Holding Their Own XV: Bloodlust

by Nobody, Joe

  After a quick exchange of a smirk with Charlie, Nick and Bishop climbed into the front of the truck. All the while, Lefty and Crow were begging for their captors to show mercy. “No… please no. Please… I can help you… please!” both prisoners continued to plead.

  “Should we use the grill or the deep fryer?” Charlie asked one of his helpers as Nick sped away.

  The lone sentry at the warehouse’s heavy, front gate recognized Lefty’s pickup before Nick had slowed to a stop. Reaching for the latch while eyeing the two fouled machines in the bed, he motioned for the driver to roll down his window and said, “What? You guys fucked up two more generators already?”

  Instead of his friend’s smiling face, the bored sentry found himself staring at the barrel of Nick’s pistol as the glass lowered.

  Two quick spits of lead sounded from the cab, the sentry slumping against the guard shack as Nick nudged open the barrier with the front bumper of the truck. “Showtime.”

  They arrived at the main entrance and parked as close to the building as possible. Somewhere in the distance, Bishop could hear more than one dog barking. Evidently, the canines don’t appreciate the custom paint job on Lefty’s truck, Bishop smirked.

  “Wait for it… wait… come on… peek over the edge to greet your comrade in arms,” Nick mumbled, his eyes focused on the roofline above.

  Sure enough, the outline of a head appeared, the sniper on the roof glancing over the facia to see who had just arrived.

  Again, Nick’s weapon issued a slight, “thump, thump, thump,” the heavy bullets slamming into the overwatch sentry’s exposed head and sending him reeling backward. A cloud of red mist hung in the morning sunlight.

  “Nice shot,” Bishop snapped, throwing open the truck’s door and bounding to the ground. His carbine was up and sweeping as he headed for the front door.

  Evidently, the fence, dogs, and gate were considered sufficient security for the facility, Bishop finding the main entrance unlocked. In a flash, the two attackers darted inside.

  They entered a reception area, the foyer containing nothing but a couple of plain, government-issued chairs and a chintzy, painted metal desk.

  A single door led to another corridor, a stainless-steel placard indicating “Employees Only,” still dangling on its plain wooden surface. Both hunters, ignoring the restriction, slipped through the threshold and rushed down a long corridor that led to a series of offices and storerooms.

  As Bishop twisted open the first knob, a surprised man perched on the edge of a bed inhaled sharply to fill his lungs, readying to shout. Nick’s noise-canceled pistol spat, the shot creating a neat, red hole against the pasty white of the victim’s forehead.

  The dogs outside, with their superior hearing, were now going nuts, baying and barking with all the volume they could manage. At the rear of the building, Bishop could hear voices, someone shouting, “What’s going on?”

  Two men appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall, one carrying a handgun, the other trying to bring a shotgun’s long barrel into play.

  Bishop’s carbine was already up, the M4 sounding like thunder as he snap-fired five rounds into the defenders, sending both to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  “Our element of surprise has now passed,” Nick shouted to compensate over their ringing ears. Holstering his sidearm and bringing his rifle up, the big man was already moving for the next doorway.

  Being careful not to leave any of Ketchum’s men behind them, the co-conspirators were forced to clear each room as they made their way to the back of the facility. Moving from door to door, their movements flowed like smooth-running water, coordinated, fast, and efficient.

  Right to left, forward and backward, there was always a muzzle covering their front and back as the duo leapfrogged down the corridor. Each man knew his role, each motion practiced and correlated. They worked in silence, always advancing on the objective and never providing a stationary target. The only other occupant of the building, mouth open in shock when Nick kicked in the last door, was gunned down as he tried to pull on his pants.

  Finally reaching the two dead defenders at the end of the corridor, Nick pulled another hand grenade from his vest and yanked the pin. A second later, the device was tumbling into the space beyond the doorway.

  Turning away and squeezing tight against the wall, Bishop waited for the blast.

  A massive roar shook the air, followed by a cloud of dust falling from the ceiling panels above. Before the echo of the detonation had faded, he dove through the entrance and rolled to his left. In a blink, his belly was against the floor as his weapon generated an extended burst of automatic fire sweeping across the room.

