RW11 - Violence of Action

by Richard Marcinko

  “Coffee any good?” Trace slipped into a chair beside me. The cool air had brought the blush out in her cheeks. She pulled a knit cap off her head and shook out her long, thick hair. I wondered for a moment if there was anyone special she cared for, or who cared for her. I’d never asked and she’d never offered. I hoped there was someone in her life. Loneliness is something this old Rogue understands all too well.

  “Yeah. Hits the spot. Whadda we got?”

  Paul joined us. He slid a big mug of Colombia’s finest blend over to Trace and sat. “Danny’s still inside. He’s at a table in the lobby having coffee and reading the paper. From where he’s sitting, Laski’s room is visible, but just barely. HRT has six teams of two positioned inside as best they can on such short notice. The exterior perimeter is set. It looks good. Laski’s bedroom window faces the mall area northeast of us. Sniper team says his curtains are drawn but the front desk gal says he’s home. She said he always checks at the desk for messages when he leaves and when he comes back. Doesn’t trust the security of his voicemail, I guess.”

  I looked my two shooters over closely. They appeared tired but alert. It had been a long day for everyone. “Trace?”

  “Hotel’s at three-quarters capacity. People all over the place. If any shooting starts, the collateral damage factor could be very negative. I overheard a lot of talk about the shit happening downtown. People are getting worried, talking about early flights home and such. I did a scan on Laski’s door and the walkway left and right. Used my mini-binocs from across the way and one floor down.”

  “Anything of interest to us?”

  “Yeah, I think so. There’s one of those expensive French made miniature snap links hooked around the bottom support of the railing right in front of his door. It’s been painted the same color as the railing. You’d never notice it unless you’re looking for it or know it’s there.”

  Now that was interesting. I’d seen and used the same snap link for high speed low drag rappelling and as a safety link while hanging my wild and crazy ass out of Little Birds from the 160 SOAR. Each tiny link cost us a cool $50 per unit. The French firm that makes ‘em guarantees their product to be defect free. They x-ray each and every damn link to make sure there’s no hidden flaw in the workmanship. The Army’s ranger battalions bought boatloads of these things to use for individual safety harnesses. This after they lost a few good men in a helo accident some time back. The best part about the link is its patented quick-release lever. Once down you can get away from your harness with one quick tug of the lever. That’s what killed the rangers using their old system. They couldn’t clear the wreckage before the chopper blew. This due to the shitty ’beaners they were using to attach themselves to their safety lines.

  “Can he BASE jump the walkway?” I asked.

  “Fuck no!” replied Kossens. “Way too low, boss. It’s only nine stories. A ’chute would never open in time.”

  “He could rappel, however, using the railing support as an anchor point and the link for his descent line. All he needs is 120 feet of half-inch tubular nylon sling and a brake bar system. He could be out the door and on the floor in nothing flat,” mused Trace as she sipped at her coffee.

  “That’s how I’d do it,” I said. “Keep my shit-and-git bag near the door and have my lowering line rigged to hop-and-pop on a moment’s notice. Where’s the nearest exit outta the hotel from where he’d land on the ground floor?”

  Paul glanced at Trace before answering me. The look on their faces told me they’d had the same thought. “About fifteen feet away if he dropped straight down. It opens out into a small parking lot. He’d only have to bust the exterior perimeter to escape.”

  “Bingo!” I said. “Now’s here what we’re gonna do…”

  It was a good plan. However, Papa Murphy was nowhere to be found so I couldn’t run it past him for his expert opinion of my work. No matter. Murf is a motherfucker anyway. I’ve yet to get an honest answer out of him. He enjoys a good laugh at my expense too much.

