Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  “I was kind of hoping somebody would stay with Suzie,” said Linda.

  “She’s your buddy,” said María Elena, “you stay.”

  They both looked at Tommy.

  “Don’t get me involved.”

  María Elena looked down at Suzie Quantrell. “Um, I’m thinking you both are the professionals. I fold. I’d only slow you two down.”

  Linda nodded. “That’s fact.” She shot Tommy a knowing look. “And here I thought it would be me against you, not us against them.”

  Tommy said, “The longer we talk, the more organized they’re going to become.”

  Linda limped back to the couch. She bent over Suzie and smoothed her hair out. She skimmed her lips over Suzie’s cheek. “We’ll get you out of here soon, hon. Hang on, okay?” Linda straightened abruptly and headed for the table and weapons. “Let us proceed to kill those who badly need it.”

  Tommy was checking the load in his handguns and poking around in the giant duffle.

  María Elena came over and examined his left forearm.

  “Didn’t penetrate much, just a scratch.”

  “We’ve another panty liner,” she said.

  “Not even upon the threat of death.” The bleeding had pretty well stopped.

  Linda had checked her weapons and pulled an ammo pouch over her shoulder. She filled it with magazines.

  Tommy carried mostly his own weapons. He had the AR-15 at ready on a sling. The sawed off double-barreled shotgun swung from its strap over his shoulder. He carried an M-16 and he had a .38 and a couple of 9 mm automatics stuffed about his clothing. The vest was weighed down with ammunition. He found his knife and returned it to his boot, noting the jealous look FBI gave him. Well, that explained the artful spray of blood across the front of her yellow sun dress.

  When they were ready, Tommy saw Linda Landover loaded with weaponry much as he was.

  “I’ll go out the front,” he told her. “That will draw their fire and their attention. You slip out the back.” He thought about the building layout. “Move clockwise and I’ll move counterclockwise and we’ll meet in the middle.” There wasn’t much likelihood of the enemy being on the south side. But you never know and certainly don’t count on it. “Try not to shoot me when we get close.”

  Linda nodded. “If you’re waiting on me, you’re already late.” She limped into the hallway, smiled weakly at them. Her voice was strong. “And swiftly comes the scythe.” She turned right, headed for the back.

  Tommy nodded to María Elena.

  A major but muted explosion rolled over the buildings. The vibration shook the headquarters Quonset.

  Linda stopped halfway down the corridor and turned. Her grin was genuine. “Ahem. That chopper is no longer operational.” Answering his unspoken question, she said, “They shouldn’t leave incendiary grenades lying around.”

  “Maybe it took out García making a run for it,” said Tommy.

  “We can only hope,” said Linda. She continued her journey down the hallway.

  María Elena stepped close to him.

  “No melodrama, okay, Pocahontas?” Her faint animal cinnamon scent hit him with emotion.

  “Yes, dear. Just come back to me.”

  “Sure thing, María Elena. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He took her hand. “Keep a good watch and have your weapons ready.”

  “Yes, dear.” She squeezed his hand.

  And he was gone, swift and silent.

  He paused at the front doors, reviewed the terrain immediately outside. No use to show himself quickly to see if he’d draw fire: then they’d be ready. He burst through the double doors, M-16 in his right hand targeting where he thought would be the best concealed place they’d be waiting. He hit a three round burst and dodged right, rolling off the landing to the clockwise side, weapon at ready. One man stood surprised and Tommy put him down with a single round. No use leaving your rear open.

  He turned around and peeked out. No fire. They were either intimidated or somebody cagey, probably an old sergeant, was directing their resistance.

  He went back to the body of the soldier he’d just killed. Tommy picked the man up by the back of his uniform even though the bullet had drilled right through his center chest and out the back. He began running to the corner with the body held in front of him. One step, two, three and several weapons opened up.

  They had been biding their time. It sounded like a bunch of kids banging on pans.