  He kept his aim low, about six above the ground, intended to immobilize anyone who may have gone prone or been knocked over by the grenade’s blast.

  As his bolt locked back on the empty magazine, Nick’s shadow went flying past, the big man’s weapon expelling death as he rushed through the opening.

  Slamming home a fresh box of 5.56 NATO, Bishop was up and moving to his right along the wall. The room was dark and full of furniture. The only light shone from the far end, a television’s blue hue illuminating a conversation pit and several chairs configured around the screen. An old black and white John Wayne DVD was still playing.

  Bishop noted a pool table, the wooden sideboards splintered by the grenade’s shrapnel. A pinball machine in the corner, as well as a beer keg sitting in a tub of melted ice rounded out the room’s decor. We’ve found the break room , he thought. Come on out, boys. I’ll be happy to play a game of first-person shooter with you.

  A biker burst in through a distant entrance, a rifle in his hands. Both Bishop and Nick reacted at the same instant, a hailstorm of bullets making the newcomer dance and jerk like he was a puppet on strings.

  Finding no other tangos in the man cave, Nick motioned for Bishop to join him at the only other door. Again, a tossed fragmentation grenade preceded their entry into the next section of the building.

  Nick took the lead, charging into another passageway that ran along the back side of the facility. More doorways opened to the right and left. The air was thick with grit and dust, Bishop’s mask helping to keep his airway clean.

  Their ballet of death, the reaper’s stroll, began all over again. Bishop, alternating between covering their front and rear, Nick kicking open each door and sweeping the inside. The first entrance was an unoccupied storage room; the second was a restroom containing only a toilet and a sink. The third, and largest, was full of women, the girls huddled low against the wall and whimpering hysterically. “Get out! Get out now!” Nick barked, his skull mask and oversized frame creating an imposing, demonic image. “Don’t ever come back. Run until your damn feet fall off!”

  While Bishop covered the doorway at the far end of the corridor, Nick watched as the women hustled out of the room. Most of them were barely dressed, all of them young and scared out of their minds.

  “I think we just chased off Ketchum’s harem,” Nick suggested as the last girl disappeared into the rec room, clutching some article of clothing against her breasts.

  “He should show up and complain,” Bishop replied, his eyes never leaving the closed door ahead. “I’d like nothing more than to handle his objections personally.”

  Before Nick could reply, a series of holes spread across the opposite wall and doorframe, the incoming fire sending both trespassers to the floor. Wood splinters and drywall dust filled the air as the volume of rounds increased. “I think Ketchum’s boys know we’ve come to party,” Bishop shouted. “They’re worried we’re going to drink all their beer.”

  For several seconds, the two invaders stayed low and waited, but the rate of fire never faltered. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel exactly welcomed by whoever is behind that door,” Nick shouted at his friend.

  “No shit, Captain Obvious. I think we should find another way in,” Bishop replied.

  Crawling backward, the pair retr
eated toward the pool hall. Once they were protected by several walls, they rose as one and hustled back the way they’d come.

  “The front door is too obvious,” Nick warned. “I noticed a window in one of these rooms.”

  Sure enough, the big man’s memory was accurate. In the space where he’d shot the man pulling on his pants, there was a small window. Crawling over the sprawled body, Bishop raised his rifle butt to smash the glass.

  Nick’s hand on his shoulder stopped Bishop’s butt stroke, his friend flashing a confused expression that asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Pointing to the latch, Nick said, “Why are you always so destructive?” as he opened the glass pane and glanced outside.

  “Oh, thanks for that, Mr. Hand Grenade,” Bishop spat as his friend scanned the exterior, making sure they weren’t leaping from the frying pan into the fire.

  A second later, Nick was wedging his significant frame through the opening. As his boots hit the ground, Bishop hurried to follow.

  The duo wasted no time, scurrying toward the back of the building. At the corner, Nick poked his head around but drew no fire.

