of them. But that thought is tossed aside as I squeeze the trigger. Everything, I mean everything, points to this turning into a slaughter of innocents. I think about the kids splashing in the pool.

  The soft chunk spits out a round, kicking the M-4 back into my shoulder. The spiraling 6.5mm bullet exiting the suppressor crosses the intervening space, slamming forcefully into the back of the man’s head with a solid thud. The round punches through the thick bone and splinters the skull as it penetrates. Traveling through the soft tissue, the now flattened front of the bullet impacts the nasal cavity from behind. The upper cheek beside the nose explodes outward as the round again finds the freedom of air.

  Blood, tissue, and bone fragments spray in a thick, chunky mist in front of the man. His head rocks forward and then back from the concussive force, his lower body failing him like his knees had turned to Jell-O. He drops and falls forward, his body hitting the hard surface head first with a crack. The hat he was wearing pops into the air and tumbles to the painted concrete, its white rim now stained with red splatters.

  As the man’s knees begin to buckle, a speedy but short movement brings my reticle into alignment with the man next to him. The chatter of automatic fire opens up as I center the crosshair, the uniformed men spraying bullets into the crowd of relaxing vacationers.

  A quick tug on the trigger sends another round to crash into the back of a head, hitting just behind the ear. The second man stumbles forward, his weapon falling to the ground with a clatter. He takes a couple of wooden steps as if he were a toddler just learning to walk, the bullet rattling around inside of his skull before he collapses in a heap. Blood trickles down the side of his head as it rests in a thick expanding pool of red. Tentacles slowly ooze along the low spots in the painted concrete, reaching out to those flowing from the first shooter as if the two were long-lost lovers.

  Gunfire erupts from the other side of the pool near Greg and Gonzalez’s position. In my periphery, beyond the gunmen, I see bullets strike those along the edges of the pool. Red blossoms appear on the nearest wide-eyed vacationers, rounds forcefully entering flesh to shatter bones and tear through organs. Many rock backward, their bodies dancing in jerky wooden movements. Some tumble to the sides, their lounge chairs toppling. Yet another couple is propelled rearward over the tops of their seats, the feet of their chairs rising like a see-saw with only one person playing.

  Books fly into the air, their stories interrupted, falling to the ground with blood-spattered pages fluttering in the mild breeze. Drinks are swept from tables, glass shattering and emptying their contents to mix with the pooling blood. One man has his glass explode into shards in the middle of taking a drink. Both drink and ice splash into the air, the mix turning pink as the bullet slams into flesh and bone. A woman’s wide-brimmed hat is thrown into the air as her body is stitched, fluttering downward like a falling leaf.

  With the second shooter down, the volume of fire is cut drastically. I turn to the third, thumbing my selector switch to auto. It’s time to finish this nasty business before more people are hit. As I center the reticle, I notice the fourth man has turned in my direction, apparently having noticed his other two comrades biting the concrete. My heart thumps, adrenaline surging as I also notice that his carbine is now pointed in my direction.

  “Oh, fuck!” I mutter.

  Forgetting all else, I dive to the side, hoping that I don’t just slam headfirst into the wall. Rounds fill the air where I just was, chips of concrete flying from the wall and ricocheting off the walkway. I’m thankful for the grassy surface as I land heavily on my side. Above me, splinters of concrete rain down as the shooter sprays the top of the wall. Heavy thuds land behind me as bullets embed deep into the grassy field. Lying there, I know that with two of them still up, one can keep me suppressed while the other only has to take a few steps to round the corner. More rounds blast the top of the wall to the staccato sound of automatic fire, the pings of ricochets fading into the distance.

  Move or fire, Jack!

  I know in this situation, if I’m not doing one or the other, I’m dead. Quickly crawling forward, I come out from under the rain of concrete chips.

  “Denton, do you have a shot of the two to the north?” I radio.

  “Negative. The umbrellas and fronds are blocking my view. I don’t even have you in sight.”

  “Can you guess on a shot?”

  “Affirmative, but the chances are low that I’ll hit anything. I can’t even be sure that I won’t hit friendlies.”

