Rogue Faction Part 1

by Xander Weaver

  Chapter 45

  The Cuban

  12:29 am

  The band went on to perform more than a half-dozen additional songs from groups like Godsmack, Monster Magnet, George Thorogood, and Buckcherry. Through it all, Cyrus was nothing short of astounded. Not only was the band good, but Natasha’s work on lead guitar was electrifying. She found a way to bring her own sound to everything she played. And while she’d played during their time together at school, she’d never sounded anything like this.

  The only thing preventing him from being swept away by her performance was the near overwhelming sense that such a public display was tempting disaster. The rational part of his mind warred with the instinctual. There was no reason to think that anyone would be looking for her in some dive bar in the middle of the night. Even her personal security detail believed she was locked away behind the walls of the Voss family fortress. All the same, Cyrus couldn’t fight the sense that something was already going wrong.

  Looking back at the unwashed mass of people, it wasn’t hard to understand what was triggering his sixth sense. The audience was largely comprised of haggard and suspicious looking bar patrons. But they weren’t a threat. As far as they were concerned, the band was a smash hit. They belted out crowd-pleasing favorites that were seasoned with a unique and entertaining new twist.

  Though Natasha wasn’t playing to the crowd, there was no question that she would prove to be a rising star. She had the audience eating out of her hand. While the rest of the band had the quintessential throwback heavy metal look: long hair, dark clothes, and lots of tattoos—Natasha was dressed simply in a white tank top, black jeans, and knee high boots. Her long blonde hair fell forward to cover her face at the opening of every song. Cyrus knew that wasn’t an accident. She’d suffered from terrible stage fright when he had known her, and while her appearance on stage here impressed him, he could see that it wasn’t as easy as she made it seem. She pulled her hair back from her face at the end of each song, just long enough to briefly breathe in the audience and prepare for the next piece.

  Cyrus marveled at how jaw-droppingly gorgeous she was standing on that stage. Bathed in the pulsing rhythm and lights, she was showing the world a hint of the remarkable woman he’d once fallen for. For the first time since arriving at the Voss compound, he was able to put the feelings of guilt out of his mind. Seeing her up there, doing what she loved, finally made seeing her feel real. She was doing alright for herself. She didn’t need him, and leaving really had been the best thing he could’ve done for her.

  Natasha had fought crippling stage fright since before they had met. The disability was made that much more cruel by the fact that she wanted nothing more than to play in a rock band. But every time she’d tried to perform before even a small group of friends, she’d choked. A few bad experiences had proven crushing and, no matter how much support or encouragement Cyrus had offered, she had never been able to work through that fear.

  But none of that mattered now. She’d found her way without him. She was doing what she loved. Even if he could see that she was terrified to be standing up there, she was doing it, and she was amazing!

  Looking back over the audience, Cyrus knew he wasn’t the only one to think as much. The room was going absolutely insane. And, even though he didn’t think it was possible, it looked like more people had packed into the building over the past half hour. His little corner at the right of the stage was cramped. It seemed like the crowd had become a single living mass that moved with the pulse of the music. Since he was on the leading edge of that wave, he had to keep them from grinding him against the edge of the three-foot high platform. With what had to be two hundred or more people in constant motion, that was a trick easier said than done.

  Shooting a glance over his shoulder, Cyrus tried to keep sight of the front door. The building was now well over capacity, and standing room only had become a literal description for the event. Someone couldn’t fall over, even if they wanted to. He was pretty sure there wasn’t any easy way to get to the exit in an emergency, and that made him uneasy. Part of his basic operating procedure was to know the exits and know how to get to them fast. He had neither ability here, and began to wonder if that was the cause of his nagging discomfort.

  The cause of that grating, nagging feeling of concern suddenly became apparent when Cyrus saw a man pull himself up onto the far end of the distant bar counter. It was a clumsy effort given the density of the audience, so the move had quickly caught his eye. Given the preoccupation of the crowd, only the bartenders seemed to notice the man’s bold action. But Cyrus did, and he knew the man was trouble even before he saw him pull his coat aside to reveal the compact MP5 submachine gun. It was slung from his shoulder by a strap he’d used to conceal the weapon inside his coat.

