by Justin Bell
Tamar shrugged. “Hey, I’m just the brash gangster with a heart of gold. You’re the smart one.”
Lonzo sighed and shook his head, wondering how he’d agreed to this and even more importantly how they were going to get out of it.
***
“I want a sniper up here now!” Green screamed. “They’ve got someone in the buildings picking us off! It’s those blasted Orphans again!”
Three men in black tactical uniforms charged past him on the left, M4 carbines lifted up and ready, the men moving toward the concrete wall, taking cover and firing back at the small car where the scattered pistol fire was coming from.
“Ironclad operatives! Converge on me!” Green yelled. “We’re taking this fight right down their throats!” At these orders, several operatives broke away and surrounded him, gathering in a loose group. A sniper shot echoed again just as another man withdrew from one of the vans and charged past them, a McMillan tactical sniper rifle in his hands. As Green looked over, the soldier situated himself on his knees, resting the rifle on the concrete shelf on level one, pressing his eye to the elongated, cylindrical scope.
“Get the grenade launcher up here, too!” Karl shouted and waved to the gunman who was holding the large MK 32. Scattered pistol shots echoed from the vehicle, and a few chunks of concrete popped from the garage wall to their right, followed by yet another booming sniper shot, which punched through one of the operatives making his way to the edge wall of the parking garage.
“I see him!” shouted the Ironclad sniper at the garage, and he fired a swift bolt from his own rifle, the shot screaming through the afternoon air toward the clutch of buildings across the street. Due to the distance, though, it was impossible to tell if he’d actually hit anyone or not.
“Okay,” Green shouted. “We move on the car now! They have pistols, we’ve got full autos, they are outmatched and out-gunned! Move move move!” Breaking away from the structure, he whirled and followed his men across the grass, charging toward the car, weapons firing. Three men stopped and knelt, establishing firing positions while four others dropped down on their stomachs, cradling the M4’s, their elbows pressed into the dirt and grass. Bullets smashed and hacked at the doors to the car, slamming holes in the metal and puckering plastic trim, riddling the vehicle with 5.56 millimeter rounds. It sounded like a drummer banging on a trash can, the metallic resonance deafening even from over fifty yards away. Glass windows shattered and both tires on the driver’s side blew out as the onslaught continued.
“The time is now!” shouted Green, looking back at the commando holding the MK 32. “Destroy that vehicle and anyone around it!”
***
Lonzo pressed himself tight to the pavement as if he might be able to break the surface and crawl down inside for protection. Tamar drew back from the car, holding his pistol in two hands, but making sure he was low to the ground and sheltered by the vehicle. Winnie looked at him with worried eyes as they heard the barking orders of Karl Green from the structure.
“Do you think they got her?” Tamar asked, his voice shaky. For the first time since she’d met him, Winnie sensed some genuine concern in his tone.
After that single Ironclad sniper shot, they hadn’t heard any shots in retaliation from Amy, and they were both very worried.
“I don’t know, we can’t worry about that now,” said Lonzo. “We have a team of Ironclad almost up our butts—” Before he could finish, the world exploded with the rapid clatter of angry gunfire, a furious crashing of bullets against the car they were huddled behind, the entire vehicle thrashing and jolting under the vicious attack.
“How long will this thing last?” asked Winnie, not even trying to hide the worry in her voice.
Lonzo closed a fist and whacked it against the side of the car. “It’s one of those modern plastic jobs,” he said. “I say we’ve got less than five minutes before it’s swiss cheese or the fuel tank ruptures. Neither one is a good situation!”
Lonzo kept low, but swung around the hood on one knee, angling his arms around it and sighted on one of the gunmen, then fired four times, sending the man sprawling to the grass. As he came back around, his eyes widened.
“Uhhh, I think they’re bringing the grenade launcher!”
Tamar moved to his right, coming around the trunk, lifted his pistol and squinted down the barrel, locking in the man carrying the huge weapon with two hands. He fired his gun, trying to keep the pistol tight and level as it jumped in his hands. Ducking and weaving the soldier with the grenade launcher twisted and moved away, completely avoiding the gunshots. Tamar had to scramble back toward the car as rooster tails of grass and sidewalk chewed up into the air just at his heels.
