Crisis Four ns-2

by Andy McNab

  I made my way across the room and, checking the pistol's safety with my right thumb, opened the door. The corridor was still dark and silent. I reinforced my hold on her by jerking my knees and gripping her neck more tightly. She seemed to be concentrating on holding on to my left arm so that she could relieve some of the pressure on her neck, probably too worried about being asphyxiated to resist.

  I stepped out into the corridor, her head still jammed against my chest, the rest of her body following behind me. She gave no resistance at all, and once we got past the table I understood why. She started to buck and spark up, her legs kicking out as she held on to my arm for even more support.

  She kicked the table sideways, knocking the lamp onto the floor. Its stained-glass lampshade shattered across the floorboards.

  It had gone noisy; no need to tiptoe around anymore. I started to motor toward the stairs, dragging her with me. At first she continued to buck and kick, her feet banging on the wooden flooring, then she must have realized that if she didn't help herself by trying to keep her back arched and her legs on the floor, she could break her own neck.

  We got to the staircase, and I was just about to turn right and go down when I heard the sound of a latch lifting to my left.

  I swung around as the door opened and light burst from the room.

  Sarah swung with me, a muffled scream coming from her throat as the movement wrenched her neck.

  It was the American. His reactions were quick. I fired into the door as he shoved it closed. I gripped her and started moving aggressively down the stairs.

  The American was thumping on the floor, screaming, "Wake up! Attack, attack! Wake up!"

  Sarah's heels and calves were taking a good hammering; she was squealing like a stuck pig inside the gag, and trying to tense up her muscles to help with the pain. We were sounding like a herd stampeding, with my heavy footsteps and her feet bouncing off the wood.

  I didn't look behind me, I just ran for it. I wasn't going to head for the fire exit on the next floor as I'd thought I might. There were too many rooms on either side of that corridor, and I had no idea if there was anyone else in the building that I hadn't accounted for. The way my luck was going, there was bound to be. My new plan was to get down to the garage, a route I knew, then just make a run for it.

  I turned right to go down the next flight of stairs. As I took the first few steps I could see that the second floor corridor below me was now lit up like a football stadium.

  Above me the American screamed, "Sarah! One of them has Sarah!

  They have Sarah!"

  From below me a voice shouted above the babble of the TV, "Where?

  Where are they? Help me here."

  I froze no more than six feet from the bottom of the stairs. It wouldn't be long before these two got their act together and I'd be dead. I just wanted five seconds in which to calm down and think.

  A shadow approached from the left on the corridor below. It turned into Bossman, now in jeans and carrying an HK53. Fuck, how did he get free so quickly? I kept looking down on him, weapon in the aim, gripping Sarah even tighter to stop her disrupting my sight picture.

  He turned and looked up. I blatted three quiet rounds until he went down, not dead, just screaming and writhing on the ground. The 53 clattered down the stairs to the floor below.

  Above me the American half groaned, half yelled, "What's happening?

  Talk to me. Someone talk to me here."

  I went down more stairs, stopped short of the corridor and, still holding Sarah with my left arm, put my pistol around to the left and loosed off the rest of the rounds blindly. Being suppressed, it wouldn't have quite the same effect as rounds going off with a loud report, but people would hear them splintering the woodwork and get the general idea. I willed Bossman to carry on screaming and scare the shit out of anyone listening. Maybe it worked, because there was still no firing back at me. Either that, or there were no more people.

  I ran out of rounds and started to change mags. Pressing the mag release catch I jerked my hand downward to help the mag fall out. It hit the stair and bounced down, onto Bossman's back. I looked at him, facedown on the floor, his blood spilling across the polished wood. Then, turning to look up the stairs, waiting for the American, I placed a new mag into the weapon right next to Sarah's face. As I turned back to check the chamber, we had eye contact for the first time. The shock of recognition was plain to see; her eyes were wide with amazement and disbelief. I looked away, more concerned about the job in hand.

