by Jay Posey
“Roger,” Lincoln said.
“Remember, slow is smooth, and smooth is fast,” Mike said, reciting a well-known shooter’s mantra. And then added, “… but fast and smooth is best.”
“Three… two… one,” Lincoln counted down. Then. “Go.”
Sahil pushed the door open and drew back, and Lincoln pushed through aggressively at an angle, clearing the entrance as quickly as possible without rushing anything. The lights were low, the room illuminated only by the dim orange glow emanating from the stairwell. Long shadows stretched and pooled.
His first look was to the right, front corner of the room. Clear.
Without slowing he swept through the room, scanning for targets. Heavy coats lined the walls at odd intervals, each presenting a silhouette to evaluate and assess. Behind him, Wright’s sharp voice pierced the gloom.
“OT Marshals, OT Marshals,” she called, “Get down on the ground, on the ground!”
A commotion followed, but Lincoln ignored the scuffling until he’d completed his circuit around the right of the room, confirming there were no threats to that side. A short table sat against the back wall of the room, and on it lay a weapon he recognized in a glance as a Type 32 short-barreled rifle. He continued on to the stairwell, and posted up there, keeping his weapon trained on the switchback that led to the floor below. Apart from catching some activity out of the corner of his eye, he hadn’t stopped to look at what was going on. Thumper joined him at the stairwell.
“Stay on the ground,” Wright commanded. “Faces to the floor. Hands spread. Hands spread!”
And then, through internal comms, she said, “Two individuals. One male, one female, both unarmed. Sahil’s securing now.”
“Type 32 on the table, to my right,” Lincoln answered.
“I got it,” Mike said, and a moment later he was there, removing the ammunition and a firing component to render the weapon temporarily inoperable. He stuffed the component in a pouch on his leg, and tossed the magazine to the opposite side of the room.
“It’s going to be OK, it’s going to be OK,” the man on the floor kept saying, though it wasn’t clear if he was saying it to the woman, or to himself. As far as Lincoln could tell, the woman had yet to make a single noise.
“Guessing these are our night owls,” Sahil said, through comms. “Got ‘em locked up pretty good, they ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
It wasn’t proper protocol to leave anyone unguarded, no matter how secured they were. But there was no way Lincoln was giving up the firepower to babysit a couple of people they’d locked down.
“How many people are in the facility?” Wright asked.
“Don’t tell ‘em anything–” the man started, but a meaty thud followed suggesting Sahil had just bounced his head off the floor.
“How many people are in the facility?” Wright repeated.
“Ten,” the woman answered, her voice trembling but her tone calm. “Ten others, I mean, not counting us. Eleven, sorry, eleven more.”
“How many are armed?”
“Five… I don’t know,” the woman said. “Six, maybe. Maybe seven. What’s happening? I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Is everyone in this building?” Wright continued. “Is there anyone in any of those other buildings?”
“Yes… err, no… I mean… we’re all here. Everyone’s here. Please, what is going on? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Then this should be over real soon,” Wright said. “Stay still, stay quiet.” And then through internal comms, she added. “I think she’s telling the truth. As best as she can.”
Lincoln still hadn’t taken his eyes off the stairwell.
“Can we move?” he asked.
“One sec,” Sahil said. And then to the woman, he said, “Your friend here’s gonna sleep for a little bit, but don’t worry, he’ll be just fine when he wakes up.” And then through internal comms again, “I went ahead and dosed the troublemaker. Had a feeling he was gonna make a ruckus. Should be good to move now.”
“Roger, moving down.”
Lincoln stepped out onto the landing, and his team returned to their entry formation. The door to the first floor was closed and looked heavy, but Lincoln didn’t want to count on it having muffled all the commotion they’d just created. There was a good chance that at least some of the individuals below would be sleeping. Or at least had been until just a minute or two ago. But every interaction they had, even as easy as this one had been, increased the likelihood of resistance the further they went into the facility.
