Dead Six

by Larry Correia

  The others were behind cover in the entrance of the final barracks. Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen. Rifle still slung across my chest, revolver held at the ready, I jogged down the length of the barracks, passing Reaper and Jill and stepping over dead bodies. It looked like I had managed to plug somebody through the wall after all.

  “Everybody okay?” I got a chorus of nods in response.

  I looked out a window just in time to see Lorenzo enter the mess hall building.

  “Where’s he going?”

  “I don’t know,” Reaper said. “He just took off.”

  “Let’s go!” Jill said, a fire in her eyes.

  Holstering my Smith & Wesson, I pulled a fresh twenty-round magazine from my vest and locked it into my FAL’s magazine well. I looked back at my companions and was out the door.

  LORENZO

  Valentine was a killing machine.

  The last of Gordon’s SWAT team were gone, shot to death through the barracks walls. Bodies twisted into unnatural positions, hands curled into claws, staring blankly at the beams overhead. I stepped quickly through the mess, shell casings spinning away underfoot. Hawk had been firing from the window, hammering his Para FAL at someone in the northern buildings. Reaper and Jill were back toward the entrance.

  I crouched near the rear door and scanned the last building. There was no visible movement, but there had been earlier, and none of the men that we had killed were Eddie or Gordon. Process of elimination left that one.

  Elimination. Sometimes I make myself smile.

  There was a noise, high pitched and repetitive over the ringing in my ears. It was coming from the cafeteria. The noise seemed out of place in the ghost town.

  Barking. It was Eddie’s poodle.

  I’m by nature a cautious man. You do not live long in my business by charging into situations, but caution went out the window when I heard that sound. Eddie’s presence here tonight was like a gift from heaven, and I wasn’t going to leave without sending him to hell.

  “I’m going in,” I said into my radio, took a quick look, didn’t see any obvious threats, then sprinted for the cafeteria, realizing halfway across that I didn’t have a working radio. Too late to turn back. I covered the last bit of distance and slid to a stop in the gravel next to the open doorway.

  The old mess hall was a huge building. I rounded the corner and activated my flashlight. The interior was a mass of old tables, most of them broken and sticking up at odd angles. The light created horrific shadows dancing on the walls. Nothing moved, but you could have hid an elephant in here and I wouldn’t have seen it.

  That annoying barking came again, a high-pitched yipping, louder now, off to the side. My light illuminated another door, probably to the kitchen. I moved through, using what cover was available, ready to shoot at any second. The kitchen was empty also, just some dust-coated countertops, old bottles, and a rusting industrial-sized stove. There was another door, and the barking was coming from inside.

  I kicked the door open, the old bolt tearing right through the age-softened wood. Rickety stairs descended into the darkness.

  Man. What I’d give for another grenade.

  The yippy dog was really freaking out now. I cracked the vertebra in my neck. This was it.

  I swept around the corner, light stabbing into the darkness. Below was a small pantry, filled with empty shelves, probably sunk into the ground to keep the food from the desert heat. Eddie’s poodle was in the center of the room, its leash tied around a beam.

  The dog was snarling at me. I moved the light around, but there was nobody else in the room. There was a dusty tarp hanging in one corner, big enough to conceal a man.

  I started down the steps, gun up, finger on the trigger, Aimpoint dot floating on that tarp. My heart was pounding. Was that Eddie behind there? I took aim and stitched a line of shots up it. The AR moved slightly under recoil as something shattered and fell behind the tarp. The poodle yelped in surprise and whimpered.

  If Eddie was hiding in there, he wasn’t happy.

  The first gunshot struck me low in the back. I stumbled forward, accidentally discharging my weapon as another round tore down my arm. I tried to turn back toward the kitchen, but as my boot landed on the next step, the ancient stairs broke and gave way under my weight. Windmilling, off balance, another shot sparked off my AR’s receiver and I crashed halfway through the stairs, legs dangling over the pantry, jagged wood stabbing into my arms. The door to the giant stove was open now and a hand with a pistol extended out of it. I saw the muzzle flash, and something tore along the side of my scalp, snapping my head back. Another shot thudded into my armor as the rest of the staircase collapsed around me.