  I moved straight across the gap without looking, just making sure I didn't trip over Bossman, whose screams were fading. I rammed down the last flight of stairs, feeling and hearing Sarah bumping down behind me, sometimes lifting up her feet to take the strain, sometimes stumbling.

  I carried on straight across the room toward the garage stairs, passing Too Thin To Win and his friends. Shouts and screams came from the TV as we passed the kitchen door.

  Just as I neared the bottom of the flight and was about to enter the garage, I heard shouting upstairs, and then four or five rounds went off.

  I wondered what the American was firing at, then I realized: he'd probably run downstairs, seen figures by the TV in semidarkness and fired off at them straightaway without looking. The flickering light from the screen, and the scariness of the situation, had probably got him jumping.

  It certainly had me.

  I closed the door behind me to add a bit more to the confusion. He wouldn't dare barge straight through; he couldn't guarantee what was on the other side. We moved alongside the Explorer, and I could hear the American's voice above me. I couldn't make sense of what he was saying, but he didn't sound too happy about the way his day was shaping up.

  The rain stung as it lashed my face. It was then that I remembered the bergen, but it was too late now. Fuck it. I turned left, toward the other house, and had taken no more than three steps when the proximity lights came on. With my head down I started pumping, but was restricted by the weight I was dragging.

  I'd covered maybe ten or fifteen meters when the first burst from a 53 was fired from one of the upper floors. Its short barrel and the power of the round makes the muzzle emit a fearsome flash; it's the only weapon I'd ever seen that looks like the ones you see in films. It was great for closeup work as it scared the shit out of people. I kept on running; I'd be out of the light in a few more strides.

  As soon as we hit darkness I glanced back. All the lights in the house were blazing. Smoke was drifting from the windows on the second floor.

  It looked almost like that house in The Amityville Horror, shrouded in rain and mist, except that it wasn't mist, it was cordite from the rounds.

  A couple of lights were on upstairs in the place next door. My new plan was to get in there, point a big fat gun at them, take their pickup and fuck off. The next thing I knew, however, the external light on the family's 4x4, mounted on the driver's side wing, burst into life, and a million-candlepower beam sliced through the darkness toward us. A man's voice shouted a warning: "Don't come near stay away! I'm armed I've called the police!"

  For good measure he whanged down a couple of rounds at us from a rifle. He probably had "My land, my country, my gun" on his bumpers, and a few other stickers that he'd bought at Jim's, but he was protecting his family, and that was a fair one.

  I felt a thump as one of the rounds rammed into the ground far too close to me. Either he was good, and he meant to aim a warning shot, or he was trying to hit us and this time we'd been lucky. I didn't want to find out which. I jinked left and ran between the two houses, uphill, toward the dirt track. Change of plan again: we were going to make it on foot back to my car, as I'd been aiming to do all along, but without all this drama.

  Another rifle shot rang out, but this time I didn't hear the answering thud. There was the burst of a 53; fuck knows where that went.

  I got to the track, crossed it and stopped to try and assess the situation.

  We were in
darkness and on higher ground. I heard shots and saw a couple of foot-long muzzle flashes coming from the direction of the target house, and more from the area around the pickup. Shotgun Ned must be zapping and shouting at anything that moved. His spotlight swept left and right, looking for targets.

  It wasn't the only light I could see. Red and blue flashing lights were glistening in the rain on the other side of the lake and I suddenly realized that I stood more chance of being struck by lightning than I did of getting back to my car. Acting as the situation demanded, I changed plan again.

  We were going to get out of here on foot. I stood still, knees bent, waiting to regain my breath. It was colder than before, and the wind and rain were loud against the leaves.

  I started moving through the forest again. Sarah's bare flesh was getting zapped left and right by branches, and I could hear her suffering. I put my head down and pumped uphill, leaving everybody down there to get on with it. It seemed that my lucky number for house clearing was the same as for shopping trolleys: zero.

  gripped Sarah and plunged on, slipping and skidding on the wet mush, stumbling over rocks and fallen branches, nailing to regain my footing.

