And it happened just about that way. Carson heard the quick breathing, the boots squeaking as feet pivoted sharply, then massive gunfire as both soldiers hosed the office down. Carson waited until they ran dry, then rose and stepped around the corner. The two spun fast, hands fumbling for sidearms or reloads, and he tapped both of them before they could bring it to bear. Exhibit A went down with a face shot, Exhibit B took two in center mass and sat down hard, like someone had tossed him an eighty-pound bag of wheat and he’d caught it in his lap. Carson capped him with a final heart-stopper, then reloaded again.
Five down on his end. He had no idea how many Brunson and Scala had accounted for. They were definitely causing a ruckus. But time was running out. The longer this took, the greater the chance for their targets to hole up somewhere, maybe even escape with the keys. Or they could set off an explosion in the confined space and quickly end the mission in failure. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t rest. It was a race for victory now, or quick death.
Outside, Khalil had moved across the mountain to the north portal. Flushed with the rapid victory at the southern gate, he and his crew were eager to rain more fire on the enemy. Arriving at the scene of the firefight there, they quickly realized that things hadn’t gone as well on this side. There would be no assault teams entering the mountain from this end of the tunnel.
Tamare’s men were defending the tunnel mouth from behind two tall, thick barricades. The bodies of several men, soldiers and partisans, were strewn across the asphalt in the open. Craters marked the blast points of several grenades. But the worst sight was the armored personnel carrier that had rolled out of the tunnel’s mouth and was laying down a barrage of fire from the cannon mounted atop its turret.
“Watch out!” his copilot shouted.
“We gotta take that thing out,” Khalil yelled back. He nosed the chopper toward it so he could aim the rocket pod its way.
“Give me a side angle,” one of the men at the miniguns called.
Khalil nosed down and loosed a rocket. It hit the pavement just in front of the APC, sending a cloud of dust and fragments spraying everywhere. He was just lining up another shot when the helicopter shook and bounced. Then it bounced again, and the plunk-thunk of a hit on its airframe reverberating in the cabin.
“They’re hitting us, man, get back!” the copilot shouted. Khalil responded, fighting for altitude and spinning laterally so the miniguns could get into action. He had spun just enough for the one on the right to open up, showering the positions below with a beam of steady fire, when the sound of parting metal ripped open the night and the chopper suddenly pitched forward.
Khalil never knew what they had hit his beloved chopper with. Whatever it was, it destroyed the turboshaft and sheared one of the rotors off near its coupling. The aircraft lost power, nose-dived, and whirled to the right all in a split second. Khalil couldn’t pull it out, and after a sickening fall of thirty feet, the machine smashed into the pavement.
The cockpit crumpled, the chopper fell backward and its tail hit, sending the entire tail rotor section flying away, and then the thing rolled and burst into flame.
Carl Walsh’s men watched in horror from the trees where they were fighting a desperate battle against the APC and the outpouring of sustained fire from the tunnel defenses. There was nothing they could do, and no way they could get to the wreck in time to save anyone. They grimly steadied their gunsights and continued fighting, hoping to keep the enemy at bay long enough for those on the other side of the mountain to get in and do their work.
Carson moved forward, passing the previous position of his two most recent kills. Ahead there was a larger room. As he came to the door he saw that it was a small cafeteria, with several benches and booths and a long counter, kitchen in the rear.
All was silent. He eased open the door, flinching as it squeaked. So much for sneaky. He slid inside, weapon up and ready.
Two men huddled in a corner, hands up in abject surrender. Carson gave them a rapid once-over for threat potential. One was older, not quite elderly, but hair definitely going from gray to white, and plenty of wrinkles. He was dressed in slacks and a shirt, and somehow gave the impression of power and taste even as he cowered under the gun. The other was a younger man, slightly overweight and balding, but his eyes were black beads of appraisal and intelligence. He was dressed less nicely than his companion, and seemed to almost be protecting the older man in a pitiful, I’ll-crouch-in-front-of-the-boss kind of way. Carson figured him to be some kind of aide or secretary, the kind of man a big businessman or politician would keep around. He gave them a closer look.