“Nice shooting, Tex,” Lonzo shouted and Tamar shook his head.
“Funny guy for someone about to be pin cushioned or blown up!”
“You guys can joke about anything, can’t you?” Winnie asked. She swung up and emptied her Beretta just over the roof of the car, jerking back down just as sparks riddled the roof where she’d been.
“Five minutes, you said?” she asked Lonzo.
He shrugged. “Maybe? What the heck do I know about the lifetime of cars being pelted with bullets?”
Winnie lowered her chin to her chest and hoped silently for a miracle.
***
Angel tugged on the door handle again, his mouth twisting into an angry snarl, veins bulging on the back of his large hand. On the other side of the parking garage the world was exploding in automatic gunfire.
“They’re gonna kill ‘em!” Angel hissed.
“We go around back, we’ll be just as dead as the rest,” replied Greer.
“Tell me something I don’t know, sheriff.”
He closed his fist and slammed the wall next to the door, and an abrupt snapping click sounded from behind it. Angel and Clancy turned toward each other, looking curious, then the door swung open.
Brad stood there on the other side of the door, bracketed by the frame. His eyes were somewhat glassy, and a swollen clump of flesh was forming near his left jawline.
“Brad!” hissed Angel.
The boy stuck a finger to his mouth and gestured behind him. Several Ironclad operatives milled around inside the parking garage, watching over Fields, Rhonda, Phil, and Max, but oblivious to Brad as he maneuvered over to the opposite wall and opened the door.
“I think they forgot about me,” he whispered.
Rebecca Fields moved on the ground, her eyes catching Angel’s and she grinned, but didn’t dare to move toward him with her captor standing just about on top of her. Just as Angel and Greer moved close, the gunman standing over her turned, catching their movement.
“Hey!” he shouted. “We’ve got intruders!”
All at once, the gunmen spun, lifting weapons, and Angel went into motion, shouldering the M-249. He brought it around toward the man above Rebecca and unleashed a furious barrage, the kick of the weapon threatening to send it lurching from his tight grasp. Walking the first swift blast across the man’s chest, he stepped forward, angled left and fired again, throwing two more men down into collapsing heaps. Rebecca clambered to her hands and knees as Greer stumbled forward, barely catching his balance.
“I’m winded; you can do this better than me,” he gasped, throwing the AR-15 he’d liberated from his guard toward her. She snatched it out of the air and swung her legs around, coming up into a smooth firing pose. Flanking Angel she squeezed off two swift shots, dropping a gunman, then adjusted and spotted the Ironclad sniper in the window of the garage, facing out toward the grass. Three shots slammed him face-first into the wall as he slid to his left, the sniper rifle clattering.
Brad yanked the M4 from the hands of the first dead gunman that Angel dropped, fell into a kneeling stance and fired several times, taking down one gunman and sending another scrambling.
Rhonda pulled herself up but two commandos converged on her, lifting their weapons to strike her down. Phil leapt up from his prone po
sition and barreled into the two of them, knocking them back. Ripping the weapon out of one of their hands he turned it around and frantically pulled the trigger, the assault rifle jerking as it pumped deadly rounds into them at nearly point-blank range, sending their jerking bodies down to the hard floor.
He reached down to help Rhonda to her feet. “Maxie, you all right?” he shouted and Max started gathering himself upright. He clutched at his shoulder and fell back down momentarily, but he was alive at least.
Fields moved forward, taking two more shots at another gunman who was unprepared for the sudden attack. Two more came around the wall to check on the commotion and Angel unleashed with a final burst from whatever ammunition remained in the 249 and cut them down before they even raised their weapons.
“The car… they’re shooting at a car out there!” yelled Brad. He aimed his stolen M4 at the group of gunmen out in the grass and fired.
“Is that Winnie?” Rhonda asked desperately. “Is Winnie out there?”