  She was screaming as best she could beneath the gag, partly because of the tree branches that whipped at her bare body and the ground cutting her legs, partly just trying to keep her airway clear. At least I knew she was breathing.

  I tripped again and went down. The pain as my knees hit rock made them feel as if they were on fire. She moaned loudly under the gag as she took the brunt of my fall, and she had to arch her back to relieve the strain on her neck. I stayed on my knees, screwing my face up as I took the pain, waiting for it to die down. There was nothing I could do but accept it. I just hoped I hadn't smashed a kneecap. My chest was heaving up and down as I tried to catch my breath. Sarah gave up the struggle to keep her body off the ground. She collapsed in the mud beside and slightly below me, her head, still in the neck hold, resting in my lap and moving up and down in unison with my breathing.

  There was plenty of commotion going on behind, the odd rifle round and automatic burst, followed by shouts. Looking down and behind me through the trees and rain, I could make out the lights of both houses some 150 meters away. I wasn't in dead ground yet, and it was going to be light soon. I needed to get distance.

  Shotgun Ned was having a ballistic fit, screaming and hollering, like something out of one of the movies for guys who like guy movies. I couldn't tell whether he was enjoying it or hating it, but he was vocal, that

  was for sure. I got myself to my feet, pulling Sarah upright with me, and started moving again.

  I could hear rotor blades in the sky behind. Moments later a blindingly bright Night Sun searchlight penetrated the darkness and began to sweep the area toward the houses as the helicopter hovered over the lake. It wasn't venturing too near the scene just yet, probably for fear of someone taking a potshot.

  More gunshots echoed in the background. Almost immediately I heard returned bursts of fire and saw the brilliant, almost white, muzzle flash of a 53.1 turned back and started to move off.

  My throat was parched; God knew what Sarah's was like. She must be in shit state. I kept checking behind me as I moved and could see the lights in the houses slowly fading into the dark and rain. We would be in dead ground soon. As I moved, the Night Sun briefly lit up the area around me as it realigned itself while the heli orbited the lake, making hundreds of shadows in the trees as the rotor blades groaned, trying to keep it in a stable position in the wind. The campers were no doubt outside their tents, trying to watch the reenactment of the Waco siege from the safety of the other side of the lake, pleased that their washed-out holiday had turned out quite exciting after all.

  Below me I could see only the flat roofs of the two houses. More blue flashing lights cut through the trees, but this time on my side of the lake, coming from the left along the track. Yet more police vehicles were also arriving in the car park across the lake. They'd all got here too fast. My guess must have been correct. My report must have confirmed Elizabeth and Lynn's speculation about what was going on, and they wanted Sarah out before the seventh cavalry moved in. It seemed that I'd fucked that up a bit; it wouldn't be long before the area was choked with police and FBI trying to stop the Third World War.

  Shotgun Ned would be a national hero after this. He'd probably be given his own fucking talk show. The police, however, had mortgages and kids to think about; while it was dark they would do no more than contain the area. By first light, however, they'd have all their shit together, maybe even have the Army or National Guard on standby.

  I crested a rise, and as I moved downhill it blocked out all the noise behind me. My first priority was to put as much distance as possible between us and the target before first light.

  As I moved, I could feel Sarah shivering and shaking beside me, screaming inside her gag. If I was feeling bad, she must be in shit state.

  I crossed another small ridge, started to move downhill, and lost my footing in the mud. As I slithered and tumbled Sarah fought to break free and save herself. I had a split second in which to decide whether to hold on to her or let go.

  The decision was made for me. We took another half tumble and slide and came to an abrupt stop against a tree trunk. I'd landed on my back, with Sarah on top of me, her wet hair in my face, breathing hard through her nose like a Grand National winner. My pistol, which had been pushed into the front of my jeans, had gone.

  I let go of Sarah; she wasn't going anywhere, the weapon was the priority.