  Cyrus knew that a machine gun in such densely packed confines would turn the place into a slaughterhouse. Unfortunately, he was unarmed and, therefore had to focus on his number one priority. Vaulting onto the short stage, he crossed half of it in four long strides before launching into a flying dive. In doing so, he managed to clip the lead singer with his shoulder, sending the man spiraling across the stage. Cyrus’s flying tackle caught Natasha high in the body. The two of them went crashing off the back of the platform, tangled in the power cord of her guitar.

  The moment Cyrus and Natasha slipped from the rear of the stage, the first volley of automatic gunfire peppered the spot where Natasha had been standing. The music had stopped abruptly with Cyrus’s violent appearance on stage. The gunshots sent the remaining band members scurrying for cover, and the bar’s sound system screeched with feedback from the discarded instruments and microphones. Moments later, the audience began its fevered reaction.

  Even though the shooter had taken a high position, standing on the bar at the back of the room, it was a long shot for a weapon designed for close quarters like the MP5. The shooter’s first rounds had struck their intended location; however, missing their target. But with his advantage gone, the shooter began to fire more rapidly, peppering the stage with a wide spray of lead. In the process, several members of the crowd closest to the stage—those slow to react and in the wrong place at the wrong time—took lethal fire and were cut down where they stood.

  The shooter was not deterred. As the terrified crowd succumbed to their survival instincts, he forged on. The man in the long coat moved smoothly down the length of the bar’s surface, dropping his spent magazine as he went. His eyes scanned the stage and surrounding area as his hands moved across the weapon with practiced precision. The automated stage light show continued unimpeded, so the entire end of the room remained awash in flickering, flashing, multi-color strobes that helped to confound his deadly vision.

  Slapping a fresh magazine home, the gunman raised his weapon and sprayed the ceiling mounted lighting rig. One end of the bar broke free and fell; the stage was submerged into shadows as a resulting electrical short blew out breakers.

  The blackout brought renewed screams from those fleeing the destruction. Half the crowd had already found its way out the main exit, while still more had made use of a narrow emergency exit near the restrooms down a nearby hallway.

  As soon as the room dropped into darkness, Cyrus tipped his head over the edge of the stage. The shooter had been peppering the platform with random gunfire in an attempt to hit them where they’d taken cover. The platform’s thick plywood deck, combined with the oblique angle of the shooter’s assault, had resulted in little critical damage to their barricade.

  Cyrus could see the shooter standing halfway down the length of the bar. He was silhouetted in the light from the neon beer signs behind the counter; it was a shame, Cyrus thought, if he had a gun, the man would’ve made an easy target. But, as it was, he was entirely unarmed. Having spent the last week in an infirmary under close guard, there had been no way to smuggle a gun into the compound. And after he’d left in a rush tonight, there’d been no opportunity to acquire one.

  A new
commotion at the front door drew Cyrus’s attention. People continued to pour out, thankfully forgotten by the shooter. Someone was fighting the stampeded, and making his way into the building. At first, Cyrus wasn’t sure what was happening, but then two gunshots came from the doorway and the crowd parted, as if they were the Red Sea and the new gunman was Moses, himself.

  As soon as the second killer walked fully into the room, the mad dash for the parking lot and beyond, resumed. Moses paid the fleeing patrons no mind. He simply looked to his partner, who still stood on the counter. When his partner shook his head, Moses didn’t look happy. He ground his teeth and holstered his sidearm. A moment later, he withdrew his own MP5 from beneath his long coat and waved the other man toward the stage.

  Cyrus was accustomed to walking into dangerous situations unarmed. It was one of the many hazards of undercover work. But it was also something he didn’t spend much time worrying about. Dangerous situations typically meant that, while he didn’t have a weapon, he was often surrounded by people who did. The trick was not getting hung up on being unarmed yourself. You concentrate on the fastest and easiest means of acquiring a weapon in any given environment.