Decemvirate.
Here were a couple of the VIP’s that had arrived immediately prior to the assault. The old one looked familiar. Carson tried to place the face from news feeds of talking heads, election cycles, Washington movers and shakers…
Judge.
Big judge, head of some elitist group. He pictured him in black robes, posing with other black robes.
Oh, man. Edward Fenwick, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
That name had been mentioned in the data revelations as a member of the Decemvirate. Carson didn’t know who the second man was, and didn’t care much, either. His AR-15’s muzzle rested on the dapper old man, who cringed further and began to grovel on the floor.
But Carson didn’t shoot. Maybe it was the cowering, pathetic men, holding pale hands high. Maybe it was the fact that he’d never shot an unarmed person. Maybe it was a vestigial respect for the old America, respect for the office if not the corrupt man holding it.
Carson never figured it out, because in the next instant the aide, whoever he was, thrust a hand into a pocket and came out holding a nickel-plated semi-auto. Carson saw the gun coming up, saw Fenwick’s mouth open in a scream of panic, and then Carson fired, blowing the gallant secretary away. They were close enough together that the bullets hit Fenwick as well, and Carson fired enough rounds to finish the job completely. He couldn’t leave people like that lurking behind him. Not now.
Carson turned away from the ugly scene, feeling a pang of regret, but shrugged it away. The Decemvirate was responsible for the deaths of thousands, probably millions. They’d made their choices, reveled at the success of their plans. And now, the highest symbol of justice in the entire country lay bleeding to death on the floor of a cafeteria inside of a mountain. It was too banal to be operatic, and too sordid to be poetic. It just was, like most deaths.
He was hurrying out of the cafeteria when a stunning blow crashed into his shoulder, sending the AR-15 flying across the floor and out of reach. Carson snarled as the pain flashed in his brain, stumbled against the wall, then fell to the floor. His shoulder was suddenly wet with blood. It was a gunshot, but in the shock of it he’d somehow barely heard the report.
He was scrambling on the floor attempting to rise when a hard kick to the side of his head hammered him back down to the floor. He groaned, vision flaring into stars and sunbursts. His good arm weakly waved out, a final attempt to ward off the killing stroke.
But his assailant didn’t want to kill him quite yet. Carson was foggily aware of a shape crouching in front of him, examining him. He tried to hit the person, but his punch was easily brushed aside. Moments later, his vision cleared and focused.
A man knelt in front of him, pistol held ready to deliver the coup-de-grace. The face was smooth, impassive, the eyes cold, the mouth amused. He wore a suit and tie, cinched crisply up at the collar. Graying hair.
“Why, Agent Anders, fancy meeting you here. I was sure you’d have died by now.”
Chapter 14: Face-Off
Carson shook his head, realizing from the flash of pain and his persistent grogginess that he probably had a concussion, besides a gun-shot shoulder. Was it the grenade earlier, or the blows to his head? Didn’t matter. “Coulter. I kind of hoped I’d find you in here.”
“Uh-huh. But you were probably thinking of a stand-up fight in which you’d get your revenge, am I right
? Sorry, that’s not how I operate.”
“Sneaky traitor. You left that trap in Longmont.”
“Yes, yes I did. Missed you, obviously. But I’ll put that right now.” Coulter laid his pistol alongside Carson’s head, which was aching terribly and seemed to be fighting against his will to stay in the fight by offering the easy release of unconsciousness.
Keep him talking. Dana. “When did you join with the Decemvirate?”
Coulter froze. “You… know about them, do you?”
“This isn’t just a strike at Tamare. We’re taking all of you down.”
Coulter sneered. “Oh, I doubt that. We run deep, loyal agent. Impossible to take down.”
