Reflexive Fire - 01

by Jack Murphy

  In the pit of his stomach Pat knew Deckard didn't have access to such hardware because he was simply making all this up on the fly.

  Successfully reaching striking range without alerting the guard, Deckard came to a high crouch, his left hand hovering just behind the guard's neck. The Colombian cartel heavy grunted at something on the television as the American flipped the garrote wire over the man's head with his right hand.

  Deckard immediately pressed his left hand with the wire attached to his wrist against the back of the guard's neck while simultaneously powering straight back with his right hand, grasping the garrote's handhold in an iron grip. It was a virtually instantaneous and silent kill.

  While he lowered the body to the ground, the Delta men climbed the rest of the way up the stairs. Deckard rewound the garrote wire around his wrist. Taking the rifle off his shoulder by the sling, Deckard eased open one of the sitting room's two doors, knowing he had to backtrack through the mansion to find a suitable exit.

  Deckard shook his head at the further signs of tasteless extravagance. The next room appeared to be a large open air entertainment area with more television screens mounted everywhere and an artificial waterfall trickling down one wall. More asesino members were sitting and standing around the screens watching the soccer game, a few shouting at something happening in the match.

  Blinking a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things, Deckard watched another cartel member walk into the room from outside, guiding a large black jaguar on a chain leash. Ramirez was known to maintain a private zoo, yet another sign of wealth and status, but this was starting to look like a movie set.

  On reconsideration, maybe that was the point.

  There was no backing down now. They had to get out and didn't have time for anything slick before the assault began.

  Ignoring the squad of men standing around the plasma screens for a moment, Deckard sighted in on the Jaguar handler. The Columbian was telling the others in Spanish that the boss wanted the animal around during the party. With the red dot in the M4's holographic reflex sight hovering on the animal handler's chest, the former soldier gently squeezed the trigger.

  The handler spun around with the strike of the 5.56 bullet impacting his chest, the chain leash falling to the ground before the handler dropped. The other guards turned from their game, their minds still processing the unexpected. Exploiting their hesitation, Deckard swept the muzzle of his rifle across the room from left to right, firing into the center mass of each gunman he could index, a few missed shots shattering the wide screens behind them.

  The jaguar let out a blood curdling roar that instantly filled the room as one of the guards struggled to his feet, tearing a Beretta pistol from his holster. Now agitated and masterless, the jaguar did what large predators do best. Moving like liquid across the floor, he gained momentum before jumping onto the back of the asesino gunman, large paws straddling his shoulders, claws sinking deep into the flesh.

  The Colombian let out a scream of his own as the ebony jungle cat easily wrestled him to the ground. The last the gunmen shouldered his own rifle and took aim at the jungle cat.

  Deckard blasted the guy twice in the chest for targeting an endangered species.

  The trio tiptoed around the bodies and the jaguar to the next room, emerging in a wide foyer with a row of marble columns on each side. The Ramirez villa was like some kind of bizarre fun house someone with a bad sense of humor had dropped in the middle of the rain forest.

  By now the small army was alerted to the prison break, and armed men began pouring through the doorway on the other side of the foyer.

  Deckard sprinted towards cover, Pat taking longer as he helped J-Rod hop behind one of the pillars. Pivoting at the hips to expose as little of himself as possible, Deckard indexed one of the enemy shooters coming through the door on the opposite side of the room. He fired, several rounds punching through the man's face and dropping him, his head bouncing off the ground like a basketball.

  Ducking back behind cover, he took a knee, changing his elevation as he engaged an enemy behind the opposite row of columns. A burst from the Colombian's MP5 sub-machine gun broke apart large pieces of the pillar Deckard was behind as he returned fire, walking several rounds across the shooter's neck and head in an aerosol spray of blood.

  The sustained bursts from one of the Delta operator's weapon ceased just as he heard Pat call out to him.

  “I'm black!”

  Reaching down Deckard tore a magazine from his combat vest and slid it across the floor to Pat's position. Snatching up the full magazine Pat expertly reloaded his weapon and continued to fire, this time at a gunman above them on the balcony.