  “There is a series of garage doors along the back. The last one is open. Ready?” the ex-operator asked.

  Bishop’s reply was to rush around the building, weapon high, seeking a target. None was presented.

  They were approaching the open bay just as the firestorm from inside died down. Bishop could hear multiple voices and shouted commands echoing in the interior.

  “We don’t have time for a protracted firefight,” Nick hissed from behind his colleague. “You can bet the ranch that help is already on the way. We need to take these guys out and do it fast.”

  Chancing a peek into the open garage area, Bishop exposed only one side of his head, taking a mental snapshot of the interior and then pulling back.

  He spotted at least six men gathering near the door that he and Nick had just left behind. “They’re getting ready to rush inside,” he signaled to Nick. “They must be wondering if we’re dead or have retreated.”

  “Take ’em out,” Nick nodded, pointing to the two hand grenades hanging on his buddy’s load vest.

  Passing Nick one of the frags, the Texan pulled the pin on the second device. Bishop went first, a low toss rolling across the floor directly at the spot where his mind’s image placed the assembled defenders.

  Nick waited until a vibrating “whoop,” and a tell-tale flash of light illuminated the interior. A second later, his grenade was bouncing across the floor in a different arch.

  Screaming men who spotted the approaching grenade, darted for cover, but there simply wasn’t time. As Nick’s toss erupted, a burst of dust and smoke accompanied the howls of wounded men, their bone and flesh converted into projectiles flung against the metal door and blowing out the bay.

  The two hunters didn’t give their prey a second to recover, both men scampering around the corner in a flash. Bishop went left, Nick sweeping to the right.

  Two shots zipped past Bishop’s head as he rushed for a stack of tires in the corner. Before he could bring his weapon back into the fight, Nick’s carbine barked, sending the last upright outlaw pinwheeling to the floor.

  A hoodlum limping with a bleeding leg emerged from behind a toolbox, all his remaining concentration directed at steadying his shaking hand so that his pistol could get a clear field of fire on Nick’s hustling frame. Finally satisfied with the bullet’s anticipated trajectory, the thug had just started to squeeze the trigger when three rounds from Bishop’s M4 ripped into his stomach and ended the threat.

  Bishop stepped to a pile of bodies near the door, all of them victims of his grenade. Moans and groans sounded from the heap, one man’s legs jerking in uncontrollable, short spasms. The floor was already slick with blood, a smell like copper thick in the air.

  In a few seconds, Bishop knew Ketchum’s men were all out of the fight. “Clear!” he shouted across the garage.

  “Clear!” came Nick’s reply a moment later, just before appearing alongside his friend.

  Bending to collect weapons and ammunition, Bishop happened across a man who was coughing up blood. Several holes in his chest had compromised his lungs’ ability to draw air, and he was languishing in an expanding pool of crimson. Raising his carbine to end the guy’s misery, he felt Nick’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t. We want Ketchum to know who did this.”

  Shrugging, Bishop’s mind returned to the brutal attacks on the people of Forest Mist, the ambush of the marshal there, and Miss Terri’s own unspeakable experience. The man at his feet could have been a participant in any of those cowardly acts. Any sense of mercy quickly evaporated from Bishop’s thoughts.

  “I’m going to get the truck. Make a big heap of their weapons by the door,” Nick advised and then pivoted to hurry out of the building.

  Careful of his step, Bishop gathered the fallen rifles and pistols from the garage and then deposited them beside the overhead door. He returned to the bay with another armload of weapons just as Nick was backing Lefty’s pickup through the garage opening.

  While Bishop loaded the bed with the plundered firearms, Nick took off across the lot toward the tanker. “Let’s hope they left the keys in the ignition,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Make sure it’s diesel. We don’t need gasoline,” Bishop shouted the friendly reminder.

  After climbing into the cab, Nick frowned when he found the ignition empty. A quick pull on the visor resulted in a ring of keys falling into his lap.

  The rig’s powerful diesel rumbled to life on the first attempt, and after giving the motor a bit to warm, Nick engaged the clutch and began steering the semi toward the gate. Bishop easily pulled in behind the tanker, seemingly at home in Lefty’s pickup.