  I sent Paul and Trace back to the lobby. They’d be my backup team. I briefed Danny over a (I hoped) secure cell phone and then he casually drifted over toward the predicted exit point at ground zero. Using the German-made monocular I carry in my daypack for just such occasions, I double-checked Trace’s observation about the frog snap link. She was right. Dahlgren was also right about the people in the hotel. There were so many assholes moving in and out and wandering around the big lobby that even I was able to lose myself in the crush. I worked my way over to where I could clearly see Danny and took up a position beneath the first floor balcony that ran around the perimeter of the atrium. I couldn’t be seen by anyone looking straight down from any of the floors above me. Danny gave a discreet thumbs-up sign, telling me I was directly in line with the speedy little snap link nine floors above my head. When Laski left his room to do his rappel thing down to the lobby—which my plan was sure gonna encourage him to do—I’d be waiting for him right when he hit the ground. Once I had him under physical control, Danny and I would hustle his ass out the side door and into a waiting HRT mobile unit. From there we’d hit the makeshift helipad at the sports field, and then wing like a bat outta hell for the PANG.

  Then I’d have a chat with Jackie-Boy in private.

  Like I said, it was a pretty good plan for the spur of the moment.

  I gave Danny the high sign and watched him make the call from his cell. Seconds later the distant, high-pitched wail of a half-dozen police sirens could be heard in the hotel’s lobby. I’d made it clear with the captain in charge of my little diversion that I wanted his officers to drive around the hotel at least twice. I needed Jack to hear “The Man” coming and decide to grab his shit and boogie. For good measure I’d requested a flyover by one of the two hawks we’d left on station at the sports field. The thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of the ANG bird added a nice counterpoint to the police sirens as the hawk flew at speed directly past Jack’s ninth floor window.

  Yeah, that should get things moving upstairs.

  I’d moved an HRT team up to Laski’s floor and stationed them directly in front of the twin elevators where Jack couldn’t help but see them the second he left his room. Another two operators were manning the walkway directly across the atrium on the other side of the hotel. Again, Jack wouldn’t be able to miss them. With those avenues of escape sealed off, there’d be no way out but down. And down is where I like to be.

  All around me people in the courtyard were registering the fact that the noisy commotion outside was starting to converge on this very hotel. Dads started hustling their families out of the pool, and the lobby began to empty as guests and visitors went outside to see what was happening. I wondered if they expected to see a mushroom cloud rising over the downtown area. Numerous doors opened on the floors opposite me. Guests, some scantily dressed, came to the railing, leaned over and began scanning the area below. People are nuts, I reminded myself. The last place anyone should want to be is where police sirens are. It’s the curious who end up dead. People who mind their own business and use good common sense seldom get the shit kicked outta them.

  Mutherfucking showtime!

  I saw Danny look up and then gaze right at me. He gave a curt nod. Jack had taken the bait and was making the leap. I readied myself. The cut down shotgun was slung on a simple black nylon sling beneath my vest. I had jacked a federal tactical load into its chamber at the sports field when we’d landed. If Jack went ape-shit on me I’d blow his legs out from under him, then kick him in the pumpkin to put his lights out for a few minutes. Between Danny and me it would be no problem to manhandle Laski, conscious or not, out the exit and into HRT’s getaway rig. I didn’t want to kill the bastard unless there was no other option. I figured Laski would have programmed all his electronic gizmos with eleborate security codes. We didn’t have the luxury of time to let NSA crack his fucking firewalls, nor superhero decoder rings to do the job ourselves on-site. I needed Jack alive and able to talk. We’d take ca
re of the “willing” part later.

  Even though I was waiting for it, I was startled when the rappel line suddenly snapped into view from nowhere. Jack was using half-inch nylon sling, which is both compact and extremely strong. It easily held his weight as he dropped from Point A to Point B in less than three seconds. I figured he’d have to use a lightweight, probably aluminum, brake bar and snap link to control his rapid decent. Once on the ground he’d have to pull the remaining length of the nylon sling through the snap link and over the brake bar in order to get clear of the line. He could also simply begin running for the exit point and let the line play itself out as he disappeared. But I wasn’t planning on letting him take a fucking step once he touched down.

