Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  “Fuck,” John said, and steadied himself against the iron bars. “I’m pretty sure his shooting days are over, though.”

  “How bad? Can you keep moving?” Logan asked. “We have to get up and out of here, or we’ll burn to death.”

  “You know they’re going to be waiting, likely at the end of the hall, right? No way they miss us again,” John said.

  “I know we need some concealment.” Logan looked around the room for anything they could use. Where was MacGyver when you needed him? “Sommers, grab that,” Logan said, pointing to an object up against the underside of the stairwell.

  Jonathan didn’t hesitate but ran over and grabbed the object, which felt heavy. “It’s full,” he said.

  “Good,” Logan said. “Now let’s go. We need to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

  The three men climbed up the stairwell, crouching when they got to the midlevel landing that double-backed up to the first floor. Logan and Jonathan crept up to the highest possible point where their heads were still below the floor of the first level and out of the line of fire. John was right behind Logan on the left, his M1911 still in his right hand.

  “On three, you throw that thing as high and far as you can. You understand? As soon as it’s out of your hand, you start running up those goddamned stairs as fast as possible. I’ll get you concealment, but you better run for your life, or I’ll shoot you myself and step over your corpse. We need to get upstairs.” Logan turned and looked at John. “As soon as he moves, you move. Can you do this?”

  “Absolutely,” John said through gritted teeth. “I can’t let you have all the fun.”

  “Good. Fight through it,” Logan said, and looked at Jonathan. “One. Two. Three.”

  Jonathan Sommers, terrified for his life, from both the Secret Service upstairs and the men who held him, did his first good thing in the past six months of his existence. He swung the midsize fire extinguisher back with both arms and hurled it up the stairwell. His aim and strength were true, and it sailed up and over the landing, arcing toward the ceiling. He was already two steps up when Logan pulled the trigger on the Kimber Tactical II.

  Bam!

  The fire extinguisher was punctured, and like the propane tank, released its contents in a swirling, whooshing cloud of noise and fury. Instantly, the hallway was filled with the acrid smell of potassium bicarbonate, propelled by the compressed carbon dioxide.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Logan urged, even as the two former Marines led by one of the world’s worst traitors dashed up the steps. Sommers and John were already halfway up the stairwell to the second deck when the first shots from the concealed Secret Service agents rang out.

  Please God. Two more seconds, Logan thought as he heard a round strike the railing two feet below him. Three or four more shots impacted the stairs, and he felt the step on which he stood tremor as a round tore a piece of concrete from it. Move. Move. Move.

  He reached the midlevel landing to the second deck and lunged forward as more rounds began to impact higher in the stairwell, hitting the back wall. He forced his heart rate to slow and took a deep breath as he reached the top of the stairs, where John and Jonathan waited. Blood had formed a dark splotch on the blue polo, and John held a piece of cloth he’d torn off a cargo pocket over the wound.

  “Jesus, that was close,” John said. “What now?”

  “You parked around back like always, right?” Logan said. “Please tell me you have your keys on you.”

  A smile formed on his paling face, and John said, “Of course. Didn’t have time to take them out of my pocket.”

  “Good. Then follow me. We’re going through the rec area to the patio and from there to the ground. Sommers, you’re up front. Let’s go,” Logan said, knowing every moment lost was another drop of blood gone for John. I don’t know if he’s going to make it. Shut that shit down and concentrate. Control what you can, and allow the rest to happen. Now move!

  * * *

  Cole lay prone next to a weight rack in the rear right corner of the gym, the sights of his SIG SAUER P229 lined up on the doorway. He’d kept the lights off, and the only illumination was the natural gloom from outside through the windows. There were multiple pieces of gym equipment in the right half of the gym, while the left side had an assortment of BOB martial arts dummies, suspended heavy bags, and other close-quarter weapons and gear. He waited patiently, knowing he had the tactical advantage. Anyone comes through that door, he’s a ghost, Cole thought. He just needed to distract—or better yet, kill—them long enough for Amira to execute her plan.

  A minute passed, and another thirty seconds later, Cole grew uneasy. Did I miss something? A sudden flurry of gunshots reverberated through the ceiling from somewhere upstairs. What the hell is going on up there?

  A slight squeak startled Cole from his right, and the realization of what it was sent him scrambling forward even before he looked. Had he hesitated for even a second, he’d have been dead.

  Due to the lack of efficient ventilation, the members of the task force always kept the back door slightly propped open for fresh air. The door was old, like the building, and the hinges squeaked every time the door moved. He’d been meaning to WD-40 the noisy hinges, but he kept forgetting, getting distracted by something else every time he intended to act. Later, he’d thank the gods for his momentary memory lapses.

  When the two Secret Service agents pushed through the door, Cole realized his nearly fatal mistake—the two suits had known they’d be lying in wait, ready to ambush them if they came in through the main door, and they’d flanked them, going outside and around.

  As he lunged forward, he shot his arm out to his side and pulled the trigger several times, the reports magnified inside the enclosed space. The sound never ceased to amaze—and deafen—him. Most people had no idea how loud a gunshot actually was without hearing protection.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

  He heard glass shatter, as well as a large metallic clang as one of his bullets struck a piece of equipment. He slid on his belly back toward the door, finding refuge behind another weight rack, as the two shooters spread out and opened fire.

