A large object fell off the back of the walkway, and Logan recognized the Mk 14 Mod 0 six-shot revolver-style 40mm grenade launcher. Good man, Stan, Logan thought. You may have given us a fighting chance. Now I just have to get to the damn thing.
Jack had the same thought and looked at Logan, who pointed and nodded toward the door, himself, and the fallen grenade launcher. Jack acknowledged the unspoken order and opened fire, initiating the diversion.
Forgive me, Sarah, Logan thought, and ran in a crouch toward the discarded weapon thirty feet away as Jack sustained the gunfire. Both attackers returned fire toward the retired general until someone spotted Logan dashing toward the Mk 14.
“Runner!” someone screamed. “Light him up!”
Thanks, asshole, Logan thought, and kept running.
Fortunately for him, the only two who had a direct line of sight on him were the front two assaulters, and the shields hindered the accuracy of the Bruger & Thomet MP9 submachine gun each wielded in one hand. Rounds ricocheted off the table, shattered enormous panes of glass that crashed to the hardwood floor inside and stone patio outside, and punctured holes in the furniture.
Logan dove to the floor, sliding across the hardwood surface, glass shards puncturing his vest and tearing at his khaki cargo pants. He reached the Mk 14 as the gunfire ceased, and he heard, “Reloading!”
His hand grasped the pistol grip of the grenade launcher, he turned on his side, found a clear line of sight under another table near the enormous bar in the back of the room, and extended his right arm at the two operators with the ballistic shields. I hope you loaded it, Stan, Logan thought, and pulled the trigger.
* * *
John, Evan, and Constantine were halfway across the patio, on the other side of the edgeless pool that ended where the patio stopped and the multitier deck started, when the breaching charge blew the front door to pieces and the battle began. Their objective was simple—get to the Sunseeker 131 superyacht and head out into the middle of the bay until the battle was over or help arrived.
In addition to being an expert marksman and former Delta sniper, Evan was also the yacht’s captain. These guys have a lot of collateral duties, John thought, remembering the various hats he wore as a Force Reconnaissance platoon sergeant.
The three men hustled down the stone steps to a sloping wooden ramp as the sounds of gunfire intensified. To John’s trained ear, the gunfight sounded like it was a give-and-take on both sides. Hope to hell you’re dishing it out better than you’re getting, Logan, John willed to his friend.
The ramp sloped downward to the right and back to the left multiple times, a dazzling view of the Chesapeake Bay at each switchback, reminding John of the old video game Donkey Kong, minus the giant gorilla. And it sounds like these guys are throwing much worse things than barrels.
A new sound appeared on the audible horizon, distinct and clear, even through the rain outside and gunfire inside.
“How fast can you get her started and away from the dock?” John asked as they sprinted down the final incline to the pier below. The yacht was docked sixty feet out into the bay, connected to a single pier that jutted out from the rocky beach.
“In less than a minute, once we untie her,” Evan responded. “Why?”
“Because of those,” John said as they hit the pier running. John pointed a half mile north to the point of Shady Nook, where two rigid-hull inflatable boats were maneuvering the rough waters of the bay toward them. Four dark figures hugged the top of the sponsons on each boat, two on each side, fighting the weather and the rain. John had run RHIB operations in much worse conditions, but he knew the additional attackers had to be professionals. No doubt they’re having a rough ride, but these guys came prepared.
John turned around to check on Constantine Kallas, who moved at a much slower pace due to his age. He was still halfway down the second decline walkway when John shouted to him, “You better move faster unless you want to die on your pier! We have more company coming from the water!”
“Untie the three dock lines,” Evan said crisply, as he and John moved toward the luxury boat. “And then I’m heading to the wheelhouse on the upper deck. I’ll get her started and idling. Once you and the Founder get on the boat, shout as loud as you can. I’ll hear you and get us out into open water.”
“Got it,” John said. “Hey, is there an arsenal on the yacht? All we have are these M4s against eight attackers and two boats.”