“We’ll see what the nation has to say about that when we spread the secrets of 905T4 all across the land.”
Coulter sat back on his haunches. “Now you’re making me glad I put a bullet in your shoulder instead of your head just now. Keep talking. Have you come to get 905T4 from me? Because I don’t carry it on me, you know. I stashed that little device away for another day. Leverage against any future betrayals by the Decemvirate. They are a tricky bunch to work for.”
“Don’t need it. We got everything from the rest of the data drives.”
“The ones I left behind? Now there you go, ruining my better intentions. From now on, I’ll be much more destructive. You’ve taught me that lesson twice now, Agent Anders. I should have hit your cabin with a drone strike when I had the chance. But I got all the others, you know. They were all quite easy. You’re the only one that thinks he’s a whack-a-mole.”
“Scala got away.”
Coulter laughed. “Of course. Agent Scala. Is she here with you?”
“Yeah. And she’s gonna kill you in a few minutes. Her or one of my other friends you’ve messed with.”
“Well. Certainly not before I dispatch you, Anders. So think of that during your final seconds, okay?” Coulter put the muzzle of his pistol against Carson’s forehead. “Ready for the big ride, Agent? Here goes.”
Carson gritted his teeth. Sorry, Dana. Hope you get out.
Coulter’s head deflated.
The projectile that caused it was hurled from a high-powered rifle aimed at him from just down the hallway, and preceded by a supersonic wave of pressure and a flash from its barrel. That sequence was clear.
But the effects of the bullet on Coulter’s skull structure were much more difficult to distinguish from each other except by simply stating that his head deflated. The end result of them all was that the former Deep Thaw agent flopped onto his back, dead before he could even understand he was no longer in control of the situation.
Carson saw Dana, pale but stony-faced, walk over and stand over him. “That man needed to die,” she said.
He struggled to sit up. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”
“Are you okay?”
“Um.” Carson rolled his shoulder and gasped at the pain. “No, I’m not. He shot me in the shoulder. I may have a concussion, too. It’s… hard to tell.”
Dana knelt and put pressure on the shoulder wound. “This looks bad. We need to get out of here.”
“Well, it’s not good. But probably not life-threatening since it didn’t puncture my lungs or heart. So continue mission. Have you seen the others? Do we have any back-up yet?”
“No.”
Carson gritted his teeth against the pain, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Well. Can’t leave now. We’ve got to reach the command center. The whole thing’s for nothing if we don’t get there and send a message out.”
Two hallways over and one down, Brunson felt his life ebbing away. His shotgun lay just out of reach of nerveless fingers, and everything was cold. He coughed, coughed again. There wasn’t much pain. What a way to go, he thought. I always thought I’d die in the desert, under a hot sun.
He and Scala had walked right into an advancing response team, some of Tamare’s personal bodyguards and a couple of Commissioner Masters’ militia. Masters was among them, too. Brunson recognized his smug face and balding blonde head. They seemed to be making a break for the exit tunnels.
Brunson had gotten his Mossberg into play early, and it had ripped and punctured and mauled, an extension of his rage and bitterness, putting three soldiers down in less than two seconds and reducing the ambush’s firepower critically. He’d felt the answering fire rip into his torso, shredding his guts, but kept firing, racking the pump until empty. Finally, in a haze of smoke, he’d slid to the floor, surrounded by dead and dying enemies.
Where was Scala? He didn’t know. Didn’t seem to matter much right now. He wished her the best.
He felt the presence of his wife and children, nearby.
Ah. It was time.
Around the corner, Scala was nursing a bad bleeder in her thigh. It hadn’t severed the femoral, but settled for the next best thing: waves of debilitating pain, rapidly decreasing strength and increasing dizziness, and worst of all, she couldn’t walk. She was pretty confident that her leg was broken.