They reached the door to the first real floor without any issue. A small window sat in the upper middle of the beige door, an arrangement that made Lincoln think of a hospital. He risked a peek through it, saw a wide beige corridor, with doorways on either side. There was no one in the hall, no sign that anyone knew anything unusual had happened upstairs.
“Mike,” he said. “Door.”
Mike rolled to the side and took position at the door, waiting to open it on Lincoln’s cue. Behind him, the others formed up. Long hallways with rooms exactly across from each other made for tricky clearing.
“Simultaneous on this next,” Lincoln said, probably an unnecessary reminder of the plan. “Wright, lead left; I’ll take right.”
“I’m on left, understood,” she confirmed. In cases like this, the team had a default split; Wright was second element leader, with Sahil and Mike supporting. They’d already numbered the rooms on this floor one through eight, with evens on the right side of the hall. Lincoln and Thumper would clear those, while Wright’s element handled the others.
“Mike, go,” he said. Mike pulled the door open, and the team flowed through, stacking alternately on either side of the corridor until they were all through and set. Lincoln looked across the corridor and held up his hand for Wright to see. She nodded. One. Two. Three.
They moved as one, each element rounding the door and entering their target rooms simultaneously. Lincoln button-hooked around the doorframe, headed towards the right with Thumper on his heels. A quick scan of the dark room revealed it to be full of tall lockers from floor to ceiling, creating several aisles. Rather than looping around the other side of the room, Thumper stayed with him, and together they walked the outer edge, keeping an aggressive pace with quiet steps. They circled the whole room. Empty.
Once they reached the door again, Lincoln held there while awaiting a signal from their teammates. Behind him, Thumper marked the floor right by the doorframe with a digital ink, invisible to the naked eye, but radiant through their visors. A reminder that they’d cleared this room.
“Two’s clear,” Lincoln said. “Holding for you.”
Before Wright reported in, a light appeared in the hallway, and a shadow stretched toward Lincoln. A clear silhouette of a man. From the angle, it looked like someone in the room further down the hall diagonal from Lincoln’s was standing in the doorway, with the light from the room behind him.
Lincoln didn’t wait. He exploded into the corridor, weapon up.
“OT Marshals!” Lincoln called as he rushed the individual, “OT Marshals! Get on the floor, hands out, hands out!”
And then over internal comms, “We’ve got room three, we’ve got room three!”
The man was heavyset, wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts, with dark socks. His hands shot up in front of him, palms towards Lincoln, fingers spread wide, like he was expecting Lincoln to plow right into him. His feet peddled almost comically, slipping on the floor as he tried to get away. He fell back into his room, first hard on his backside, and then gracelessly onto his back. His eyes were locked on Lincoln, and he kept his hands up, even while his feet continued to scrabble at the smooth tile of the floor.
Lincoln crossed the threshold and swept his weapon around the room. A bedroom, two occupants. There was another man in a bed against the far wall, sitting up with a look of sheer panic on his face. Thin, with red hair curling up off the top of his head like a frozen flame.
“On the floor, get on the floor!” Lincoln barked. The man in the bed did his best to comply, flopping unceremoniously out on the floor, trailing blankets and sheets behind him. One foot got tangled and the man lay there on the floor staring up at Lincoln and kicking his leg to try and free it.
“Over, on your belly,” Thumper commanded the heavyset man. He rolled over and spread his hands out to either side.
“One’s clear, we’re moving to room four,” Wright reported. “Wright to room four!”
The red-haired man dropped his face to the floor and covered the back of his head with his hands. His leg was still tangled, and still kicking like a half-dead cricket. Lincoln crossed to him and put a hand on the man’s back.
“Relax,” he said. “Relax, you’re fine.” The man went still, but didn’t uncover his head. Lincoln reached over with one hand and unwound the sheets from around the man’s lower leg. Thumper stood over the man in the dark socks, her weapon trained on him, while Lincoln cuffed the redhead.
Lincoln asked the man a couple of questions, but he’d gone unresponsive except for an occasional sound that was a mix between a whimper and a cough.