  He tossed the body to his left, toward the front of headquarters. Incoming fire tracked the body as Tommy sprinted right and ahead, trying to get to a troop carrier for cover. He hoped he’d taken their attention sufficiently for Landover to make it out without notice. He shook his head. Yellow sun dresses were not the best of stealth cover. However, he knew she’d make up for that by her burning anger over CIA. He shook his head. Women.

  Though he had to admit, they’d probably used him, played him like a fiddle.

  He snaked under the double rear wheels careful not to hang up the shotgun and trigger it into his torso.

  CIA and FBI, JTF 13, had to have set him up to attack this base. He suspected it was Quantrell, she was the spymaster. FBI didn’t usually play those games. Although there was no way they could have programmed his hideout handcuff key and his throwing FBI off that balcony.

  Tommy saw two pairs of legs double-timing it toward the front of headquarters. Maybe they figured they could go in now. He gunned them down and watched them flop around on the ground. He didn’t finish them: Let the enemy waste energy and manpower taking care of their wounded. If they had that kind of fellow concern, he amended.

  He scrambled backwards out from under the vehicle and stepped around behind it. A slight shift in the body warned him as he felt more than saw a Glock appear over the tailgate. He reached up and grabbed the hand, twirled a 360 and heard bones crunch followed by a wailing scream. He stuck his M-16 up there and hosed off the rest of the magazine. Quickly he stuck his head inside and looked. Two more down. He popped the magazine onto the ground and dug another from his ammo pouch.

  Realizing he was more exposed here than he wanted to be, he zigzagged across the parade ground, trying to keep the flagpole and a Humvee between himself and the majority of the vehicles in the parking lot where the enemy had to be hiding. Several shots followed him.

  He made it to a Quonset hut he didn’t know the purpose of and edged around the far side. They knew where he was. If he could draw their attention, then FBI could take them out from behind.

  He caught his breath and stopped to even out his breathing. Out of control breathing is not conducive to accurate shooting and good judgment.

  If the two women hadn’t intended to send him to this 13 training base, it had worked out better for all of them—unless you count CIA taking a big hit. At any rate, given a few hours, he’d have figured it out himself. He would have had to find somebody in the know and rip the information about this base from them. And that would have cost him too much time.

  Tommy snaked around behind the Quonset. Nobody. He kicked in the screen door, his rifle ready. Nothing. A storage building, folding metal chairs, tables, refrigerators, tents.

  Automatic fire opened up, but it wasn’t near him. Landover.

  He went out and peered around the other side. A line of automatic fire chipped aluminum next to his head and dented it and snagged ragged holes where his head had been. He was on the ground rolling back. He came to his feet at a dead run and zigzagged to another Quonset. A quick glance told him that it was a mess hall. Though they look different almost everywhere, there was a sameness about military eating facilities. Any GI anywhere can invariably go right to the closest one.

  If Quantrell and Landover had in fact set him up, were they on his and María Elena’s side? For a while, they’d been assisting Diego García. Or somebody had. Maybe they’d had a change of heart. Maybe a change of plans? If so, why?

  The best answer was that García had gone off the reservation an
d was too high profile to cover up his transgressions. Things like that domino, especially when the government gets involved. There are no secrets. Just check with the officers’ wives’ clubs.

  Suddenly, it made sense. JTF 13 needed somebody unsanctioned to take out García, somebody not connected to them. And he fit the bill nicely. He grinned. “Glad to oblige,” he said aloud. He did admit that García had screwed even that up by attacking the women. They should have stayed away and awaited the outcome of Tommy’s one man assault.

  The mess hall was empty. He began to wonder if they hadn’t killed so many that the rest had decided to cut and run. He moved to go around the mess hall and turn back to his clockwise movement. He skirted the now non-existent-but-still-smoking motor pool.

  Quantrell’s plan had been highly Machiavellian. She was someone whose tactics manipulate everyone involved to affect her strategy. He had underestimated the two women before and determined not to do so again.

  He smelled burnt fuel. Two men were sneaking away from the firefight and he let them go. They never saw him.