  Sensing movement, the former soldier realigned his sights towards the open doorway just as another gunman came rushing through, oblivious to the situation he had stumbled into. Pat, J-Rod, and Deckard simultaneously triggered bursts that riddled the man with holes before depositing him on the marble floor, a pool of blood quickly growing under him.

  With the bolt of his M4 locked back on an empty chamber, Deckard quickly recharged his weapon while nodding towards the french doors that led out towards the pool where he had made his infiltration from. Helping J-Rod to his feet, they moved towards their exit as shouts could be heard deeper in the villa.

  Clearing the French doors, the three men began down the wide stairs to the lawn. The humidity hit them like a brick wall; the smell of the adjacent jungle was strong outside.

  Halfway down the steps, Deckard cringed at the sound of gunfire, anticipating enemy bullets that never came. Spinning around he saw both of the Delta men leaning over the railing, raining down a hail storm of lead. Below, several of the Don's bodyguards were exchanging gunfire with them from the entrance to the grotto.

  Two bodies were already piled on top of each other in the doorway, a third man vying to join them as he wildly fired his Uzi one handed. Stepping beside them Deckard flipped the selector switch on his rifle to automatic and laid on a brief salvo of fire, causing the gunman to duck back down into the passage.

  Marble chips tore across his booted foot as an enemy gunshot narrowly missed. Looking over his shoulder, Deckard focused on the cartel gunmen scurrying around the drug lord's helicopter like ants around an ant hill on the far side of the gardens, several of them taking pot shots with pistols and sub-machine guns.

  Fast work. The pilot must have been under orders to kick the rotors the moment any shooting began, to prepare for the Don's escape. Kneeling, Deckard carefully aimed at one of the two hundred and fifty meter targets. Squeezing the trigger, he watched as one of the gunmen went down, his hands flailing in the air.

  The rotors on the helicopter were beginning to gain momentum, but the pilot couldn't leave until they had Ramirez safely aboard, and that wasn't happening with the Delta men pinning him down with suppressive fire, effectively trapping him in the grotto.

  With another bullet zipping over his head, Deckard shot the second gunmen in front of the helicopter, the single rifle round coring through his neck before bouncing off one of his vertebrae and creating a fist sized exit wound on its way out the back.

  Turning his attention on the helicopter, he began spraying fire across the pilot's windshield. It would have made for the perfect escape in slightly different circumstances. Deckard could fly a small single engine plane, but attempting to fly the helicopter would be nothing short of a death wish. With the windshield beginning to spider web from the pounding of 5.56 rounds he resigned himself to the fact that if they weren't leaving, neither was Ramirez.

  Suddenly the aircraft exploded in a plume of orange and red flame that rose into the air, the entire fuselage lifting off the ground under a tower of fire. The helicopter crashed down on the concrete helipad, the blast washing over them as a larger Black Hawk attack helicopter peeled off from its gun run with another coming in right behind it.

  Above them they could hear more gunfire, followed by shattering glass as Ramirez's private army began fi
ring on the Colombian military helicopters from the villa's second floor.

  The second Black Hawk nosed up into the air at a vicious angle before seeming to crest an invisible ridge like a roller coaster. Now the pilot brought the helicopter screaming down towards the villa, opening fire with 2.75 inch Hydra rockets, and strafing the entire side of the building.

  The concussion shook the ground beneath the Americans’ feet sending them ducking for cover as glass and cement showered down from above, the rockets pounded into the mansion. The settable fuses on the rockets allowed them to detonate somewhere deeper in the mansion, flames erupting from the windows above them. Gunfire could still be heard sporadically, but it was clear that the gunship had significantly reduced the enemy's numbers.

  Groaning as he got back to his feet, Deckard brushed concrete dust and glass shards off his shoulders.

  “Aw, fuck,” J-Rod groaned.