Ironclad men out on the grass were starting to realize something was wrong. Three of them broke away and bolted back toward the garage, opening fire with their weapons. Brad shifted left, pressing his back against one of the vans as he returned fire. Angel liberated an assault rifle from a fallen gunman and returned fire aggressively, merely trying to keep them back as long as he could.
“We need to get to that car!” screamed Phil. “If my daughter is there—”
Rebecca tossed her automatic aside and moved toward the SIG SG716 battle rifle she’d brought to the fight as both Brad and Angel took cover by the van and returned fire. Phil moved in their direction, but stayed huddled by the wall of the garage, his own M4 leaping as he fired.
Not far away, the car shuttered and jerked as a hundred rounds punched into it, threatening to either tear it apart or blast it to smithereens, both of which were sure to kill everyone hiding behind it.
Rebecca hustled to the gap in the parking garage structure and pressed the SG716 to her eye, squinting through the Tango 4 tactical scope. The battlefield between the garage and the car was awash with frantic activity, but she landed on one target specifically, and moved her weapon to face it, drawing in a deep, long breath and holding it tight.
***
“What’s the hold up on the MK 32?” Green barked, looking over at the man with the large grenade launcher. As he turned he saw the Fraser clan slipping through the gate into the parking garage, Brad and Angel with their weapons turned on them, several Ironclad gunmen broken away and fighting back.
“Argh! What’s going on here?” he screamed. “What the hell do I pay you all for?” He charged toward the man with the MK 32 and got right in his face. “Get that grenade launcher to the street and blow that car to dust do you hear me?”
“On it, sir!” the commando replied, breaking forward into a run. A swift sniper shot rang out, coming from the parking garage, and the man with the grenade launcher pitched forward, the large weapon spilling from his relaxed grasp.
“No no no no!” screamed Karl and turned toward the fallen MK 32 himself, reaching to pick it up. He heard a few more abrupt reports from the garage, the sounds of a semi-automatic battle rifle, and around him men were scrambling for cover. Green dipped low, scooping up the grenade launcher.
“If you want somethin’ done right, guess you gotta do it yourself.”
***
“In the van! Everyone get in the van!” screamed Angel from the side of the vehicle and the Frasers charged toward him. Rebecca eyed the fallen grenade launcher through her sniper rifle and for a moment considered trying to take down Green, but when she ejected the shell casing, the magazine was empty.
“Damn!” she whispered harshly to herself.
By the van, Phil and Brad were helping Greer toward the vehicle. He was moving very slow and gingerly, his injured arm hanging slack by his side. Rhonda half pushed, half carried Max over the pavement and ushered him into the vehicle.
“Fields! Now!” shouted Angel, showing a rare hard side when talking with the former FBI agent. She couldn’t help but smirk slyly at his insistence and cast aside the sniper rifle, breaking into a sprint, weaving around the gate of the parking garage and following the crew into the extended black panel van. Angel worked his way around the vehicle, firing sporadically with his M4 as he came around to the driver’s side. Moving forward, he popped open the door and slid in, relieved to find the keys in the ignition. He had been prepared to jump start it if he had to, but keys were a much quicker and prettier solution.
“Hold tight!” he screamed and slammed his foot on the gas, sending the van lurching forward. Wheels caught on grass, chewing rough dirt patches in the scraggly green surface and the vehicle lumbered forward, engine roaring.
“Cut them down, cut them down!” shouted Green as he turned toward the van, bringing the grenade launcher to bear on the approaching black behemoth. Assault rifles rippled as the boxy car hurtled toward the clutched group of Ironclad operatives.
Green shouldered the grenade launcher and followed the path of the van, approximating its approach. Pain laced the side of his shoulder, a swift, white-hot flair of agony and he stumbled right while he looked left. Winnie was there, at the corner of the damaged car his men had been riddling with bullets, an angry snarl on her face, the Beretta in her hand.
“Leave my family alone, you sick son of a bitch!”