“Room four,” Wright reported, “two females, unarmed. They’re secured. Sahil’s questioning one of them now.”
“Roger,” Lincoln answered. “Room three; two males here, same story.”
He moved over and cuffed the heavyset man.
“You fellas sit tight,” Lincoln said. “Don’t make any trouble for us, and we’ll be out of your way soon. Understand?”
The larger man nodded.
“I hope we got the right guys,” Thumper said. “Apart from the knucklehead upstairs, everyone else around here is fitting the researcher profile a little too well.”
“Still got plenty of rooms to go,” Lincoln said. He marked the floor and readied to move down the corridor as soon as Sahil was done. He was just about to ask Wright if she wanted to stick to the even-numbered rooms now that they’d switched when a clacking sound came from the far end of the hallway.
Lincoln edged the doorframe, just enough to get a peek down the hall. Two men stood at the far end of the corridor, in the stairwell. One had entered the hall by a couple of steps, but both were holding position there, looking Lincoln’s direction, not moving. And then the man in the dark socks cried out.
“Help! Help us, help us!”
“OT Marshals!” Lincoln called, bringing his weapon to bear. “Drop your weapons!”
The reaction from the men was immediate.
They both opened fire.
Lincoln was faster, by a thread.
The first man cried out and tumbled back towards the stairwell, and nearly simultaneously rounds snapped into the wall in front of Lincoln’s shoulder, and a hard impact caught his right hip, whipping his leg out from under him and throwing him off balance. He fell hard to his left knee.
Out into the hallway.
Reflexes took over. Lincoln dropped onto his right side, half-fetal, stabilized, and brought his weapon back on target, just as the second man fired another burst, and then another. Most of the rounds snapped over him, but one caught the outer edge of his left shoulder and knocked his aimpoint off target. A moment later, gunfire popped off above him, right over his head, single shots, and then a pair of legs went striding past him while the gunfire continued pop pop pop, steady and sure.
Wright. She was advancing towards the stairwell, driving the attackers back. The wounded man was still in the corridor, sprawled on his back. The second hostile was crouched now in the doorframe, but leaning awkwardly forward and firing one-handed.
Before Lincoln could get a shot lined up, the wounded man rolled up and raised his weapon. He sprayed fire on full-auto, filling the corridor with rounds, and sending Wright ducking into the next doorway. At the same time, Lincoln felt something constrict his right ankle, and a moment later he was sliding. Thumper, dragging him out of the open.
In the corridor, the volume of gunfire dropped to spasms of three- and four-round bursts; the walls and doorframes spit chunks and splinters under the assault. That kind of wild gunfire was typical of panicked amateurs, but when Lincoln regained his place by the door and risked a glance, he saw the wounded man was sliding backwards, while he fired; his companion was dragging him clear of the corridor, while he provided suppressive fire. The instant he was in the stairwell, he kicked the heavy door shut.
That wasn’t an amateur move.
“Lincoln, you hit?” Wright called.
“I’m good, I’m good!” he called back. “Took a couple hits, but they didn’t get through!” He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten hit, until he saw a hole torn through the door frame. The man had shot him through the wall.
Not amateurs. Not by a long shot.
“We gotta go,” Sahil said, “we gotta move!”
He was right. The race was on now. They’d lost surprise. The only way for the Outriders to compensate was with speed, and violence of action.
“Sahil! Get on that door to the stairs,” Lincoln ordered. He was up now, moving down the hall. But he couldn’t leave the remaining rooms unchecked. “Thumper, Mike, clear room seven!”
As soon as he reached room five, he kicked the door almost off its hinges.
“Six is clear!” Wright called. “Moving to eight!”
Room five was a combination break room and sitting area, with low chairs and tables, plus a small kitchenette. Most of it was visible from the doorway, but a closet or pantry in the back posed a potential hiding place. Lincoln swept through the room in a straight line, kicking chairs aside, stomping up and over one of the tables, wasting no time.