  Bullets impacted the equipment around him, but the iron weights, especially the 45-lb. plates, took the brunt of it.

  Where the hell is she? Any longer and they’ll be taking résumés for my replacement.

  A second later, he felt the impulse to move, though he knew movement meant death. It’s better than dying in place, he thought, looking at the door to the hallway still twenty feet away, which may as well have been on the far side of the moon. If I can make it to the door, at least I have a chance. Need to suppress them, first. Here goes nothing.

  Cole Matthews rolled to his left, still in the prone position, looking for the first black-and-white figure he could find. Bingo. Black-and-white behind the dual-pulley functional trainer. He opened fire, rounds ricocheting off the cable machine.

  The two Secret Service agents zeroed in on Cole’s position and returned fire. Ironically, it was their proficiency that doomed them. Focused on the threat they could see, they forgot about the one they couldn’t.

  From the farthest corner of the gym, left of the door, dashed the running figure of Amira Cerone, her compact SIG SAUER P250 blazing away at the two agents. She moved quickly and across the span of the room, her weapon barking every few feet, the muzzle flashes highlighting her path.

  The first shooter never had a chance. Multiple rounds struck him in the chest, and one round tore into the right side of his face. He fell backward, striking his head on the top of one of the functional trainer’s weight stacks and lay still.

  Cole seized the moment and scrambled to the right toward his original ambush position. He assumed a crouch and moved quickly across the back of the gym.

  The second shooter, distracted by the assaulting figure who’d entered the gunfight, never saw Cole leave his prone position. As a result, he also never saw the former Unit and CIA man squeeze the trigger on
the SIG SAUER pistol, and he certainly didn’t see the 9mm hollow point as it entered the side of his head right above the left ear, tearing away the top of his ear lobe on its way to ending his life. He fell to the floor, motionless and dead.

  “Took you long enough,” Cole said.

  Amira had opened her mouth to reply when she heard the start of an engine out back, followed by the sound of tires chewing up the gravel lot. That’s John’s truck, she thought.

  “You’re welcome,” Amira said quickly. “You have your keys on you? Mine are in my locker upstairs.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do, but I’m parked out front,” Cole said.

  “Then let’s get to your SUV and kill anyone on our way,” Amira said fiercely, and stormed out the door, leaving Cole to follow. God, this woman’s scary.

  * * *

  Sommers reached the corner as Logan said, “Stop. Don’t go any farther.”

  John leaned up against the wall, and Logan studied his friend for a minute. “You still good to go?” The pressure appeared to be working, staunching the blood flow. The entry wound was small, which was the only good thing about the gunshot wound. The fact that it was still lodged inside him was the bad thing.

  John nodded. “Until the end.”

  “Roger, but that’s not yet. Wait here for a second,” Logan said, and stepped past Jonathan, extending out into a prone position. The upper hallway was relatively dark, a corridor of shadows and uncertainties. He figured the lower he was, the lesser the chances that he’d get his head blown off.

  Logan low-crawled forward, holding both his breath and his Kimber, and peered around the corner. Still certain he was alive and hadn’t been sucker-shot, he stared down the long corridor, as if by doing so he could illuminate the space. Certain pockets of darkness loomed alarmingly along the walls, tempting him to move forward. Bad guys downstairs and the unknown ahead. I’ll take the lesser of two evils. Forward it is.

  He pushed himself backward with his forearms, stood up, and looked at Jonathan. “Here’s the deal. It looks clear, but for all I know, Harkens has a fucking fire team waiting for us. The first door on the right is one of the entrances to the rec room. It’s got a levered handle on it and pushes inward. Once you open it, step inside and to the right, and I’ll come in right behind you. Got it?” Logan said.

  Jonathan nodded in understanding.

  “Good. Be quiet, and we’ll be fine,” Logan said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  Sommers moved forward, inching quietly down the hall. As he cautiously and deliberately placed one foot in front of the other, he thought, How did it come to this? I never thought I was on the wrong side of history. But you are, his subconscious shot back. And part of you knows it, deep down. You got yourself into this mess, and only you can get yourself out, with their help, if you’re lucky.

  He reached the levered handle and heard Logan and John stop behind him. He paused for a moment, listening. Nothing. Light from the multiple windows added visibility inside the room, but the French door had a thin curtain on it, distorting the view. A moment later, he exhaled, pushed the lever down, and swung the door inward. He was greeted with silence from within.

  Thank God, he thought, and stepped inside and immediately to the right, stopping directly in front of a Secret Service agent who stood with his black pistol aimed squarely at his chest.

  Jonathan Sommers, a traitor responsible for death and destruction across the globe, realized that his prayers had fallen on deaf celestial ears. My luck just ran out, he thought as the Secret Service agent pulled the trigger multiple times, striking him squarely in the chest with three bullets in a tight group that shredded his heart.

  Behind him, Logan was halfway through the door when he heard the shots and realized what had happened—an agent had waited up here to ambush them in the event they decided to escape from the second floor, which they had. Logan also knew that Jonathan Sommers was dead. The shots were at point-blank range, and there was no way the shooter would miss.

