Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Concentrate. Focus. Channel everything into the movement

  Imperceptibly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the next, almost appearing to not move at all. It was a risk, but some forces could not be denied.

  Almost time.

  He waited, breath steady, pulse holding. Better than before. Not so wild. Under control.

  Gage raised his line of sight to encompass both forward infrared signatures by using unfocused, peripheral vision. He watched the targeted rooms intently as the sirens screamed towards the block. No movement. Both of the thermal images were absolutely stationary.

  Closer now. Sirens converged on the church.

  Gage watched a moment longer.

  He smiled.

  The heat signatures didn't move at all. But Gage knew that any normal person would move, even just a little. Most people would be curious, or at least concerned that it might be their building on fire. But these two didn't move because they were trained not to move. Because they knew there was no fire, knew it was a diversion.

  Never leave your post.

  Never allow yourself to be distracted.

  Always remember your primary objective.

  Two in front, for sure.

  Gage decided to trust his judgment.

  Including the two he had selected inside separate buildings at the rear, that was at least four. But no team works in four. It was always six or ten.

  He nodded, concentrating. He could anticipate as many as four more men inside, but probably not more than two. Whoever these guys were, he was certain that they used the smallest team possible, for security reasons, just like everyone else. And six was the standard for every elite combat team in the world when the target was a small collection of people. Ten was the number for heavy assault on a large company.

  Chaos pulled up in front of the church.

  Gage waited a moment more. Inhaled once. Expelled the breath in a slow, forceful effort, mind speeding with tactics, approaches and maneuvers that blended, shifted, tumbled in varying combinations, adjusting his approach to what was happening in front of the church. It came to him, the angle, the movement to break the perimeter, simple, simple, keep it simple.

  Into it now, everything considered, calculated.

  He removed the night visor.

  Slid into the night.

  St. Thomas swarmed with yellow asbestos coats. Six primary response units had unloaded the swarming but efficiently coordinated firefighters into the street. Busily hooking up, surrounding the building, the moving figures turned helmeted heads toward every possible crevice, searching for escaping smoke.

  Nothing.

  No smoke. No fire.

  St. Thomas's priest, a tall, imperial man, approached the elder firefighter who also approached him, walking quickly down the center aisle of the cathedral.

  Obviously in command, the fireman held a large black maglight in one hand and a radio in the other. His coat was buttoned to the neck, the top flaps overlapping to prevent incendiary debris from spilling down his chest.

  "Where is it, Father?" An old and experienced voice of calm concern.

  "There is no fire, Captain," the priest replied, a tone of utter calm with a faint British accent. "Gentlemen, I believe that some irresponsible person has called in a—" The priest turned his head, distracted by the firemen who brushed past him, axes in hand, disappearing into the depths of the church," – false alarm. It has happened a great deal lately. I apologize to you."

  "You haven't called in a fire?" The captain's face grew angry, more serious.

  "No, I—" the priest began.

  The captain raised a radio. "Unit 23 to Dispatch," he said and received a static reply. "Cancel any additional trucks. We've got a false—"

  Frantic yelling erupted from a corridor. "We've got smoke! A lot of it!"

  "Excuse me," the captain muttered, moving without hesitation toward the corridor that echoed with frantic shouts. He spoke hurriedly into the radio: "Unit 23, disregard last traffic. Have units respond."

  Another utterance of frantic shouting came from corridors located on the other side of the cathedral.

  "Got it! I got it in here!"

  The captain turned, an expression of brutal concentration, glaring at a dozen yellow coats and helmets rushing down the second corridor. The building echoed with scattered shouts and commands. He turned towards the priest.

  "Is anyone else in here, Father?"

  "No," the priest replied quickly.

  "Good. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave." He didn't wait for any agreement. Turning, he shouted, "Lay me two three-inch lines back here!"

  Smoke billowed out of the corridors, spiraling towards the shadowed recesses of the cathedral ceiling.

