Hard Target

by Zeke Mitchell

  A second blast rocks the SUV and its shockwave knocks the man sprawling. Another burning figure rolls away from the inferno. Hungry flames devour his wailing screams.

  Doors spring open on the second Escalade and shaken gunners pile out with guns raised. I count six men total. Their slitted eyes scan the blazing holocaust fifty feet ahead. The flames and roiling smoke capture their full attention.

  One man mouths a curse and raises a hand to shield his face from the heat. The team leader barks an order and his men advance toward the asylum.

  I've got a few heartbeats to react. I reload Warhammer and stow it for later use. I grasp the Uzi and swing the subgun against my shoulder and curl my finger around its trigger. Before I take aim the Bravda hitmen veer toward my cover and cut loose with autofire.

  I duck and dodge as a storm of bullets hammers the concrete pillar. Fragments pelt my helmet and goggles and something sharp grazes my neck and inch from my jugular.

  I'm trapped unless I reposition. Fast. The Bravdas advance toward me like a mobile firing squad and their weapons spit flame. I grit my teeth and dive toward the burning SUV.

  The heat's intense and I gag on acrid fumes and a stink of scorched flesh. But there's no choice. I need to get behind the pall of smoke that boils from the burning Escalade.

  I keep rolling and spring up into a crouch and let the smoke conceal my position. The gunfire stops and that means my enemies can't see me. They've lost contact.

  I keep moving in reverse and stay behind the churning smoke. I need deep cover. I reach the asylum's northeast corner. At my back there's a dark treeline and thick brooding woods.

  I turn and sprint and reach a maze of Black Hemlocks. I sink into the forest and pause and scan my rear flank. The Bravdas fan out and shift in my direction. They're on my trail and no mistake.

  I give my opponents credit for their grim determination and tracking skills. They approach the woods with caution and doubtless know their danger. But they'll gather confidence when they realize they've got me on the run. They won't turn back and won't slow down.

  The answer's lethal action. I have to kill them all if I mean to survive. I scan for the right spot to make a stand. The ground slopes up and there's a low hulking shape fifty paces ahead.

  I reach the shape and discover it's a shed built from concrete block. It's the size of a two-car garage.

  In front of the shed there's pipework and manifolds and high-pressure valves. On the padlocked door there's a faded sign marked SOLID WASTE TREATMENT. Years ago it must've served the asylum.

  I grasp the pipes for leverage and scramble up and reach the shed's flat roof and go prone. I spring the Uzi and fit its suppressor. I want to maximize stealth when I spring my ambush. Assuming I get the chance.

  There's no guarantee I'll win this fight. Total control's impossible. Combat's often fluid and unpredictable and chaotic. Death rides like a vulture on every warrior's shoulder.

  I cut off the grim line of thought and peer ahead. Dark shapes edge through the trees and I focus on the Bravda pointman. He's covered in shadow as he steps between two Hemlocks.

  I grasp the Uzi tight. The subgun uses modified internals to improve accuracy and function. Its cyclic rate's set at a low 550 rounds per-minute and that grants firm control under full-auto fire. There's a custom bolt hold-open catch. That means easier reloading in the heat of battle.

  The Uzi's a trusted weapon. It's a sturdy piece of fighting kit.

  I tighten my finger on the weapon's trigger. There's a dozen cartridges left in its magazine plus five more mags in my ALICE bandoleer. That's enough to prevail if my aim's true. I can't afford a lengthy siege and I have to nail my opposition fast.

  The Bravda pointman brakes his cover and shifts upslope toward my position. He digs his heels in for traction and balance and keeps a tight grip on his AK-47.

  After a moment his teammates emerge from cover and follow his lead. They spread out on the pointman's flanks to form a V-shaped skirmish line. I count five men total. The driver must've stayed behind with the Escalade and I'll deal with him later. Assuming I survive.