  “The friendlies furthest north are already down. I’ll take the chance at this point.”

  I rise to my knees but am mindful to keep my head below the barrier. I can’t remain kneeling, hoping for the chance that Henderson hits something. Frankly, I don’t have that kind of time. I take a couple of deep breaths, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. I could be rising into a hail of bullets, but just sitting here isn’t an option.

  The top of the wall is chewed as more chips zip past, bullets whining into the sky and fading. I wait for a moment, the fire falling off. Swinging my M-4 derivative up and over the wall as I rise, my finger is already tight on the trigger. The farthest gunman is struggling to jam a new mag into his weapon, the spent one clattering across the hard ground. The other one is circling and closing, looking for the first sight of where I’m hiding.

  The choice is an easy one, although I’ll have to be quick as the click of a mag being inserted is heard above the screams coming from the pool area.

  “Interior is clear,” McCafferty radios.

  The circling man registers surprise as his expression quickly turns from confidence, his smile of satisfaction for my impending death faltering. His startled mien changes again to one of shock and fear as he realizes my weapon is already aimed in his direction, the hole at the end of my barrel a cannon.

  I fire a burst before fully rising. His white shirt puffs outward from the impacting bullets, red blossoms flowering immediately and spreading. Staggering backward, the man flails, still trying to bring his carbine to bear. Knowing that shooter is out of the equation for the next moment, I round on the other one who has flipped the bolt release and is raising his barrel.

  “Shooting,” Denton calls, his voice carrying his doubt but letting it be known that a high-speed projectile is about to enter the air and go…somewhere.

  I don’t hear the shot, it being suppressed, but I do witness the effect. With a solid thwack, the shooter is involuntarily shoved to the side, his upper and lower body bending sideways as his pelvis is forcefully pushed. His scream of pain mixes with those of the panicked and fleeing vacationers. Blood soaks the right side of his white pants. He then collapses to the side, dropping his carbine, which goes clacking across the ground. Clutching his hip, he writhes in agony, still screaming.

  “Well,” Denton asks.

  “That
’ll do,” I reply as I silence the man’s pained shrieks.

  The other staggering man stumbles backward, coming into contact with the wall and sliding down its rough surface. His arm still tries to bring the carbine up, but only manages to raise it a few inches, then twitches and the weapon falls to the ground. I can hear his shallow gasping breaths as he attempts to take in more air. A thin line of blood streams from one side of his mouth, dripping onto his already red-stained shirt.

  With my weapon aimed at his head, I circle around to get a different angle. If I were to fire from my current position, there’s a pretty good chance of catching my own bullet. I’m not interested in taking him in for questioning. This isn’t an op to figure out who did this or why; to extract information. We already know the answers to those questions. And, it’s getting past time to start thinking about our exfil.

  “South side clear,” Gonzalez calls.

  The screams around the pool have diminished as people have run as far away from the violence as they can. The nearby injured crawl across the hot surface, streaks of blood mingling with the water. The sound of gunfire is over, leaving behind the gasping breaths of the man, the moans of those attempting to crawl away from their pain, and the faint rush of the waves rolling over the sand. The slow, heavy air carries the scent: a mix of gunpowder, chlorine, the restaurant, and the faint odor of blood and feces.

  “North side clear. Start your exfil. I’ll be along shortly,” I radio. “Meet in the rooms of the secondary resort. First one there calls for three taxis. Let’s move.”

  The fatally wounded man’s eyes follow my movement. From a different angle, I fire into him as he leans against the wall. The round slams into his forehead, blood and chunks of tissue splattering against the wall behind. Thick streams quickly flow down with the larger pieces of brain peeling away to fall to the ground.

  I feel something cold and heavy press against the back of my head. I know immediately I made the mistake of not checking my six during the chaos. My first thought is that I’ve encountered the ones responsible for taking out the special ops teams around the world, but that thought quickly vanishes as this is not their MO. Without hesitation, I let my carbine fall while moving my head to the right, hoping to hell the man holding the gun to the back of my head is right-handed. Pivoting on my foot, I rotate, bringing my right arm up and around in a sweeping motion.