Green’s shoulder brimmed with hot blood and, as he stumbled to the ground, the grenade launcher went down with him, his entire left arm going numb and tingly from the gunshot. He looked over at his arm and pressed his palm to the wound, watching, hypnotized, as a thick red blood oozed up between his fingers. It was a strange sensation as he sat there on the grass.
The van continued onward, plowing over unmowed grass, and knocked aside two persistent Ironclad gunmen, throwing one of them wide right and the other one tumbling end-over-end up onto the hood, his heel spider-webbing the slanted windshield before he tumbled off to the left. With a wet skid the van shuddered to a halt just by the hood of the bullet-ridden car, bullets still smacking into the black metal as well as the once shiny surface of the four-door. With a slide, the side door whooshed open and Brad came to the opening.
“Winnie! Tamar! Get in! Other guy, you too!”
Winnie broke from the car and charged, ducking her head, running for the van as sparks burst from the car and the surrounding pavement. She leaped into the opened side, caught by Brad and Rhonda.
Spinning back toward the opening, she extended a hand. “Tamar! Please! Come with us!”
Tamar looked at her, then turned and looked at Lonzo, who had risen to a low crouch and was preparing a strategic retreat while the attention was focused on the van.
“Do what you feel is right!” he yelled to Tamar.
“You need me!” Tamar shouted. “The Orphans need me!”
Lonzo gestured toward the parking garage. “Man, we decimated Ironclad today! You need to follow your heart, homeboy, don’t worry about us!”
“Can you come, too?” Tamar asked, his eyes surprisingly stinging with tears. Bullets smacked the car.
“Tamar!” Winnie screamed. “We can’t sit here forever!”
“I can’t, kid,” Lonzo replied, his voice a little lower. “I gotta check on Amy, and The Orphans definitely still need me, brother. I owe it to them.”
Tamar dropped his head and drew in a deep breath, looking over at Winnie, then back at Lonzo.
Winnie stared out at him, her hand wavering as she held it out. She’d seen that glance in his eyes, she suspected what it meant, though she didn’t like it.
Tamar steeled himself, gazing at Lonzo… he wasn’t sure what to say and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Lonzo had saved his life. Saved many of their lives and Tamar had a connection to the Orphans that he couldn’t easily say no to.
He glanced back over toward Winnie, a warmth soaking through his chest. A feeling he’d never felt before in his sixteen years,
a feeling of belonging just strong enough to overwhelm his obligation.
Lonzo called out to him and Tamar turned back to face him.
“You coming with me?” Lonzo asked, jerking his head toward the buildings across the street. “I got other kids I gotta take care of. Your call, T!”
Tamar glanced across the alley, his muscles tensed, then looked back toward Winnie again, whose smile was faltering. Tamar turned back toward Lonzo…
…and waved goodbye.
Lonzo smiled and nodded, flashing a thumbs up as Tamar spun and charged back toward the van, leaping up inside. The ex-Marine was halfway across the road when he heard the sliding side door slam closed and the tires screeching loud and long across the pavement as Tamar and the van hurtled out of his life and onward to their next adventure.
***
It was dark and hot inside the van, an oppressive, searing heat, the impact of all the warm bodies bundled inside the nine-passenger vehicle. Angel was behind the wheel with Clancy Greer propped up in the passenger seat, his head leaned back on the headrest, chest moving with a raspy, hoarse grinding sound.
“Not good,” whispered Rebecca, and Rhonda nodded, the two of them sitting next to each other in the second row. Max sat to Rhonda’s right, awake, but still gingerly holding his right shoulder. They hadn’t had time to investigate it fully yet, but Fields thought it was likely that it was dislocated.
In the third row Phil sat next to the window with Winnie and Tamar next to him, the boy leaning forward, elbows on his knees, still looking unconvinced about the choice he was forced to make.
“They’ll be all right,” Winnie said quietly. “Really. Ironclad got whacked today. I think they’ll leave them alone.”
“It’s not just about that,” Tamar replied, not looking up at her. “They were… family, you know? Obnoxious, extended family, but still family. I dunno.”