  Like a giant dragonfly, they could hear the rotor blades buzzing through the air. Someone had cleared the twin gunships for immediate re-attack. However, across the lawn Deckard could see the silhouette of someone up on top of what had been the maintenance shed for Ramirez's helicopter. The large caliber anti-material rifle the man lugged onto the roof was unmistakable even at a distance.

  As the AH-60L helicopter lined up for another gun run, the cartel sniper opened fire; .50 caliber Raufoss rounds echoed across the compound with each shot. The exploding anti-armor incendiary rounds flashed with each strike against the helicopter's metal fuselage.

  Seeing the splash off the skin of the helicopter, the sniper continued the lay the fire on, each shot rocking the barrel to the rear on its internal recoil absorbing springs until the ten round magazine had been exhausted. Getting closer to its objective, the Blackhawk amazingly seemed to withstand the barrage of gunfire, if only for a moment.

  Deckard and the two Delta operators turned and stumbled back into the villa as smoke began to billow from the rear rotor, the gunship literally going into a tail spin. The pilot desperately auto-rotated the aircraft the entire way down to the ground before it smashed into the ground and spun onto its side.

  Rolling over, the rotors chewed into the grass lawn before they broke off into pieces, flying as red hot shrapnel, a few landing in one of the above ground pools with a hiss of steam.

  With the wreckage of the first AH-60L still smoking, the second bird continued its assault, walking a line of .30 caliber fire from its M230 chain gun across the top of the maintenance shed in a single stunted burst. Sustained fire from the heavy machine gun created a yawing effect when long bursts were fired, the recoil pushing the aircraft off target, making shorter burst necessary.

  The blast caught the sniper completely exposed, tearing him to pieces and leaving nothing but cauterized flesh and a red vapor mist as evidence of his presence just a second before.

  J-Rod limped along with agony spread across his face until Deckard ran up behind and threw the operator over his shoulders into a fireman's carry before he had the chance to protest.

  “Take point,” he said to Pat, as they dashed through the foyer.

  Pat nodded, stripping another fresh magazine from Deckard's combat vest.

  The foyer took up the entire center of the villa, the now pockmarked marble columns standing in front of a half dozen shelves containing what Deckard hoped were just forgeries of Inca artifacts. The stone faces glared at them through shattered display cases as they ran past. More buzzing, more muffled gunfire could be heard outside.

  The three men shouldered their way through the front door to find another two Black Hawks hovering outside. These were transport helicopters, buzzing like giant bumble bees over the front lawn and driveway. Behind the pilots in the cargo area, rope masters were giving the order to drop ropes.

  The thick, green nylon fast ropes were dropped from the helicopters, the excess coiling below on the ground under the spinning rotors. With the rope hanging from a boom attached to the side of the helicopter, camouflage clad counter terrorist soldiers from Colombia's Agrupacion De Fuerzas Especiales Urbanas began sliding down, like they were on a fire pole.

  The Americans didn't waste any time watching the commandos descending on the drug lord's villa. They ran directly for the oblong warehouse made out of corrugated metal, the garage doors giving away its purpose.

  Running down the steps, Pat quickly led them into the hedges, careful to keep them out of the commando team’s line of sight. From the initial gun runs on the villa, it was clear that the AFEU were weapons hot for this operation. Deckard followed with J-Rod over his shoulders, manipulating his M4 with one hand as best he could while holding the Delta operator's legs with the other.

  Pat approached the side entrance to the parking garage, finding the large metal door already partly ajar. Stepping inside they found themselves in total darkness, stumbling around as intermittent gunfire blasted somewhere deeper in the compound.

  Setting J-Rod down on his good foot, Deckard and Pat began sweeping around in the darkness for a light switch. Suddenly the overhead lights blasted on, causing them squint as their eyes attempted to readjust.

  The automatic gunfire was deafening as the sound reverberated off the walls. Hitting the cement floor, a fusillade of rifle rounds punched through the thin metal wall behind Deckard as he rolled behind the wheel well of a 1966 Shelby Mustang.