  The captain turned again to shout, saw that the priest still stood in the same place, staring at him, mouth open, face troubled. The captain only focused on him a second, turned to another man.

  "Escort the Father outside, Jake. Now!"

  "Come on now, Father," said Jake, a 50-year-old fireman with a Wyatt Earp mustache, white hair visible beneath the yellow helmet. "You can't stay in here. It's too dangerous."

  "But—" said the priest.

  "Now, don't argue with me," Jake was good at his job. Was experienced with those who could not bear to see their beloved cathedrals ravaged by flames. "There's nothing you can do," he added consolingly. "We'll take care of it."

  Then the tall, dignified priest was led hurriedly down the center aisle by a kind and compassionate hand, rushed to the door even as more firefighters, all of them wearing air packs and full face shields beneath their helmets, swept in with hoses.

  Outside the church the stately priest stood calmly to the side, hands clasped in solid composure behind his back, speaking quietly and quickly.

  He seemed to pray but his words were lost in the colliding shouts and instructions, completely ignored by the sturdy professionals moving so frantically around him. Then, as if prompted by an invisible listener, the priest shifted, cautiously increasing the volume of his words.

  Still discreet, his voice drifted into the bustle of the street, "... Samuel will remain hidden within the church. All others abandon listening posts. Initiate target acquisition by assigned zones. I repeat, abandon listening posts and deploy to surrounding streets. Initiate target acquisition by assigned zones. Maintain frequency silence unless target is sighted. Converge on designated street with sighting ..."

  *

  An ax shattered a locked door deep inside a corridor in the rear of the building, strangely separated from the cathedral itself and the center focus of other firefighters who swarmed up and down the smoke-filled hallways, searching for the heart of the blaze.

  The fireman entered the room, approached a wooden shelf on the far side, near the open window. He raised the ax to strike the shelf when he turned suddenly, saw someone pass the doorway, moving quickly.

  Immediately the fireman moved away from the shelf, kicked over a wastebasket, pulled open a closet door, shouting something indiscernible into the hall.

  A man stepped into the doorway, a man of medium height, one hand held beneath his coat. For a tense moment the man glared at the fireman, peering through the facemask.

  "Hey, buddy!" said the fireman. "You can't be in here! You're going to have to move outside!" The firefighter took a step closer to the man.

  An angry movement and the man directed a highly compact assault pistol at the fireman.

  "This was so predictable, Gage," the man said in a British accent, and laughed. "Standard civilian interference. We knew you'd try it. We planned for it. I just waited to see where the fire broke out and retreated to the other side of the church, watching to see who would break away from the rest of the pack. When you came in here, I knew. Just like I knew there wasn't any fire. Only smoke. What? Markers? The color's right for it."

  The man lifted a compact radio to his face. The firefighter tensed, tightened the grip on the ax. Reacting reflexively but c
almly, the man adjusted the pistol, aiming center mass, and finished speaking into the radio.

  He gestured at the ax. "Drop it, Gage. I'm no fool. It's not a gun. But I know what someone can do with it."

  Staring at the gun, the firefighter held the ax a moment more. Then the man raised the assault pistol, arm straight, sight-picture alignment on the firefighter's chest.

  "No more warnings, Gage," the man said placidly.

  Frantic scurrying outside the corridor. Yellow helmets appeared behind the man.

  Gage dropped the ax, hands moving low.

  "Hey!" a firefighter shouted.

  The man holding the assault pistol half-turned as they approached, pulling identification from his pocket.

  Gage quick-stepped to the side, hand coming up from where it had dropped the ax, passing his waist and unbuttoned asbestos coat, pulling the Hi-Power.

  Instantly the man whirled, firing one-handed. Murderous thudding of the assault weapon shredded the closet, the stream of rounds following Gage to the side, a half-step behind. Then the unsilenced Hi-Power roared, hitting sternum-high on the man, knocking him off balance.

  Shouting maniacally, the firefighters behind the man leaped to the sides, bellowing.