  I never wanted to be without one again. Maglite in hand, the bulb covered by my fingers to minimize the spill of light, I crawled around on my hands and knees sifting through the leaves and mud like a kid searching for a lost toy.

  My knee caught a metal edge as I moved. I picked up the pistol, wiped off the worst of the mud and shoved it back into my jeans. Scrambling back toward Sarah, I noticed she was breathing much more loudly. That wasn't right. Then I heard a loud, hoarse whisper, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get this belt off me now!"

  She had somehow untied the gag, and was coughing and trying to relieve the soreness in her mouth.

  "Come on!" She lifted her hands.

  "Get this fucking thing off!"

  She couldn't see it, but I was trying to hide a laugh. People with accents like hers shouldn't swear, it just doesn't work. Besides, she was practically naked, streaked with mud, yet trying to order me around.

  "Do it, Nick. Hurry, we must keep moving!"

  There were no more weapon reports from behind us, and a megaphone was now being used, probably to give instructions to anyone left in the house. The rain prevented me from hearing what was being said. The heli was out there somewhere, the throbbing of its rotors carried in on gusts of wind.

  What did she mean, we need to keep moving? I looked at her, and couldn't help it I started to laugh, and that pissed her off even more.

  "Don't be ridiculous, hurry up and untie me!" She held her arms out.

  "Get me out of here before this becomes even more of a nicking fiasco!"

  The rattle of the helicopter getting closer made us both shut up. It was hard to tell which direction it was coming from. I was peering up, but could see jack shit.

  "Come on, get this belt off me and give me your coat!" She started to use her teeth to pull the knot apart. It wasn't working. The leather was too tight and wet, and she was shivering too much to get a good grip.

  The helicopter roared overhead. I caught a glimpse of its navigation lights through the trees. At least it wasn't hovering, or moving in a search pattern not yet, anyway. I guessed it would be soon. I could see the glimmer of first light beyond the canopy.

  She wanted my attention again.

  "Nick, get this off me and give me your coat. Please." Her arms were still thrust toward me. I grabbed hold of the belt and started to drag her along in the mud.

  First light had started to penetrate to the forest
floor, relieving the gloom just enough to show my footprints. The rain was starting to ease off; the noise of it hitting the leaves was dying down, along with the wind in the trees. I was starting to feel depressed; I was soaking wet, cold and confused. What was worse, we were leaving an unmissable trail in the mud.

  She could obviously see that I was in no mood for discussion as we moved and she shut up. We came over another rise. Down below us, about one or two hundred meters away at the bottom of a steep gradient, was a river. Maybe thirty meters wide, it was in full flood, a maelstrom of fast flowing water and foam.

  As we scrambled downhill, all I could hear was the rush of water in front of us. Sarah called out, "Slower, slower," trying to get her footing. I wasn't listening. We had to find a way across. With luck it would be the psychological boundary of the search; hopefully they would start from the house and fan out as far as the bank, assuming that no one would be mad enough to try and cross.

  At that moment I had to be the only person in the world with a good thing to say about El Nino. In theory, it should have been nice and sunny at this time of the year in the Carolinas. Conditions like this would slow the searchers down, and if the weather closed in any further the heli might not be able to fly.

  Closer to the water the tree canopy started to thin. Out in the open it was virtually daylight, and looking up I could see a really thick, gray, miserable sky. It had stopped raining, but in dense woodland you'd never know that; all the moisture is held on the leaves and it still works its way down to the floor. What the fuck, I was soaked to the skin anyway.

  Sarah's hair was wet and flat against her head. Dried blood ringed her nostrils; I must have slammed my hand into her face quite hard on the bed. She was bleeding from several cuts on her legs, with goose bumps the size of peanuts, and in any other circumstances she'd have needed hospital attention. She was covered in mud, sand, bits of leaves and twigs, and shivering uncontrollably in her drenched and now transparent underwear and T-shirt.