  I pivot the Uzi's ghost-ring sight from one man's face to the next. My enemies step into deeper shadow and for a moment they seem to vanish.

  The pointman reappears and moves closer and the others emerge a pace or two behind. I let the Uzi's sight settle on the gunner on the far left. He's lagging as he navigates the sloping terrain.

  My plan's to drop the Bravdas before they know what hit them. I need to smash them into twitching gristle before they can offer serious return fire. The key's split-second timing and dead-on gunwork. That and grit and sheer luck. It all factors in.

  I frame the left-end flanker in my sights and draw my trigger. The Uzi quivers in my hands and its muzzle spits Scimitar bullets downrange. The enemy hardman spews blood and loses his rifle and tumbles downslope.

  I focus on my next target. He's reacting and hitting a low crouch. I adjust my point of aim and draw the Uzi's trigger. Scimitars drill the man's throat and face and he drops to his knees and folds.

  Number three realizes his danger and raises his rifle but it's too late. Scimitars hurtle downrange and punch him against a Hemlock trunk. He slides down and his AK fires through his boots and he crumples sideways into ice-cold death.

  I track to the next gunner but I've lost my point of aim. The remaining three Bravdas are already on the move. They're sprinting upslope and dodging behind Hemlocks for cover.

  My gut pulls tight and I realize I've blown my plan. My time's run out and I've lost the advantage of surprise. If I'd sped up my shooting I might've achieved my goal. But I didn't. I misjudged and now my opportunity's lost.

  A burst of autofire hammers the shed. I'm spotted. Yeah. Bullets drill the air above my helmet and ricochet off the shed's pipework.

  I respond with a slashing Uzi salvo and its bolt locks open on empty. I ditch the spent magazine and snap a brand-new mag in place.

  A Bravda hitman breaks from cover and fires from the hip on the move. His two comrades cover him with automatic fire and a hellish barrage pummels my cover.

  I wriggle back on the rooftop and fire the Uzi one-handed. I'm rewarded with a scream of pain from one of my assailants. He's dead or wounded and that shaves my odds of defeat. The other Bravdas keep firing and I keep moving in reverse.

  I reach the far edge of the roof and a black blob hurtles through the air. A grenade. It falls short on the far side of the shed and clatters as it hits the sewage pipework.

  I grit my teeth and hunch low and the fragger explodes. The shed's concrete block absorbs the brunt of the blast and that saves me from lethal damage. But not all damage.

  The blastwave reverberates over the rooftop and hits me like a giant fist. The air's driven out of my lungs and I gasp and gag.

  I swallow a surge of nausea and consciousness flows in and out like rough waves on a stony beach. The forest spins around me and I blink hard to clear my blurred vision.

  I gulp more air and my chest heaves and my lungs reflate and my vision ripples back into focus. At the same time the sewage pipes crack and release geysers of foul-smelling black water. Raw sewage splashes my helmet and goggles and soaks through my combat garb.

  I hear the Bravdas approaching on the other side of the shed and in seconds they'll flank me. I push off the roof and leap onto the ground. I stagger and wobble and stabilize into a crouch. It's not a textbook landing but good enough.

  The enemy's closing and I need to move. Fast. I bolt toward a fallen tree and dive behind it for cover.

  More autofire erupts and bullets plow the dirt in front of my barricade to keep me pinned in place. It won't take long for the Bravdas to sneak around my flanks. They'll bring me under fire from both sides at once. If I let that happen I'm dead.

  I risk a glance over the log and peer at the shed. Two man-shapes creep around either end with guns braced. I mark their positions and duck back down behind the log.

  I palm an
M-67 and pull its pin. My plan's to nail both attackers with a single blast. It's worth a try. I'll give the bastards a taste of hell. I'll slow their advance at least.

  I lay on my back with my shoulders braced against the log and pitch the bomb. My aim's off but there's nothing I can do about it now. I hear the M-67 thud down and it blows on schedule. The blast's muffled by the trees and the concrete shed.