  But as they moved and the man recovered from the shock of the impact, Gage gripped the Hi-Power with a modified Weaver Stance. Instantly he fired ten more times. Ten deafening recoils bringing him off-target ten times in a blinding white strobe-fire, Gage aligning again each split-second and firing, shells flying past him in the roar of blue smoke and the man falling back in the static white-black bursts of light and then it was over; a man down, shells clattering on the floor with the overpowering, choking thickness of lung-burning powder clouding the smoky air.

  Tactical reload.

  A clip was dropped. Another slammed in. Gage released the slide, locking the hammer back with the safety for a quick, single-action first shot. Then he was at the bookcase, using his elbow to shatter a shelf that he could have removed silently if he had taken an extra second. But it didn't matter now.

  Screams and angry shouts echoed down the hall.

  He reached behind the shelf, pulled out a cellophane-wrapped letter from the wall.

  Shouts retreated into the cathedral.

  ... Nobody is going to come down the hall ... That was too much gunfire ... Cops will be outside ... Don't allow them to isolate you ... Shock everybody into an instinctive reaction so they won't have any time to think... Then move with them... Get outside!

  Gage moved into the hallway, no one in sight, the distant sounds of frantic warnings, boots, and shouts merging in the cathedral. He heard shouting outside. Things were heating up quick. In thirty seconds he'd be the only one in the church. Then they'd just close it off and he'd be trapped. Not even Houdini could get outside after every exit was closed. He had to get back to Barto waiting four blocks away. To Sarah.

  As fast as he could, he ran towards the cathedral, pulling two concussion grenades from his pocket. He pulled the pins, holding the levers in place with each hand.

  Voluminous and weighty, the coat wrapped itself around him like a waterlogged blanket, heavy and stiff. Still, he hurled himself down the corridor, rubber boots smacking the stones, echoing in his ears above the painful ringing caused by the Hi-Power.

  Breath hot, blasting. Tired. Sweating.

  He reached the cathedral at full stride, saw that it was almost empty with a disorganized collection of frantic figures running toward the doublewide doors. A group of about ten firefighters, confused, glaring, knowing something had happened but uncertain what, emerged quickly from a darkened hallway to the left of the pulpit.

  Gage dropped both concussion grenades behind him, kept running towards them.

  "Run!" he screamed. "He's killed him, he kil—"

  Twin explosions thundered, striking lightning across the smoke-filled cathedral in a deafening sound wave, booming off the shadowed recesses of the ceiling and crashing down across them like the wrath of God.

  Shouting explosively, the firefighters turned as one, charging back into the corridor.

  Gage smiled savagely and then he was with them as they threw themselves recklessly down the dimly lit hallway. Frantic and contradictory instructions were shouted by everyone in unison, each man convinced he knew the surest means of escape and Gage was screaming, "Go straight! Hurry! It's the only way out! Hurry! He'll kill us all!"

  In a wild, swirling tide of yellow coats and hats they crashed into the wooden double doors at the end of the corridor. Not even for a second did the lock and chain resist the combined mass that struck it, and they spilled out together into an eastern courtyard, turning without hesitation to charge chaotically towards the street.

  Gage followed them, shouting and cursing like the rest. In seconds he was at the front of the church. He glanced around, measuring the state of confusion on the street. Several firefighters, crouching behind vehicles like war veterans, had already pulled illegally concealed firearms from boots and pockets and were glaring angrily towards the cathedral. An elderly fireman was shouting into a microphone. Sirens were hurtling towards the cathedral from surrounding streets. A lot of them. In seconds this place would be shut down like a vault.

  Time to move …

  A large number of firefighters retreated into the surrounding streets, seeking more positive cover behind walls and brick stairways, still yelling in confusion. Gage joined them, running heavily beneath the weight of the fire-resistant clothing, pushing his way through until he passed the alley that ran north off Paulette Avenue, one block north of the cathedral, fading into the darkness.