  By now people were pointing upward and yelling about the man climbing over the railing. The cop cars were outside the main lobby, some of them with their sirens still blaring and light bars spinning. Pandefuckingmonium was about to break loose. I saw Danny trying to make his way over to me. He was having trouble getting through the crowd despite his size. I was beginning to wonder what was taking Jack so long when he materialized in front of me. His daypack was tightly molded to his back and he was wearing black Nomex work gloves to protect his hands from the burn a high speed, balls-to-the-wall, ninety-foot rappel will give you. Even before his booted feet touched down we had locked eyeballs. I recognized him from the photo bios Karen had made for us back in D.C. It was clear Jack recognized me from somefuckingplace as the pupils of his eyes widened for half a second and then a not-so-nice smile erupted across his Eastern European face.

  “MARCINKO!”

  I jerked the pump gun upward and took a half-step toward Jack’s smiling face. That’s when that asshole Murphy came back from wherever it was he’d been when I’d so badly wanted to consult with him about my plan. Instead of stopping to disengage himself from the line, Jack simply whipped out a vicious little switchblade from where he’d clipped it to a loop on his daypack and cut himself free in a single stroke. Hmmm, I thought to myself, I hadn’t considered that solution. But Jack didn’t stop there. In one fluid motion he sidestepped toward me while dropping into a tight crouch. His fucking knife never stopped moving. It buried itself into my forearm between the elbow and the wrist. My right forearm. Which is connected to my right hand. Which is connected to my fucking trigger finger!

  I didn’t know Laski was left-handed. It was not a good time to learn this little personal detail.

  I let out a howl as I felt my index finger pop off the trigger’s smooth metal face on its own accord. Laski pumped his embedded blade once into my arm and the jumble of nerves he hit went stark raving mad. I lost all feeling from my elbow down. Jack then executed a very pretty little snap kick that damn near busted my hand holding the 12-gauge’s wooden pump, which at this point was the only hand holding onto the gun at all. Murphy was working overtime and I was paying the price. Now Jack came directly at me. I threw myself backward and in doing so saved my right eye. But he wasn’t backing off. I stood between him and a chance at freedom. If I went down, he had a clear shot out the door. And if I gave him half a second he could grab one of the civilian fuckers now going crazy around us and it would become a hostage situation. That I did not need.

  Laski lunged. I hollowed out as I’d been taught to do by Mr. Worden. Jack’s blade missed my belly by less than half an inch. It tore the shit out of my new L.L. Bean vest, however, and that pissed me the fuck off! I drew the Wor-Tech from my left pocket with my left hand. Snapping the big blade open I heard it lock into place even as I executed a quick snap cut at Jack’s right cheek. Surprise, surprise cocksucker! The razor-sharp point of my blade sliced him open like a piece of soft fruit. Blood rushed from the wound like dirty water from an open sewer. Laski danced back, bumping into a fat, elderly woman wearing a parrot-pink muumuu. It was almost comical…until he spun around and knifed the poor old lady in the throat.

  I heard Danny calling to me from somewhere nearby. The crowd was wild at this point with a stampede of crazed jerk-offs trying to get out the very exit Jack had been making for. I prayed the HRT guys outside wouldn’t fuck up and open fire on the first person who came through the door, and I prayed the HRT guys inside on the upper floors could get a shot at Jack before he whacked anyone else, especially moi. Where Trace and Paul were I had not a fucking clue. Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did.

  I rotated my knife from the forward to the reverse grip as Jack unholstered a full-size Glock 17. Fucker was apparently as good with his right hand as he was with his left. I stopped advancing and swiftly stepped to the left to get clear of his line of fire. But it wasn’t me he was concerned with. Raising the high capacity automatic pistol Laski began squeezing off round after round into the guests now clogging the upper floor walkways. I knew he had eighteen rounds of high-power ammunition in the gun. With each shot I saw a man, a woman, or child stagger and fall. With a furious bellow I began bulling my way toward the fucking asshole, pushing and shoving and kicking out of the way anyone in my path. I had to get to Laski before he killed anyone else. I still couldn’t feel my lower right arm and hand, so going for my own Glock was pointless. Besides, the thought of both of us blasting away at each other at close range with all the innocent bystanders now running helter-skelter through the hotel lobby was unacceptable.