  The air exploded from my lungs as I landed hard in a pile of dust and wood. I lay there for a split second, lights exploding behind my eyes. I had walked right into it, focused on the noise, and waltzed right past Eddie’s ambush.

  Choking, gasping, I pushed myself deeper into the corner under the broken stairs as I drew my pistol. My body was on fire with pain, and blood was running out of my hair and into my eyes. My protesting lungs wouldn’t fill with air at first, but I forced back the rising tide of panic. The bag containing the prince’s treasure had somehow spilled free and was resting on the floor a few feet away, just out of reach.

  “Lorenzo, I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Eddie said from above. He peered over the edge at me, smiling, H&K P7 in one hand, his silk shirt filthy with old rust, puffy hair matted with cobwebs. He moved back over the threshold as I raised my gun and fired. The bullet smashed into the ceiling.

  I kept the shaking front sight aimed at that doorway and tried to breathe. The basement was dark. My AR was smashed on the ground beside me. I had no cover. At least that dog had shut up. I glanced over at the Precious’s last position. It looked like I’d accidently shot the poodle before the stairs had fallen on it. Ouch.

  “You know you’re not the first one to come after me. Did you really think it would be that easy? You probably did. I try to cultivate a certain manner. It tends to cause men like you to underestimate me.” Eddie’s effeminate voice was safely out of sight above. “Where’s the scarab, Lorenzo?”

  “Sorry about your dog.” I coughed and used my sleeve to wipe the blood out of my eyes. If Eddie was going to finish me, he needed to stick his gun over the edge. So I only had one shot. The STI slowly quit shaking. Blood trickled down my lacerated arm and pooled inside my armor.

  “I’ll buy a new dog. The scarab is irreplaceable.”

  Come on, Eddie. Just a peek. “It must be worth a fortune.”

  “It’s not the money. It’s the sentimental value. The man that wants that thing is far more dangerous than me. He’d crush the prince like a bug. But if I have it, he’ll do anything I ask. You have no idea how important that bloody thing is. This is your last chance, Lorenzo. Where is it?”

  It was sitting right there in the dust, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Someplace you’ll never find it,” I answered, and it wasn’t a stretch of my acting ability to sound injured. “So let’s get this over with.”

  Eddie was quiet for a moment. “You realize, of course, that I’m still going to kill your family. It’s a matter of principle now.”

  “Of course,” I answered as I blocked out the pain, the throbbing in my head, the ringing in my ears, the blood in my eyes, and focused on that glowing front sight. One shot. Just one shot.

  Then there was a gunshot, not from a handgun, but the thunder of a .308 round, followed by several other deep booms from Reaper’s Benelli. They were close.

  “Sounds like your mates are here. I’m afraid our time together has come to an end.”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad.” Front sight. Front sight. Come on.

  “Farewell, Lorenzo.”

  I was waiting for it. Please, God, just one shot. But Eddie didn’t appear at the edge. Rather, there was a scratchy clicking noise. A lighter? Then a glass bottle with a flaming rag stuck
in the top flew through the doorway. I watched in horror as the Molotov cocktail sailed across the room and shattered against the far wall. The liquid inside spread across the walls and wooden shelves, ignited, and bathed the tiny room in heat and flames.

  I pushed myself to my feet, scrambling, searching for handholds to get out of the deathtrap. The fire was spreading, eating up the dry wood, leaping up the walls, licking at me, singeing my clothes. The heat sucked the moisture from my eyes, and the poison smoke billowed into my lungs.

  Eduard Montalban chortled like a deranged schoolgirl as he fled the kitchen. I screamed as the flames tore at me.

  VALENTINE

  The smell of smoke hit my nostrils as I reached the mess hall. The door was already open. I crouched and studied the darkened interior. Hawk crouched across from me and shined his flashlight into the room. Smoke was drifting up through the floorboards, obscuring everything.

  Hawk killed the light and glanced at me. “What do you want to do?”