“OT Marshals!” he called, two strides from the door. He didn’t wait for a response. If anyone was hiding in there, they weren’t going to be happy. He kicked the door right next to the handle. It rocketed open, slamming into the wall so hard the handle actually stuck. As he’d guessed, the room was a shallow pantry, with shelves of food and assorted supplies. No one was inside. Lucky for them.
“Five, clear!” he called.
“Seven, clear!” Thumper responded.
Lincoln crossed the room, moved back out into the corridor, and started towards the stairs where the two men had retreated. Sahil was already there, crouched to one side of the corridor keeping his deadly weapon ready to unleash if anyone dared to open that door.
“Eight is clear!” Wright said, a moment later.
“Wright,” Lincoln said. “My count is six individuals secured; two hostiles, confirmed; five unknowns unaccounted for.”
“I confirm, six secured, two hostiles. At least five unaccounted for.”
The team reformed in the hall, behind Sahil’s security. Lincoln and Thumper took the right side, while Wright and Mike moved left. Lincoln and Wright covered the door to the stairs while Mike and Thumper covered the rear, just in case.
“Sahil,” Lincoln said. “Go knock.”
“How loud?” he asked.
“Loud enough to kill whatever’s on the other side.”
“No sweat.”
Sahil crept up to the door, and pulled three copper-colored cubes out of one of the slots on his suit. These he arranged in an inverted triangle on the surface of the door.
“Y’all might wanna take a step back,” he said, though he himself just moved over to one side of the door. He held his weapon with one hand; in his left hand were two white cylinders. Stun grenades. The Outriders just called them crashes. “Say when.”
“Hit it.”
“Stand by to get some,” Sahil said, and then, “Fire, fire, fire.” A moment later, a hurricane of fire ripped the door from its moorings, as if a gateway to hell had opened up in the stairwell and sucked it into oblivion. Lincoln’s suit automatically damped the roar, but even so the intensity set his teeth on edge.
Before the smoke had cleared, Sahil was up, tossing the crashes down the stairs. They went off like a thunderstorm, sending flashes of white lightning and e
ar-splitting peals rolling up and down both hallways.
Lincoln was first through, his weapon trained on the most dangerous angles.
At the bottom of the last flight, just a few steps before the door to the second floor, two men lay motionless. When Lincoln reached them, he quickly confirmed what he suspected. They were the same two men who had fired on him. Whether they’d been waiting in ambush, or if they simply hadn’t been able to make it down the stairs in time, the blast from Sahil’s charge had been too severe. They were both dead.
The door leading to the second floor was warped and partially open. Smoke crawled through the gaps out into the hallway on the other side.
“Door,” Lincoln said over comms. “Going through.”
It might have been more tactically sound to set up for an explosive entry, but he didn’t want to lose momentum. Without slowing, he launched a stomping kick into the middle of the door, near the frame. He wasn’t even making conscious decisions anymore; training drove him forward through the gap, muscle memory guided his motion.
A short hall opened out to a single, large room, segmented by half-height walls throughout. Gunfire greeted him before he could announce himself. Lincoln snapped his weapon right, centered on the disappearing target, and put three rounds through the short wall. A sharp cry reported his fire had been accurate.
“Contact, right!” he called.
The rest of team was already flowing through the space, effortlessly breaking into two elements, sweeping the area.
“OT Marshals, throw down your weapons!” Thumper shouted, one final attempt to end the firefight before it got out of control. She was answered by another burst of gunfire from somewhere on the other side of the room. But in the mental echo of the sound, Lincoln realized the report hadn’t come from a Type 32; it’d been a simultaneous volley, a burst from Sahil’s heavy weapon paired with a single round from Mike’s rifle. Dropping a threat before it could develop.
The Outriders snaked their way through the maze of a room, every aisle and cubicle a potential point of ambush. The fact that the bad guys had gotten any shots off at all was a testament to the complexity of the environment, and their level of training. By Lincoln’s count, there were still three loose in the facility. Assuming the first woman had been telling the truth.