  He heard not-so distant gunfire. FBI was still in the fight.

  Whether they’d aimed him at García and this base didn’t really matter, for it facilitated his search for María Elena. And he would take García out. If that’s the way it all worked out, he’d be more than glad to oblige them.

  He moved quietly forward, hearing gunshots off to the front and the right. FBI was getting involved.

  All his speculation aside, he still wondered about Quantrell and Landover. Both were super bright and deadly. FBI was as good as anyone at this game. And CIA had the equivalent of a supercomputer in her brain. Not to mention a stupid fucking dog.

  An automatic weapons burst smashed into his M-16 and he dropped it like it was on fire. His hand was numb and he dropped to the side and rolled against an errant smoking tire.

  He’d been too busy thinking. Three soldiers ran to him, their rifles spitting bullets. It’s hard to run and shoot accurately, he thought, and swung his shotgun. He triggered both barrels and they went down like pins in a bowling alley.

  He leapt to his feet and ran forward between two buildings. He’d been gone too long. They had too much opportunity to attack headquarters. He wished CIA was still operational. He came upon a half dozen crawling like they were at basic training on an obstacle course. They were headed directly for the landing of headquarters. He saw them become bold when they received no fire. Someone was shooting into the building to give them cover.

  Tommy flattened against the troop barracks, glanced in a screen door and saw no one. Everybody had to be outside and involved in the battle. He did give them credit, for strong resistance. But these were García’s men, maybe drug runners, gang members, cartel shooters masquerading as militia soldiers. Tommy couldn’t tell where the sniper was, so he brought up the AR-15 and began firing into the six men. He hit three before they reacted and began returning his fire. Tommy calmly shot them all and felt bad about it. They were soldiers, allegedly, and aware of the risks. It was as if García had sent them out to be killed. Good loyalty on their part, stupid judgment. He spotted the lone gunman dodging behind the first Quonset Tommy had vacated. Tommy stepped out into the open to draw his fire. He dodged back and nothing happened.

  Tommy ran more to the south of the headquarters building digging up gouts of dirt behind him. The gunman stepped out and drew down on him and a shot rang out and the man folded into himself.

  Landover.

  He edged to the side and whispered, “FBI?”

  “Atkins.”

  He found her leaning against a fatigue green trailer. He saw a trail of blood leaking down her leg, pain etched on her face.

  “Is your side clear?” he asked.

  “Pretty much. And the rest discouraged.”

  “Mine, too, though they have a lot of places to hole up I didn’t have a chance to check out.” Tommy saw a flash and grabbed Linda and dragged her down. Two rounds clanged into and off of the trailers side wall.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “That makeshift tower over by the landing strip.”

  “A long way for an M-16 to shoot accurately,” she said.

  He held up his AR-15. “This should do the trick.”

  “Gimme.”

  He handed her the weapon and she squirmed around and rested the barrel across his upper back.

  “More elevation,” she said.

  He lifted his shoulders and rested on his forearms.

  “Come on, show yourself,” Linda said conversationally.

  “Ah.”

  Tommy could do nothing about his ears. His head was ducked as far as possible when the rifle went off and he could hear nothing after that. He felt her withdraw the weapon and knew she’d gotten the target.

  He shook his head and his hearing started to return.

  “I think the organized resistance is gone,” Linda was saying and he read her lips until the sound penetrated.

  “Concur,” he said, knowing his voice was too loud. He tried to pitch it lower. “I’m concerned. No García, and not much happening any longer. I’m not sure María Elena and CIA are safe.”

  “Me, neither,” she said.

  “I saw no signs of García.”

  “Me, neither,” she said. “Not a creature is stirring, not ever a mouse.”

  “Good work.”

  “Although, I will admit several of them ran past as if some devil was on their ass. You must have been effective. They were quitting being combatants, so I let ’em go.” She grinned at him and eased her leg. “On the other hand, there aren’t many combatants left anywhere I can tell.”