  As they rounded the old DOT garage, Nick spied two vehicles racing toward the front guard station, both full of men. He’d been right. Ketchum had set up an interlocking series of defenses. The problem was, they were too little, too late.

  Pushing down on the accelerator, the big man steered the semi directly at the barricaded main entrance while he attempted to adjust his timing and angle of approach. Blackjack’s reaction force was slowing now, getting ready to turn into the facility and rescue their comrades.

  Quickly assessing the situation, Blackjack’s team leader took immediate and decisive action. Reasoning that the simplest and most effective way to thwart the attackers would be to block the exit, he ordered the trucks to stop directly beside the guard shack. The second the engines stopped, Ketchum’s men began pouring out of the trucks’ doors. Unfortunately, the team leader’s lack of experience resulted in a flawed plan that destined the effort for failure.

  As the defenders positioned their vehicles, Nick floored the accelerator pedal, the diesel engine roaring with revving horsepower as the heavy truck increased speed. Just as he dropped his head below the windshield, he observed a single man manage to raise his rifle to his shoulder. An instant later, the screeching impact of metal on metal filled the cab.

  The semi’s front fender slammed into the first SUV, striking the lighter vehicle with so much force the Mercedes flipped high into the air and sent three men flying like human missiles.

  That first automobile-projectile landed on top of the second vehicle, causing spider webbing of both front windshields and an explosion of the remaining tempered glass. The resulting blizzard of fragments shot outward upon impact and then glistened in the morning sunlight as it dropped to the earth. Before the first SUV had stopped rocking, the tanker truck plowed in again, thrusting the stacked wrecks into a pirouette across the pavement and crushing two more men.

  Nick’s heavily muscled arms wrestled with the errant steering wheel as he struggled to maintain control of the rig. Even so, the semi jumped the far curb and nearly jackknifed.

  Bishop, maintaining a safe distance from the action, now positioned his rifle through the window, a tactic that allowed him to spray automatic bursts at the men scrambling a
way from the gate. He knew the rounds were unlikely to hit any of the defenders, but the hot lead might convince them to keep their heads down and think twice before they chanced a shot at his friend. Nick needed all of his attention focused on keeping the tanker moving in the right direction.

  Inside the semi’s cab, Nick spun the steering wheel to change the course of his vehicle. After sending a cloud of black tire smoke into the air, he finally regained control. Working the tanker’s shifter, he managed to accelerate away before Blackjack’s boys could regroup.

  Bishop followed his friend, driving slower and hanging back, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, waiting to see if anyone would try and follow. Nothing but a haze of smoke and dust showed on their tail.

  They had done it!

  Charlie was waiting, five of his strongest men standing ready.

  When the hum of a large diesel motor sounded in his ears, he turned and shouted, “Get moving! They’re coming.”

  His command generated a bustle of activity, the team putting their backs into pushing an old delivery van out of the way to reveal an open lane that led to a partially collapsed fire station. One bay was clear of debris, just wide enough for the tanker to fit inside.

  After making sure his men were on the cusp of accomplishing the task, Charlie then strolled to the sidewalk and prepared to wave Nick and Bishop in. A few moments later, the semi came into view, the racing vehicle followed by the pickup he’d watched the two Texans highjack just an hour ago.

  With his arm creating circles in the air, Charlie indicated where Nick should turn. The semi slowed, and then carefully negotiated the narrow entrance between a pile of cinderblock rubble and the burnt shell of the station’s retired pumper.

  Carefully, Nick maneuvered the rig into the bay. As soon as the rear of the tanker-trailer had passed, Charlie’s crew was pushing the van back into place. Less than a minute passed before any sign of the stolen rig had been obscured from view.

  From the street, Bishop rolled past slowly, his eyes making sure that no evidence of their raid was visible. Satisfied that not even a tire track could be observed from the road, he then pulled the stolen pickup to the back of the station and waited for Charlie’s men to help unload the rest of the ill-gotten gains.