  Jill and Reaper were still shadowed in the safety of the barracks. I keyed my radio. “I don’t see Lorenzo, I—” I froze. Something moved quickly at the far end of the room, headed for the door. I flashed my weapon light, and there he was.

  Gordon.

  My former employer flinched in the blinding light, his normally expensive suit covered in dirt and rust. He had a handkerchief pressed to his mouth because of the rising smoke and had just reached the back door. He looked back at us for an instant, then dove through the doorway. I opened fire, rattling off half a magazine at where Gordon had been, then firing through the wall at where he might be. Before Hawk could stop me, I took off in pursuit and disappeared into the smoke.

  LORENZO

  The world was engulfed in flames. Fire moved like a living creature, consuming everything around me. I reached for the scarab, but the fire drove me back. There was no time to retrieve it, and I stumbled away. The heat was unbearable, my exposed skin was burning. My mind swam through incoherent thoughts as my lungs pumped poison gases into my brain.

  Not like this. I can’t go down like this.

  The fingernails of one hand tore off trying to pull myself up the wall to reach the doorway. It was only about a dozen feet, but it seemed a million miles away.

  Calm down. Hold your breath and fucking climb.

  I unsheathed my Greco knife and stabbed it into the planks high above my head. Driven with the strength of desperation, the blade stuck deep. I only had one chance. With my clothing burning, driven by adrenaline, I pulled on the knife while I jumped, boots scrambling for purchase, bloody fingers tearing at the boards above. The remaining cartridges in my AR began to cook off, sounding like firecrackers inside the conflagration.

  Somehow I found purchase, dangling by my fingertips. I was halfway there. Shit, it hurts. I jerked the knife out, raised it overhead as I began to slip, and slammed it home again. The next few seconds were a blur of pain, tearing muscles, and fire, always the fire. Finding fingerholds when there were none, I reached the jagged broken top step, got one hand onto it, and pulled myself upward. By a miracle, it held.

  I crawled onto the kitchen floor. Black smoke billowed through the doorway over me, filling the room. Face on the ground, I opened my mouth and inhaled. I immediately began to cough, violent spasms that were like vomiting pain.

  “Lorenzo!” someone shouted. Hands grabbed me by the straps on my armor and pulled me across the kitchen. Black combat boots stomped ahead of me. Reaper. “Holy shit! You’re on fire!” He whipped off his giant coat and covered me with it, beating at my back and legs.

  Finally I rolled over and gasped, precious air filling my lungs. He was pulling me outside the burning mess hall. It took a moment for my head to quit spinning. Jill was staring down at me, her hands on the side of my face. She was saying something.

  “I’m okay,” I rasped, trying to sit up. Pain like electric current moved through my limbs.

  “You know fuck-all about okay.” She pushed me back down. “Hold still. You’re hurt.”

  Pain was replaced with anger. Anger was replaced with rage. I grabbed her arm. “Where’s Eddie?” I snapped.

  “I don’t know,” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”

  I immediately let go. “Sorry.” I left a soot-black, bloodstained handprint on her arm. “Help me up,” I ordered. Jill and Reaper both took an elbow and helped me stand. Reaper pushed me a small bottle of water, and I sucked at it greedily. It burned going down my parched throat. After a few seconds, I had to stop and puke the water and a bunch of soot up, then I went back to drinking. They both wore looks of shock as they studied me. I had to look pretty bad.

  “Screw it. I’ll live,” I wheezed as I tossed the bottle, sounding like a ten-pack-a-day smoker. “Status?”

  “Bob’s pinned down. Somebody got back on that machine gun. Valentine saw Gordon. He and Hawk went that way.” Reaper pointed toward the garage. “We haven’t seen Eddie.”

  The scarab was still down there, lost in the flames, probably melted. Whoever wanted that thing so badly was probably going to be pissed. I patted my side. At least I had stuck with my training and reholstered my pistol even while standing inside a fireball. I pulled the gun now and let it dangle at my side.

  “Quit staring. Let’s go help my brother.”