“There is, but it’s on the lower deck. There’s a combination lock, like the one in the house. There are more M4s, ammo, flare guns, and vests, but all the good stuff was in the house. The combo is five-eight-four-five,” Evan said.
Something about the numbers struck John as familiar, and Evan caught the reaction. “It’s the date of V-E Day from World War Two. Founder’s choice.”
“Of course,” John replied. “I guess today I get to find out how much damage I can do with one assault rifle against two boats full of amphibious raiders. Go me.” With the last comment still on his lips, he dashed down the pier to untie the line closest to the bow, leaving Evan to scramble onto the platform at the stern of the boat.
I really am tired of boats, John thought, hoping for once they wouldn’t have to sink one. The North Korean cargo ship off the coast of Spain last year was more than enough for one lifetime, he thought as he reached the thick black line and began to unwind it.
* * *
Thwunk!
The first 40mm grenade flew under the table between the hard, wooden legs. It struck the triangular port of the ballistic shield of the attacker on the right, detonating upon impact and propelling the shield backward, end over end like an out-of-control rocket. The edge of the shield crashed against the side of the head of the man who’d been holding it a second before, and it bounced crazily up and away, lodging itself horizontally in the windows that were still intact above the ruined doorway. The attacker fell to the floor, unconscious, although not for long, Logan thought, intent on exploiting the gap he’d just exposed in the enemy’s defense.
With his mind only focused on one thing—death for all of them—he pulled the trigger of the semiautomatic grenade launcher as quickly as possible and sent the five remaining 40mm grenades directly into the middle of the group of attackers, with devastating results.
Four of the five grenades were direct hits on personnel, and one unfortunate soul was struck twice, the second grenade hitting him in the head and removing it in a puff of blood and bone. The fifth grenade sailed high and struck what was left of the doorframe on top. It disintegrated the wall and windows, and the ballistic shield that had been suspended for only a few seconds was released from the house’s grasp. It dropped to the tile floor, already slick with fresh blood from the dismembered bodies, and bounced up and down, a shiny red buoy on a sea of carnage.
Logan gazed at the destruction he’d wrought, satisfied that he and Jack were the only living souls in the home. The shield fell over and lay still, breaking Logan’s reverie. “You okay, Jack?” Logan asked as he stood up, the grenade launcher held in his left hand.
Jack, who had sought cover behind the bookcase, emerged unscathed. “I am now,” he replied, and walked over to Logan, surveying the wreckage of bodies, glass, and shattered furniture around them. “Wow. I guess it’s a good thing I bought that grenade launcher.”
“You think?” Logan asked in a deadpan tone. “I mean, who doesn’t have a semiautomatic grenade launcher? It’s got to be great at parties. ‘Come on kids. Fuck the clowns. Let’s blow some shit up.’ ”
He unslung the M4 Commando and shouldered the launcher.
“Point taken,” Jack replied. “But it did come in handy.”
“I’ll give you that,” Logan said. “We need to get to John and your men, but I’m going to grab some more grenades. You never know. And Jack,” Logan said in a voice suddenly sincere, “I’m sorry about Stan. At least he saved us and went out on his shield.”
“He was an excellent soldie
r who thought the Organization was critical enough to join, even if it meant he was a criminal and a traitor in the eyes of the hypocrites who run this country,” Jack said.
There’s a part of me that sympathizes—more than that, that supports what they’re doing. God help me. I get it, Logan thought.
Logan nodded, looking out the shattered wall of glass at the yacht below, and said, “We need to get out—”
“Move!” Jack suddenly screamed, and Logan reacted to the tone of his voice like a Marine to a drill instructor halfway through boot camp. He dove to the left as gunfire erupted from the front of the house.
Jack returned fired but stopped as Logan heard a grunt of pain. Jack fell to the floor. Oh no. Logan spun on his knees, drew a bead on the gaping hole in the front of the house, but only saw death and destruction. Where’d he go?
Logan crouched and moved over to Jack, who tried to sit up, his M4 useless in his right hand.