  He eased down the alley, saw a large blue garbage disposal tank, and stashed the firefighter garb in the cylindrical container. Then he put the silencer on the Hi-Power and placed it in a black daypack that he carried inside the asbestos coat. The night visor, one remaining concussion grenade, and a phosphorous grenade also went into a pack. Finally, he pulled the blue T-shirt out of his pants, concealing the double-edge fighting knife in a sheath at the small of his back.

  Sirens everywhere.

  People were shouting and running frantically down the street through the suddenly hot night. Gage watched them pass the narrow opening in the alley, illuminated by the harsh white light of the street lamp.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes. Breathing heavily, he wearily wiped a forearm across his brow and leaned over, hands on his knees, resting. He waited a minute, using the seconds to focus, to concentrate. Then he raised up.

  No time to waste. Have to put some distance on this place …

  He checked his pants pocket, made sure the letter was securely present. Then he shook his hands to loosen and moved north out of the alley, emerging onto the street again.

  Discreetly, he unzipped the pack about six inches to place his hand inside it, finding the familiar grip of the Hi-Power. And, still concealing his hand and pistol inside the canvas, he walked slowly forward. Casual.

  The mood was calmer but still chaotic on this block, two hundred feet removed from the scene of the chaos. People moved quickly, away from the sirens and shouting echoing down the street. Though some ran toward the scene with the light-footed street readiness of inner-city war veterans, eager to see what had caused the commotion.

  Gage gazed about for a second, scanning, and moved left, keeping to the pedestrian pace of those around him. Not too slow, not too fast.

  Calm, calm, keep calm.

  He rounded the corner off Fairbanks and turned north again, passing the black iron grating that protected the front of Strong's Liquor Market. Thirty more feet and something began nagging at him, some half-remembered rule that he had forgotten.

  No time to ponder it. Keep moving.

  Ninety more feet and he was near the end of the block, doing his best to appear nondescript in his hiking boots, blue T-shirt, and blue jeans. He crossed the street to approach the dark-colored LTD on the passenger's side.

  A dim, incipient warning fla
shed across Gage's mind; mistake, mistake! It was an alarm he couldn't identify, and he neared the car to see Barto alert, both hands clutching the steering wheel, waiting for him to return.

  Gage realized what it was when he was 15 feet from the vehicle, saw Barto's wide-eyed readiness, the tight hands waiting eagerly to ferret them away from the scene.

  So obvious ... So easy to see...

  It was an all but forgotten remark made at Pathfinder School held at Fort Benning early in that hard, cold winter of 1979 after Gage had twice failed to track down a grizzled old sergeant on the frozen slate of a lower Appalachian mountain.

  A trapper and former professional poacher, the sergeant had confessed to Gage after the exercise that the only man who had ever tracked him down in the mountains was an old Georgia Ranger who had foregone the hunt through the forest. Instead, he found where the trapper had parked his pickup truck, then waited for him to return with his fresh kill.

  "Yes sir." Gage remembered the old sergeant's words with a bright white flash of alarm. "He was smart, that 'un. He never went into the woods. He just found my truck, waited for me ..."

  An adrenaline surge electrified him, but Gage kept walking slowly, eyes vivid, absorbing everything; the crowd congregating at the distant corner, the man and woman walking parallel with him on the opposite side of the street, the big Japanese strolling casually towards him, ten steps away, hands hanging empty at his sides.

  *

  NINETEEN

  Rules of engagement.

  First, neutralize the man with the most dangerous weapon. Second, if there are no major weapons, sweep left to right. Third, if no weapons are visible, neutralize the man who holds the closest point of contact.

  No weapons in sight. The Japanese had the closest point of contact. Don't worry about the rest.

  Eight steps away. Eight seconds.

  Gage estimated that he would pass the Japanese side by side directly beside the parked LTD.

  Seven steps.

  Large for a Japanese, eyes slightly down, hands empty, strolling, moving casually but that doesn't tell me anything and there's no time for this...