  I pull another M-67 and rip its pin free and pitch it high. This time my aim's improved. There's another blast and in the middle of it a strangled scream. I wriggle to my left and leap up with the Uzi blazing.

  In front of me one Bravda staggers and drops his weapon. He vaults against the shed and slithers down and leaves a wide splatter of blood.

  Ten feet away his comrade's groaning and gasping on the dirt. His trousers and boots are blood-soaked where shrapnel ripped through and burrowed deep.

  He peers up at me through bleary hate-filled eyes and draws a pistol. Before he can fire I put a Scimitar through his forehead and he flops and goes stiff.

  There's zero time to waste. I backtrack toward the asylum and reach the treeline and spot the wrecked SUV. An acrid stink of smoke and scorched flesh flares my nostrils.

  I scan beyond the funeral pyre. The final Escalade's gone. Its driver must've bailed. Maybe he returned to base or took off to search the asylum. Whatever the case I can't hang around. I need to get moving and reach my Jeep. That means a long hard hike.

  I check my GPS to confirm my bearings and my Jeep's direction. I've got to put the asylum behind me and reach the main road. I've got to head north and cross wooded terrain. It's twenty-two miles in the dark.

  I grit my teeth and strike off along the asylum's driveway toward the front gates. At my back there's a glare of headlights. I curse and veer into the trees and crouch and face my danger. The enemy Escalade's rolling toward me along the driveway.

  I have to go on the attack. I can't risk the man calling for reinforcements.

  I shift behind a Black Oak and spring an M-84 flash grenade. The tank's fifty feet out and rolling closer. The driver's probing. Searching. In seconds he'll mow me down and I need to act fast.

  I arm the M-84 and pitch it at the tank's broad windshield. The Bravda wheelman brakes and slows but it's too late for meaningful evasive action. The flasher bounces across the Escalade's hood and detonates in his startled face.

  I shield myself from the explosion behind the Oak. Even under cover I catch a piercing light flare from the stun-bomb and hot shock waves bake my skin. It all fades and I swivel toward my opposition.

  The driver's cursing and covering his eyes with one hand. He's steering blind and trying to correct his starboard drift. The Escalade lurches to a screeching halt as the driver stomps his brake.

  I grasp the Uzi and spring from the treeline and bolt toward the stalled SUV. The driver flings his door and lurches onto the driveway. He's stunned but tough enough to draw a handgun. He levels a Magnum revolver and probes for a target he'll never find.

  I hit the Uzi's trigger and Scimitar bullets punch the thug off his feet. As he falls his Magnum explodes in the direction of the asylum. He sprawls onto the driveway and the big wheelgun spins from nerveless fingers. He spits blood and drags himself toward the fallen weapon.

  I reach the gun first and toss it into the trees. I crouch beside the man and lean close so our eyes meet. Scarlet foam oozes from his mouth and he twitches as damaged neurons misfire. I grab his collar and shake him. "Tell me where Zorin's running."

  The Bravda's eyes burn with hate. "Go...to...hell."

  He draws another breath and there's a liquid rattle in his throat. He stiffens and his eyes roll back in his skull and he goes limp.

  Damn it!

  I won't get answers from a corpse. I shove upright and brace the Uzi and recon the Escalade. I want to make sure no one's hiding inside the SUV or crouched behind it. I need to be certain and there's no profit in taking chances.

  I find no threats and I leap behind the wheel and burn rubber out of there. I let momentum slam the door at my side. In seconds flat I'm on the main road and hurtling toward my waiting Jeep.

  I curse and tense my jaw. I've failed this time but I mean to press ahead. I mean to find Anton Zorin and settle all outstanding debts. In blood.

  THREE

  Palisades Park, New Jersey

  Forty minutes later

  I crank the Jeep's wheel and turn left onto the Bergan Turnpike. Traffic's light at this late hour and I make decent progress. No accidents block my way.