“He went back outside,” Jack said through gritted teeth. “My shoulder’s fucked, but I’m not out of it yet.” he added, seething with a battle rage and focus that emanated from him like the sweat that had been triggered by the bullet wound.
“Let’s get you up,” Logan said, wondering why the shooter had retreated to the front yard. The silence from outside—other than the constant rain—was troubling, and he wondered what had happened to the other two members of the security team. Well, if nothing else, it gives us time to get the hell out of the house.
Unfortunately, the thought was as far his plan proceeded, for a moment later, a single man stormed through the doorway, a ballistic shield held in front of him. Logan saw the barrel of the MP9 near the right edge of the shield and reacted instantly.
“The office,” Logan said forcefully, and pulled Jack with him as he dashed across broken glass toward the spacious office of Constantine Kallas.
* * *
The Sunseeker superyacht pulled away from the pier and into the rough waters of the Chesapeake Bay. The bay was usually somewhat choppy, but with the storm, rain, and wind, it was blowing five- to seven-foot waves, which was like relative calm to the luxury vessel. But I hope it’s beating the hell out of our friends on the RHIBs, John thought.
From his perch nearly thirty feet above the water on the sky deck—the uppermost level of the yacht, which he knew gave him the greatest tactical advantage—he watched the two small boats bob up and down. They were still more than a few hundred yards away, although closing the distance. Just need to hold out until reinforcements get here. Jake had better been able to call in air support, or we’re dead in the water, no pun intended.
The last thing Logan had done before John, Evan, and Constantine had fled out the back of the mansion was to place a call to Jake Benson, requesting immediate tactical and air support. While most local law enforcement might not be much help against the type of firepower they faced, a police helicopter could, as long as the team came prepared. If not, at least they’ll get some nice overhead shots of us all getting killed, John thought ironically.
He looked through the reflex sight, trying to acquire a clear sight picture of the closest boat. The handguard of the Commando rested on the railing on the port side of the yacht, secured up against a vertical column that led to a small roof, on which were mounted the numerous antennae and radomes for the ship’s communications and navigation systems. His left hand held the forward pistol grip. He adjusted the rifle. He planned to unload on the boats in order to create as much standoff distance as possible. Might even get lucky and hit a few of the bastards. He knew this type of gunfight wasn’t like the movies. It wasn’t as ridiculously hard as shooting out the tires of a moving car and watching it flip end over end, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
The speed of the yacht increased, and he steadied himself, pressing his left knee against the glass railing for stability. The boats were less than one hundred and fifty yards away. He looked through the scope and managed to keep the red dot on the boat in front. Although the movement of the yacht shifted the sight slightly, it never dropped off the target.
More gunfire erupted from the mansion, although it sounded much more faint with the combined noise of the yacht, wind, and rain. I’ll take that as a sign, he thought, and pulled the trigger, the fire selector set on semi to afford him the most accuracy.
Crack . . . crack . . . crack!
John paused after the third shot. At least one of the rounds struck home, as the front figure on the left sponson slid over the side, as if he’d decided to go for a casual swim. Hopefully, all the way to the bottom, asshole.
The boats suddenly split apart, the front boat veering left, the rear one to the right, as if their captains realized that a straight line at the yacht might not be the best avenue of approach.
John kept his focus on the front boat less than a hundred yards away, figuring if he could completely remove one of the boats from play, it would greatly increase their chances of survival. He opened fire again, concentrating on the driver of the boat, who stood at the center console.
Six shots and three seconds later, the driver of the boat jolted, as if surprised. He looked down at his chest and then slumped forward over the steering wheel and console. The driverless boat violently turned left, away from the yacht, and the driver was flung off the console and into the rough waters.
Two down. Not too shabby so far, John thought. With the first boat no longer a threat, John shifted the sight to the second boat, and a cold flush of panic gripped him. At least these fuckers came prepared. I’ll give them that.
“Get down now! ” John screamed, praying that Evan and Constantine in the wheelhouse directly below heard him.