  VALENTINE

  Gordon was not going to get away. The Calm was failing, replaced with rage. I was hunting him like an animal, and I’d never felt more alive. I think I actually had a smile on my face.

  “Val! Wait!” Hawk shouted, struggling to keep up.

  It was dark. The air was filled with smoke. My eyes welled with tears, and my lungs ached. My focus was on the back doorway and the pitch-black space that Gordon had escaped into.

  Bob was saying something over the radio, sounding scared, but I couldn’t understand him over the beating pulse in my head. Gordon had to die first; then I could care about everyone else’s business. I reached the doorway. I pulled up against the frame and flashed my weapon light before stepping through. Clear.

  I stepped forward and was immediately cracked across the chest with a 2x4. I lurched back, disoriented, and fell to the ground. The man was on top of me in an instant. I raised my hands to protect my head as began to bludgeon me with the board.

  My attacker swung again. The board struck my arm, and shocking pain flooded all the way to my shoulder. My arm went numb. I struggled for my pistol, but he slammed the board down on me again. The man raised the 2x4 over his head, meaning to swing it down on me like a sledgehammer. He left an opening. I planted a size-twelve boot right in his nutsack.

  He stumbled back, giving me a moment of respite. Before he could recover, someone jumped over me and dove into my attacker. I was dazed. My head was swimming, and it felt like my skull had been split open. I was too dizzy to rise.

  I could barely see what was going on. Two men fought viciously in front of me, moving so fast in the dark I couldn’t tell who was who. I then heard Hawk grunt in pain as the two shapes moved apart. There was sudden flash of steel as a knife darted between them. I raised my gun as one of the shapes tottered forward, went to his knees, and fell face-first to the floor.

  “Hawk?” I asked. “You okay?”

  It took him a second to respond. “Fine,” he grunted as he emerged from the shadows, holding his old Randall knife in one hand. His other hand was clamped against his side. “He stabbed me. Not too bad, though.” Despite his injury, Hawk helped me to my feet. I wobbled but was able to stand.

  Is it Gordon? My deceased attacker was wearing a suit and was about the right size. I swung my rifle around and thumbed on my flashlight. I don’t know who the man was, but it wasn’t Gordon Willis. Probably one of his flunkies. The side of his neck had been split open from his collarbone to his ear. Damn. Hawk spat.

  Gunfire echoed from the direction of the garage. Beyond that I could hear the noise of an engine turning over.

  Gordon was getting away.

  LORENZO
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  Reaper was in front now as we hurried back toward the garage, trying to stay in the shadows as much as possible. We could see a stream of tracers flying from the side of the garage up into the hillside where we had left Bob. I stumbled along, one arm over Jill’s shoulder as she kept me upright. The mess hall was burning bright, and the flames had spread to the surrounding buildings. The camp was coming down.

  I avoided taking a mental inventory of my injuries. Nothing seemed to be bleeding very fast.

  We all instinctively ducked as we were suddenly illuminated by car headlights. Somebody had made it back to the vehicles. There was a sudden roar from a powerful engine, and one of the Suburbans sprayed gravel as it turned around and tore away from us.

  That’s when I saw Valentine emerge from one of the buildings on the other side of the horseshoe. “Gordon!” he screamed, running right into the middle of the road, oblivious to danger. He snapped his FAL to his shoulder and fired at the Suburban. Several holes were punched in the back of the SUV before Valentine’s bolt locked back. He rapidly reloaded, once again flinging the empty magazine away and rocking in a new one, but it was too late. By the time he dropped the bolt on a live round, the Suburban had dipped into a gully and disappeared from view.

  Valentine slowly lowered his rifle. He stood there quietly, seething, staring at the horizon as if he could will the Suburban to come back. Hawk appeared behind him, limping badly. His rifle was slung, his .44 dangled from one hand, and his other hand was pressed against a wound on his side.

  Hawk caught my look. “Keep moving! I’m fine.” Another burst of machine gun fire tore into the hillside. All of us flinched in that direction. Bob. I was running now, the others right behind me. Valentine saw us and followed. My 9mm was at the ready as I moved around the corner of the garage.