  Logan wasn’t filled with remorse, even as Sommers’ body still stood, the shock and destruction less than a missing heartbeat away. There’d been a time when he’d wanted to kill the man himself. If there was a silver lining, it was that his death would not be on his conscience. He took advantage of the moment and did the only thing he could—rushed forward, slamming into the back of Jonathan’s dying body.

  The impact drove Sommers forward, and Logan pushed harder until he felt the body he’d used for a battering ram slam into the Secret Service agent. Driving his legs forward, he pressed against Sommers’ back and shot his right arm alongside his waist and into the Secret Service agent’s stomach. He didn’t hesitate as he pulled the trigger three times, the roar of the .45 filling the room.

  Unlike the agent’s bullets, Logan’s didn’t strike the man in the heart, and somehow, the wounded shooter retained the strength to try to raise his right hand with the FN Five-seveN in it.

  Logan wrapped his left arm around the waist of Sommers’ corpse and grabbed the rising wrist, pressing down to keep the barrel lowered. The gun fired, and Logan felt the impact strike Sommers somewhere in the lower body, although he was fairly certain that the traitor hadn’t felt the bullet.

  Applying more pressure with his left wrist, he simultaneously angled his Kimber upward, and in a full Jonathan Sommers death hug, he pulled he trigger.

  Bam!

  The round struck the agent under the chin, splattering the back wall with skull and brain fragments, ending the struggle. The dead man fell to the floor, and Logan stepped backward, withdrawing his arms from under Sommers’ armpits. Jonathan’s corpse followed suit and crumpled, coming to rest near the dead agent as blood from both bodies began to pool together. Two traitors’ blood commingling in death. Fitting.

  “Jesus, I almost feel bad for him,” John said from behind Logan.

  Logan turned around, and said, “I don’t. Not for one second. He got what he deserved, maybe better. More importantly, let’s get you out of here before more of these bastards arrive.”

  Logan walked over to John, slung John’s right arm around his shoulders, and walked toward the patio doors. The fire alarms were still going off throughout the building, adding to the surreal quality of the rec area.

  They reached the doors, opened them, and stepped out into the morning. Fresh air thick with summer dew cleared their senses for the first time since the battle had started.

  Logan reached the edge of the waist-high patio wall and turned around. “I’m going over. As soon as you hear me call you, you need to do the same. Drop down, and I swear I’ll catch you, although it’s probably going to hurt like hell,” Logan said.

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” John shot back. “Can’t wait.”

  “Don’t be a wuss,” Logan said. “You’re not dead yet.”

  “So tender and caring. Jump over the wall before I throw you over,” John said, even as Logan smiled, swung up onto the wall, and placed his hands in a firm grip on top of the bricks. A moment later he stepped backward and managed to walk his way down until he was fully extended. His hands suddenly disappeared, and John heard him hit the ground below.

  This is going to suck, John thought, and limped over to the wall, the pain increasing in intensity. He looked over, and saw Logan looking up expectantly. No point in delaying the inevitable.

  John lay down on top of the wall, and rather than walk down the way Logan had, he began to turn his body until his legs and then torso dropped straight down, pulled by gravity. His body suddenly screamed in agony, and at the moment of full extension, pain exploded in his torso. He reflexively let go and plummeted to the ground . . .

  . . . into the waiting arms of Logan West. Both men hit the ground, hard, and John let out a low growl of pain.

  “Okay,” John said through gritted teeth, “let’s never do that again.”

  Before Logan could reply, gunshots from the left side of the building indoors reached their ears.

&nb
sp; “We need to help them,” John said.

  “No,” Logan said definitively. “We need to get you medical attention, or you will be dead. And then, well, then you won’t be good to her or anyone. I can see the wound, brother. It’s not good. You don’t have all day, or even morning.”

  John realized his friend’s mind was set. No way I’m changing it. “She’s more deadly than I am, and Cole’s not half bad.”

  “You’re right on both counts. Let’s get in the truck and get out of here. We can have FBI and Marine PMO here in six minutes, if not less,” Logan said, referring to the Marine Provost Marshall Office, responsible for law enforcement at Marine Corps Base Quantico. “They’ll be fine.”

  The gunfire continued as the two men got in the pickup truck. Time to get the hell out of Dodge, Logan thought as he floored the accelerator, kicked up loose gravel with the F-150’s tires, and navigated the pickup around the side of the building through the grass. As the truck reached the front of the building, tearing up the lawn before the tires finally hit the gravel road, he didn’t see the two Secret Service agents, including Special Agent Harkens, running toward the black Suburban.

  PART VI

  A BAD WAY TO START A DAY

  CHAPTER 31

  “Are you ready, brother?” Logan said, his voice steady, his hands tightening his grip on the steering wheel, the roiling rage he’d been fighting for six months ready to be fully unleashed.

  “Fucking A,” John replied. “And congratulations on becoming a dad. I love you, brother.”

  “Ditto.” There was no time left to talk. The two warriors had reached the end of the proverbial and literal road.