  I suddenly saw Danny emerge out of the chaos of the melee. In his hand was the massive .41 Magnum. He yelled something incomprehensible and then leveled the stainless steel revolver at Jack’s back. Like a freaking wraith the Nemesis operator dropped to the floor, spun around on his side, and fired a string of rounds at Danny’s fully exposed figure. I saw each round slam into the big man’s chest, their combined force shoving him backward into the crowd. I heard the Magnum go off and the resulting screams as those around Danny’s fallen body went even crazier than they had been before. Laski began scuttling across the floor like a crab in heat and I chased after the bastard as best I could. Every time he evaded someone I ended up pushing them down and out of my way. I still had the knife in my left hand and it was my very best intention to ram it up Jack’s ass when I caught up with him. The world as I knew it had turned to shit. Where the fuck were Trace and Paul?

  Laski gained his feet and executed a near perfect combat magazine change just as I reached him. Jacking the Glock’s slide back he chambered a round and immediately shot a man off to my right and half a step behind me. He then shot a woman who’d made the mistake of cutting in between us. Pieces of her brain and jagged shards of skull bone splattered over my face. I dropped to one knee to make a smaller target of myself. Dropping the fucking knife I reached around with my left hand and managed to jerk my G-26 free of its holster. I was in a gunfight whether I wanted to be or not. When in Rome…

  I brought the little pistol to bear even while expecting to take a round between the eyes as I was doing so. My chest was heaving and it was hard for me to see with the chunks of gooey-sticky brain matter now clinging to my face. I heard the unmistakable sound of a high power rifle being fired in my direction. Rolling, I knocked over two little kids screaming and crying for their mother. I heard the rifle’s report again. This time I threw myself forward and rolled to a standing crouch, the Glock outstretched and sweeping the area in front of me.

  I saw Jack just as he shot Trace in the chest. GODDAMN! She rocked back, her Kimber still coming up as she tried to get a bead on the miserable bastard. I was screaming now, howling like a wounded dog, frothing at the fucking mouth like a lunatic who’s just cut his own dick off. Tunnel vision set in. I only saw Jack Laski smiling like the evil SOB he was, preparing to pump another round into Trace’s upper body. Anyone in my path was being thrown aside as I plowed my way through the mass of idiots and motherfuckers separating me from my teammate. I lost it completely when I heard the Glock’s report and saw the all-black handgun buck in Laski’s hand. Trace jerked hard as a second round hit her. She then half-turned and slumped to the ground, her pistol falling
free and clattering away as someone kicked it in a mad dash to escape the insanity.

  “JAAAAAAAACK!”

  He heard me. Then he saw me. What he saw must have been velly velly bad because his eyes opened wide and for a moment I smelled the stink of fear coming off him like smoke off a burning tire. I fired with my left arm extended and kept moving forward. Every time my left foot hit the deck I pressed the little gun’s trigger. I didn’t feel its recoil, I didn’t see its front sight, and I didn’t hear its roar. I just kept pressing the trigger and keeping my eyes locked onto Laski’s as the gap closed between us.

  I saw the first round clip his right ear lobe. If he felt the wound he didn’t show it. My second and third rounds hit him low in the belly. He raised his pistol at me and squeezed off a round. I felt a sharp tug at my hip but that didn’t stop me. Danny was down. Trace was down. Jack was going down and I was putting him there. I felt nothing but rage. My fourth, fifth and sixth rounds took him squarely in the chest. He jerked back under their combined impacts, the open snout of his barrel now pointing upward and away from me. A huge explosion blew past me from behind my right flank. Dahlgren! The little bitch was up on one elbow, her backup gun in her hand. Where the FUCK she carries that little shit I don’t know! Jack’s mouth dropped open as the .380 JHP hit him square in the groin. He dropped his pistol and fell to his knees. When I reached him he was doubled over holding whatever was left of his dick with both hands.