  In this case, there was a good chance of a gun being hidden behind the bar. The fact that the shooter was located between Cyrus and the bar made that option less than ideal. That left taking a gun from one of the shooters. It wasn’t ideal either, but it wasn’t impossible. It was only made more complicated by the appearance of Moses.

  The man on the bar jumped down and inched toward the stage. Moses was covering him from a distance. Cyrus dropped back behind the platform. The room was growing steadily quieter as the audience was allowed to flee the building unimpeded. He at least had the cover of darkness thanks to the blown breakers.

  For the first time since forcing her bodily from the stage, Cyrus’s eyes found Natasha’s. They were wide, terrified, and full of questions. But to her credit, she didn’t say a word. She was likely too scared to break the silence, which was good. Giving away their position at the moment would prove fatal.

  Cyrus smiled with confident reassurance, and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered.

  Looking around them, they were still in a loose tangle of wires and cables that fed the stage. Part of the drum set had fallen off the back of the platform, probably as the band took cover in the wake of the gunfire. The lead singer, a long-haired twenty-something, laying about eight feet away, looked like he was on the verge of either a panic or an asthma attack. Looking close, Cyrus guessed asthma since he was sweating profusely and looked terrible. On the upside, it didn’t seem like he was on the verge of doing something irrational.

  The bassist was actually three feet under the stage with his arms wrapped tight around one of the two-by-four structural supports. He had his head tucked up against his body and was trembling. It was hard to tell in the murky darkness, but Cyrus guessed the kid was alright—just shell-shocked by what was happening.

  The drummer sat flat on his butt, right behind Natasha. Shirtless and covered in sweat, blood ran from the corner of his eye. If Cyrus had to guess, the guy hadn’t noticed the minor injury yet. He was in shock. He just sat there on the hard tile floor with a drumstick raised in each hand and a blank look on his face.

  Cyrus and Natasha were tangled in the cable from her guitar. Carefully and quietly, he pulled at it and extricated himself from her prone, motionless form. Her eyes followed him the entire time. It was a good sign. She was responsive and had maintained her composure. That would be vital for what was to follow.

  With a minimum of effort, Cyrus slid into place directly before the drummer. The kid failed to react. His eyes didn’t even flicker; he was virtually catatonic.

  Rising on his knees, Cyrus glanced over the stage. The first gunman was advancing slowly from the right. He would be on them in a matter of seconds. Cyrus knew he needed to act quickly or the man would simply walk onto the stage, look down at them, and finish what he came here to do.

  Glancing back at the drummer, Cyrus grinned as a plan formed. “Mind if I borrow these?” he asked, sliding the drumsticks from the young man’s unmoving hands.

  “Is that still plugged into the sound system?” Cyrus pointed to the guitar that was twisted uncomfortably by the strap across Natasha’s shoulder and hip.

  She nodded and whispered, “That’s why I’m trying not to move. One little shiver and I’m liable to send feedback through the speakers.”

  “What about the blackout? Didn’t that kill the speakers?”

  She pointed to the small LED light on the body of her guitar. “There’s a battery backup somewhere,” she whispered. “Breakers blow a lot around here. They run part of the gear on battery to keep it from killing the show. At least, a few of the speakers are still live.”

  That brought a smile to Cyrus’s face. “Good. When I give you the signal, I need you to go Zakk Wylde on these guys,” he said, giving her a wink.

  Her brow furrowed. She shot an awkward glance over her shoulder, and he knew she was picturing what perils lay beyond the stage. A smile crossed her face and her eyes burned with a new light. “You got it.”

  Cyrus took a quick peek over the lip of the stage to gauge the vector of the approaching gunman. He shifted his position to compensate, moving four feet further toward the far end of the stage. The last of the bystanders had just left the building, and it was time to make his move. He heard the creaking of the wooden stairs on the opposite end of the platform, as the gunman climbed to the deck.