Masters was here, close. He’d been in the thick of it, had even fired a few rounds in the exchange, but had been hit somewhere, probably by some of Brunson’s shot, and staggered off screaming. She could hear him now, somewhere up ahead, just around a corner. He was cursing and hyperventilating. It was all coming down around he and the general, and they knew it.
Why isn’t he trying to escape?
Scala attempted to put weight on her injured leg and gasped in pain. She was fading fast. Already it took a significant amount of effort to remain upright. Another two minutes and she’d be out of the game completely, if not dead.
Edith Scala had never been one for self-introspection, but it suddenly came to her mind that she was at peace now. If she died in this dim tunnel under a mountain, it was because she was working toward something important. Something that her daughter could be proud of, something that even her ex-husband would respect. She hadn’t always stayed true, but she believed in this mission now. And if she could push her body a little farther, it was still within her power to finish it. To make a decisive blow, one that she should have made long before.
She dropped her almost empty mag out, heard it clatter on the floor, and rammed in a new one. Rack the slide.
Deep breath.
She braced her good leg against the wall behind her, then pushed off with it in a lunge that became a dive, clearing the corner of the hallway. Still in midair she had a clear shot down the hallway at Masters, hunched against the wall, holding his face with both hands.
She fired, and missed, hitting the floor with a jarring impact that made her scream at the red waves of agony shooting from her leg. She wouldn’t be getting up again, she knew instinctively. That was that.
The sound of the shot jerked Masters upright, and his hands came away from his face. He still held his sidearm, and now he fired everything he had, emptying his clip in a rapid blur of empty brass and muzzle flash.
All too high. Way off.
Had Scala been standing, she’d have taken at least some of the slugs directly, but from her position on the floor she heard every shot whip past above her and chew into the wall behind.
And she realized why the commissioner hadn’t fled. Masters’ face was a mask of blood; one eye was ruined, and the other was blinded by sheets of blood flowing from a ruined scalp. One of Brunson’s shells had caught the commissioner’s head, not fatally, but injuring his face so severely that he was effectively blind.
Masters’ gun was empty, the slide locked back, exposing the breech. He threw the useless weapon away. His chest heaved, and he pawed at his eyes in futile rage. “Hold your fire!” he screamed. “Hold it!”
“You hold it,” Scala said.
She fired once, and finished her primary objective.
Then she lay back and closed her eyes.
Chapter 15: Set Free
Carson struggled to his feet, almost passing out with the effort. His whole left arm ached terribly and he felt sick and
faint. Dana supported him as well as she could.
“Let’s move,” she said, “while you still can. The bullet’s still in there. Here, lean on me.”
“Command center,” Carson said. “Where is it? I’m all turned around.”
“I think it’s this way,” Dana said, pointing. “Maybe.”
“Wait.” Carson realized he couldn’t hold, let alone fire, his AR-15. It was a handgun show from here on in. He drew his sidearm from its holster, checked it, and chambered a round. Then he motioned Dana forward.
“How many bad guys do you think are left?” Dana asked. “There’s been an awful lot of shooting.”
“Hopefully not many. I imagine we’d have been overwhelmed by now if they had enough to swarm the hallways. Maybe our back-up will come in time.”
They stumbled through the halls, careful as they rounded corners, but seeing no one. Waves of pain wracked Carson’s body, but he was more lucid and clear-headed now. He was ready to fire his gun at any moment, but the place had gone quiet.
They found Cheyenne Mountain’s control center at almost the same moment that Mason did. The militia leader was backed by a knot of his fighters, and they were moving cautiously from the other hallway, the one Carson expected Scala and Brunson to emerge from. The back-up fighters identified the wounded friendly just in time to avoid firing at he and Dana, and the relief on Mason’s face was matched only by his fierce excitement.
“Is this the place?”
Dana nodded. “We think so.”
“Where’s that evil general? Did you see him as you came in?”
“We didn’t see him,” Carson said, “but I shot a few VIP’s. Including my old boss.”
Assault on Cheyenne Mountain (Denver Burning Book 4) Page 11