  Pat followed Deckard's lead, taking cover next to him, J-Rod crawling behind a Camaro.

  “Lights!” Deckard yelled.

  The three Americans aimed towards the ceiling, systematically shooting out the florescent bulbs above and around them, creating shadows deep enough to hide in. Hearing a gruff voice barking orders from the other side of the garage, it was clear enough what had happened.

  After heading off Ramirez and his lackeys at the grotto, and the Colombian military depriving him of his escape plan, Ramirez had the same idea they did, doubling back and finding another means to make a getaway.

  Deckard pulled free his final 5.56 magazine and slid it across the ground to J-Rod.

  “Keep them occupied. We'll envelope.”

  The Delta men nodded, J-Rod taking a knee and putting a few suppressive shots down range to give the enemy something to think about. Breaking off, Pat went left and Deckard went right, staying behind cover whenever possible and sticking to the shadows when it wasn't.

  Sliding up alongside a Ferrari, Deckard could hear J-Rod sending volleys of fire towards the drug lord and his bodyguards. All he had to do was keep their heads down long enough for his teammates to get into position. Moving in a crouch, he continued to make his way to the other end of the garage, weaving his way through Ramirez's car collection.

  Breaking a corner around another Ferrari, he spotted one of the gunmen taking refuge behind a BMW convertible, fixed in position by J-Rod snapping rounds over his head. Taking aim, Deckard was ready to make a head shot from less than ten feet away when the Ferrari rocked up and down on its suspension, glass showering both him and the gunman.

  Dozens of holes suddenly appeared in the roof, spilling laser-like beams of daylight into the darkness of the garage. Somewhere above them the Black Hawk gunship must have been made aware of shots fired inside the garage and took action to protect the Colombian assault team outside.

  Hundred thousand dollar sports cars were stitched from fiberglass hood to trunk by 30mm autofire, crumpling frames and shattering windows, the massive holes seeming to appear from nowhere. Utilizing the opportunity, Deckard fired. Acting on muscle memory, he put the round right through the bridge of the bodyguard's nose, effectively dropping his target to the ground.

  Edging deeper into the warehouse, he picked up the pace as the large bore automatic cannon above tore through the roof as if it wasn't even there. From the sound of J-Rod lowering his rate of fire to just a shot every few seconds, he knew he had to act quickly. J-Rod was almost black on rounds.

  At the last row of classic cars he lay down on his side, looking under the frame of the v
ehicles for any bad guys, finding one foolishly kneeling down on the cement and occasionally firing a shot or two, attempting to seek out J-Rod's position. Still on his side, Deckard swung the M4 up horizontally to his shoulder and lined up the red dot sight on the man's ankle. Triggering a single shot, the Colombian fell to the ground howling, allowing Deckard to easily deliver a fatal shot to the back of his head, spraying a wash of gore across the floor.

  Another crack sounded as Pat fired on someone, just as another salvo came bursting through the rooftop from above.

  Swinging out around the vehicle on one knee, Deckard gained target acquisition on the nearest asesino standing a few meters behind the corpse he has just made. His finger was tightening around the trigger when a crash thundered down in front of him, throwing him on his backside. With his finger on the trigger he accidentally discharged a round into the air.

  The man had been split end from end, a 30mm round tearing down through the ceiling had sliced through flesh and bone, cracking him open like a lobster. Two arms and a leg could be made out amid the intestines strewn out across the floor, but that was about all that was recognizable. Deckard swallowed. His nose filled with the sickly smell of blood, he realized he had been hosed with bits of bone and gore.

  Wearing khakis and a collared shirt left open to reveal a large gold cross, Ramirez sat at the edge of the pool of blood. His pistol lay at his side while he had both hands on his forehead, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

  Snarling at the turn of events, Deckard got to his feet as Ramirez's face suddenly bulged outwards, the back of his head disappearing as it was taken off by a gunshot. At this point Deckard was so deaf he didn't even register the shot. The drug lord collapsed backwards, his blood mixing with that of his late comrade.