  Waiting for the sound of three slow footfalls, Cyrus peered over the edge of the stage, still cloaked in darkness, and confirmed the position of his target. The gunman was only yards away. Without looking back, Cyrus pointed the drumstick in his left hand at Natasha, giving her the go sign.

  All attempts at stealthy concealment were shed, as Natasha rolled off the scraped elbow she’d landed on. Prior to this, even moving the inches necessary to bring relief to her pain would have threatened to create sound from her guitar and paint them all as targets.

  Rolling onto her back, she brought the guitar to rest on her right hip. Natasha had lost her pick but that didn’t matter. Without giving the system time to register feedback from her motion, she raked the tips of her bare fingers across the guitar strings. The silence of the deserted bar was shattered, as Natasha launched into a ferocious riff that literally thundered through the room. Not only had the instruments remained functional on backup power, but the entire array of speakers was still online.

  Natasha had hit only her fourth note when Cyrus shoulder-rolled onto the stage; spinning, he came instantly to his feet. As he’d hoped, both his target and Moses across the room, had been caught off-guard by Natasha’s tumultuous auditory assault. Thanks to the towering speakers that flanked the stage, the sound seemed to be smashing in on them from all sides.

  That second of delay in reaction was exactly what Cyrus needed. He was on the first gunman before he could fully recognize his presence. In a single violent motion, Cyrus parried the man’s assault rifle away with his left hand while he drove a drumstick through the man’s heart with his right.

  Cyrus looked into the killer’s eyes, and noted the grasp of truth that was displayed in that moment; the moment where the man knew his life had come to an abrupt end. Even as he did, Cyrus pulled both lapels of the killer’s jacket into his right fist, bent at the knees, and twisted his hip into the man’s dying body for leverage. The killer sagged against him while he shifted his stance to hold the man’s body upright.

  At that moment, a barrage of bullets struck the body of his human shield. Peeking around the corpse’s shoulder, Cyrus spied Moses moving laterally in an effort to change his vector and defeat the improvised shield. Cyrus twisted the upright corpse in order to keep the dead man between them. At the same time, his left hand groped blindly for the man’s weapon.

  As he turned, Cyrus felt his foot kick something and heard it slide a few inches across the floo
r. He realized instantly that he’d kicked his attacker’s MP5. Understandably, the man had dropped the weapon the moment he’d been stabbed through the heart. It had somehow slipped from the man’s shoulder sling in the jostle.

  Curses filled Cyrus’s mind. His shield was quickly outliving its usefulness. When it fell, so would he. Then, an idea hit him, like a bolt from the blue. Fighting fatigue, he hoisted the man higher and glanced around the man’s shoulder to adjust his direction once more. Reaching blindly, Cyrus nearly laughed aloud when his hand slapped against the sidearm that was strapped to the hip of the corpse.

  Pulling the gun free, Cyrus charged to the front of the stage. At the edge, he let the dead man’s body fly and did his best to fling the tumbling form at Moses. At the same time, Cyrus stepped from the stage and fell three-feet straight down. As soon as his boots impacted the tile floor, he dropped to one knee. His weapon was already raised. He opened fire on Moses, stitching the man across the torso as quickly as he could cycle the trigger. The rapid-fire sequence was concluded with a single gunshot to Moses’s face, just in case he was wearing body armor.

  Moses spun and crumpled to the floor with a wet splat. A moment later, Cyrus was on him. His first intent was to check the man for a pulse, but it wasn’t necessary. Moses lay face down, the back of his head pointed at the ceiling—most of it, completely missing.

  Cyrus quickly rifled through the man’s pockets, finding nothing to identify him but relieving him of two additional magazines, as well as his sidearm.

  “Time to go!” Cyrus called to Natasha.

  While he waited for her to extract herself from the mess behind the stage, Cyrus slapped a fresh magazine into the first of the two confiscated pistols. When Natasha reached his side, he slid the extra gun into her hand and took her by the elbow—gently leading her toward the door as if it was the most normal thing in the world.