  I reach my exit and roll ahead on Vreeland Avenue and reach the mission safehouse. It's a nondescript bungalow with a small front yard. I park in the driveway and disarm the bungalow's security system with an iPhone app.

  I step inside the house and probe and find no sign of intrusion. No hitmen attack me and all's calm. I check again and draw a sharp breath. It's not paranoia. It's making sure.

  I head for the bathroom and strip my combat garb and hit the shower. I stand beneath the stinging hot spray and scrub my skin and hair. I'm purging sweat and dirt and blood and sewage.

  I cleanse my cuts and massage my bruises. I towel dry and treat my deepest cuts with antiseptic and dress them with hydrogel gauze. It's a temporary fix until I get full medical attention.

  I shift to the master bedroom and open a closet and pull fresh clothing. I don street boots and cargo pants and a black turtleneck. I choose an A-2 leather bomber jacket for extra insulation.

  Beneath that I wear a lightweight Kevlar vest. It's designed to stop pistol and shotgun fire. Rifle bullets can penetrate the body armor. Granted. But it's a great deal better than nothing at all. It gives a measure of insurance on the battlefield.

  I hit the kitchen and brew strong black coffee and pour a steaming cup. I drink the brew straight and let the caffeine turbocharge my brain.

  I return to the master bedroom and retrieve several items. That includes a Glock 17 loaded with 9-millimeter Black Talon ammo. The hollow-point Black Talons move at 1350 feet per-second. On impact they expand to a massive .60-caliber and pulverize flesh and bone. It's a wicked anti-personnel design.

  I fix the pistol onto my right hip in its tactical holster. Two extra magazines ride on my left hip in fast-draw pouches. I'm ready. Not invincible. Ready.

  Ten minutes later I'm on the road and cruising east. I reach the Lincoln Tunnel and surge toward my next strike. I have a source for Anton Zorin's location. There's no guarantee but I mean to try. Quitting's not in my plan.

  I zigzag through Manhattan and squint against the flashing neon of Time Square. A billboard urges me to watch the latest Hollywood blockbuster. It promises robots and ray guns and death stars. Maybe I'll catch the flick later. Assuming I survive.

  I veer north on Bronx River Parkway toward Yonkers and turn left on Hepperhan Road. I hit NYC's Zion Park industrial district and reach a specific warehouse. It's marked ELITE DISTRIBUTION.

  According to intel it's an opioid storage facility and it's run by a Bravda Boss named Igor Petrov. I mean to invade the facility and capture Petrov and squeeze him for Anton Zorin's location. Assuming he has the information. I'm betting he does and I'll find out soon.

  I crank the Jeep's wheel and circle the warehouse. I'm looking for outdoor sentries and patrol dogs and anything else that might hinder my probe. I find none.

  I roll on for a hundred yards and park the Jeep inside a dark alley behind an office block. Deep shadows engulf the Jeep and screen it from prying eyes.

  I go EVA and retrieve combat gear from the Jeep's cargo bay then move out on foot. My hardware's concealed under my bomber jacket and that gives me a bulky look. But in the dark it won't alert passersby.

  I also wear a low profile backpack that contains extra kit. A black watch cap insulates my scalp and grants more camouflage.

  The Bravda warehouse looms ahead and I approach it with swift strides. A ten-foot-high chain-link fence surrounds the structure and it's topped with razor wire. Again I sc
an for troops and find none. Halogen lamps cast icy light across the warehouse perimeter.

  I shift along the fence and find a light that's misaligned. That leaves a section of the fence shrouded in darkness. I crouch there and scan once again and find no immediate threats.

  All right. It's time to start my invasion and I've come prepared based on prior intel. I spring insulated wire cutters and snip the links to create an oblong flap in the fence.

  I slip through the opening and shut the flap and tie it with a few twists. It'll stand a casual inspection in the dark and that's enough for now. I shift ahead and slip between two Dumpsters. I'm covered by shadow and well-concealed.