He flung himself to the deck as the M134 minigun he hadn’t seen until the last second opened fire, unleashing a barrage of 7.62mm lead that tore into the yacht.
* * *
As Logan and Jack passed through the glass doors and gunfire followed them into the office, Jack shouted, “Hit the button on the right and slide the switch below it to the right!”
The doors slid shut and closed with the vacuum-tube sound just as more bullets impacted the glass doors and created small craters in rapid-fire fashion on all four panes.
Jack grinned at Logan. “Constantine wanted ballistic glass in here for this very reason. This office is a sort of panic room, although we didn’t reinforce the walls.”
“Great. Now that you’ve confirmed your master plan works, how the hell do we get out of here?” Logan asked.
The gunfire stopped, and both former Marines turned to look through the distorted and spiderweb-filled glass. A large solitary figure with a long black beard, outfitted in the same tactical gear as the rest of the assault force, stood motionless, the ballistic shield no longer in his hand. The MP9 was held down at his right side. He cocked his head to the left, as if studying a painting in the National Gallery of Art. Something about the movement chilled Logan, reminding him of the unstoppable serial killer from the Friday the 13th movies from the 1980s. Instead of a hockey mask and a machete, he’s got a black Kevlar helmet and a submachine gun.
“What’s he doing?” Jack asked, his voice unconsciously lowered, as if speaking loudly would provoke their silent stalker into action.
As if reading their minds, the figure suddenly slid an assault pack off his large frame, placed it on the floor, and knelt beside it.
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s not good for us,” Logan said. “We need to get out of here now and figure out how to stop this psycho. What are our options?”
“Work our way through the rest of the house, but who knows if there are any more of these guys in either wing? Or flee out the back down to the water, which would expose us to whatever other tricks this joker has up his sleeve.”
“I don’t like either of those,” Logan said. “I want to put this guy down, but we need an edge.”
“Then there’s only one way to go,” Jack said. “Up.”
* * *
The bar
rage of 7.62mm lead had temporarily stopped, providing John the opportunity to glance up from his prone position near the stairwell leading from the sky deck down to the upper deck. Bullet holes were everywhere, and the glass-and-steel railing he’d used for cover earlier was gone, a mangled skeleton of steel. The deck was covered with shattered glass of all sizes and other debris.
The boat with the minigun had turned back toward the first RHIB, which had come to a stop after veering off when John had shot the driver. Even accounting for the rough waters, it seemed to be tilting slightly to the right. Maybe I got lucky and hit one of the sponsons. Might buy us some more time.
The absence of gunfire hit John with another sensory revelation—the yacht’s engines had stopped. Fuckers managed to take out the engines. Great. Now we’re sitting ducks . . . in water. Even better.
He scrambled to his feet and started down the short flight of stairs, reloading the M4 as he descended. “Guys, we have a big problem!”
His call was answered by silence. He turned right, glancing at the similar destruction that had been wrought on the upper deck. The long wooden table and ten chairs had been decimated, leaving a pile of leather and timber. Surprisingly, one leg had survived the fusillade, leaving that end still standing, a solitary piece of wood still unscathed.
We don’t have much time before they regroup and decide to come aboard.
John dashed past the wreckage and into a short passageway that led to the yacht’s wheelhouse. The door was open, providing a glimpse into the interior. A pair of legs in gray trousers that ended in dark-brown Italian chukka boots stuck out from behind the door. Oh no.
He hurried through the door and immediately realized that while the destruction had been severe on the sky deck, the upper deck had sustained catastrophic damage. Holes had been punched into the slanted, cockpit-style tinted glass that surrounded the wheelhouse on three sides. The two plush, oversized leather chairs had been torn in several places, and white polyester stuffing stuck out of the holes and lay on the deck. The command stations in front of the chairs had been destroyed, and both three-monitor displays were shattered. As bad as the damage was to the wheelhouse, it had been worse to Constantine Kallas.
Field of Valor Page 16