  “I don’t want to perform a sweep of all these buildings to find García,” said Tommy.

  Landover shook her head. “That would take forever. I need to get Suzie help.”

  “He’s got to be somewhere. His getaway kit is still sitting in the headquarters lounge.” Tommy kept his eyes roving. “And you’re bleeding again. You need help, too.” He paused. “So maybe that’s where he will return to?”

  Just then, as if to fulfill his prediction, a Humvee slewed around a corner and sped to the front of the headquarters building. Gravel and dirt flew from the four-wheel slide as it came to a stop. Six men leaped out.

  “García,” Linda gasped.

  “We gotta go now, before they get set,” said Tommy.

  “Or kill our folks.”

  One man ran inside, the other five deployed in front of headquarters’ landing and behind the Humvee.

  Tommy took off heading left. The soldiers were just now finding their positions. One opened up before the others and a shot from over Tommy’s shoulder spun the man around. He screamed and his four fellow soldiers looked at him in horror. While he had a shot, Tommy fired a long burst into the bunched up men and two more went down.

  He continued to run trying to keep the Humvee between himself and the soldiers. A couple of shots came his way, but nothing serious yet. He zigzagged, head low, presenting as small a target as he could.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Linda in her horribly ruined and bloody yellow sun dress limping gamely around to the right. Her position was more exposed because of the way the men deployed themselves.

  Because of this, Tommy changed his angle of attack and sped toward the men, holding the Humvee between them. More fire came his way.

  In some faraway pocket of his mind, he heard the sounds of another jet, two engines, just like the Cessna. What could it be? Reinforcements? John Law? If so, he and María Elena were sunk, especially him. Perhaps it was more likely to be an escape vehicle for Diego García. Regardless, he still had to continue his attack.

  Deadly fire was arcing toward Linda. She couldn’t move fast enough to avoid good targeting, nor could she zigzag like he could. Tommy finished off his magazine shooting on the run, trying to pin them down and prevent them from shooting. It worked only slightly, as one of the weapons turned on him. His glance tol
d him the two remaining soldiers taking aim at FBI and him, and another wounded soldier lying on the landing preparing to shoot from the prone position. These were real fighters, he had to give them credit. He hadn’t been in a shootout like this since Angola and Zaire.

  The wounded guy shooting prone squeezed off a single shot and Linda went down without a sound.

  “Goddamnit!” Tommy said aloud. In his peripheral vision he did see her tuck her shoulder and hit the ground rolling.

  Tommy had only seconds. He was almost to the Humvee, so he faked the logical move and decoyed the final leg of his run to the left, to appear to go around the rear of the Humvee where it would be safer for him. Once to the vehicle, he ducked farther and ran right. His rifle was empty, so he had drawn two automatic pistols, both with rounds chambered and ready.

  He burst around the hood of the Hummer and surprised them. The two upright troopers were watching and waiting for him to run around the rear as he’d decoyed, and the wounded soldier was staring at him in horror. Tommy shot him immediately. Then as the other two realized their mistake, he held out both of his pistols in front of himself and triggered all the remaining rounds.

  Both soldiers went down, one getting off a final shot into the ceiling of the landing’s overhang. Tommy didn’t take the time to reload his weapons, he simply dropped them and grabbed his shotgun; his longtime companion felt comfortable in his hands. He snapped it open to double check that he’d reloaded.

  He should probably go to FBI’s aid, but García was inside with María Elena and a dead or incapacitated CIA.

  Tommy slammed into the doors and, since they opened outward, burst them off their hinges. He ran to the entry to the lounge and skidded inside. His breathing was not in control and he didn’t think it was because of the physical exertion.

  He froze at the tableau he saw. María Elena was sitting on the couch in front of Susan Quantrell as if to protect her.

  Don Diego García stood in front of them, his Glock held in front of him, squeezing the trigger.

  If Tommy shot him, then the shot pattern would hit María Elena and Suzie Q also. He lifted the sawed-off shotgun anyway.