Dumbasses number one and two tried to turn around to engage me, but I was already moving. I shot Number one through the neck and he flipped over the chair that Westbrook’s corpse was occupying, spraying blood high into the air as he fell. Number two managed to get a shot off, but only struck the bar. It wasn’t close enough for me to worry about. I worked the pump on the KSG and put a round through his left thigh. He went down screaming, his hands going to his wound and leaving the pistol forgotten on the floor. I would deal with him later, assuming he didn’t bleed out before the fight was over.
Working the pump on the shotgun, I turned back towards the door. Whoever was still out there was at least smart enough to try to not come running into the room. They took up positions on either side of the door and took turns firing at my position. I had to dive down behind the bar to avoid being hit. I wasn’t sure how many were out there, but the two on the door were decent marksmen. If they had been using something more powerful than pistols, I might have been in real trouble.
I low crawled on my stomach to the other end of the bar. I needed to shift positions before they realized where I was hiding and began pouring fire into the spot where I had been. I had no more than cleared the section when one of them did that exact thing. Four rounds struck the bar almost exactly where I had been hiding. From the amount of damage to the wood on the bar, I could tell that they were using hollow point ammunition. From the sound, I knew it was a 9mm. Not enough power for it to be a .45.
“Toss your weapon out and surrender,” called a voice from outside the door. “We have you trapped in there. You’ve got nowhere to run.”
I opted not to answer and give away my new position. Instead, I began to replace my expended shells in the shotgun and bided my time. Sooner or later, they were going to have to either rush the door or do something to flush me out of hiding. Until then, I was content to make them wait for me. In this case, haste would get you killed. Patience usually wasn’t my strong suit, but this time I needed to make them blink first.
I began to do a quick mental inventory. Westbrook had given me a pretty good idea how many men he had. At the most, he had twenty men loyal enough to follow him. By my calculations, I’d already taken out six. Seven if you count the one I shot in the leg. If I hit the femoral artery, which was a pretty good bet with a shotgun firing the slug/buckshot combo, then he should bleed out soon. He could easily have done so already. Still, it was safer to not count him out of the fight until I was certain.
That means that at the most, there were twelve to thirteen people unaccounted for. I doubted that they would send everyone up here to try to take me out. I mean, they had to leave someone to guard the prisoners. So if you assumed two guards per group, then that left only about eight people free to respond to the shooting. Yeah, eight to one odds were about my fucking luck. It’s been said more than once that I tend to bite off more than I can chew.
Right then, I needed a new plan and I needed it yesterday. If I couldn’t find a way to thin down the odds, then they were going to eventually get smart and overrun me. My gut reaction was to grab a bottle of alcohol from the bar and make a Molotov cocktail to throw out the door. Fortunately, my better judgment (yes I do occasionally have that) kicked in and I reconsidered. After all, that was my only way out. My only other option was to shatter the big viewing window and drop about two stories to the stadium seats below. Not a great option, to be sure. So, Plan B it had to be.
My brain began to scramble at full speed. Possibilities whirled by and were just as quickly dismissed. I kept going back to the concept of breaking something, usually catastrophically. Explosions and fires were the best plays in my wheelhouse. However, they weren’t exactly the smartest thing to do, considering my limited points of escape.
I was quickly running out of time and options when I saw something that changed the game. It was almost as if a light shined down on it from above. Before the fighting started, I didn’t notice it. I had other things on my mind. But when I spotted it, I almost started laughing. Of course there had to be a way for the staff to get in and out of the Owner’s Box without getting in the way of the VIP’s that frequented the place.
Suddenly, it was there almost right in front of me. There was a semi-concealed door behind the bar that had to lead to food prep areas and storage. None of that kind of thing would ever be done in the opulent skybox. From there, I knew there would be either an elevator or staircase that was used to deliver food, drinks and supplies to the luxury suite. So that freed up my options. Suddenly, Plan A was back on the table. It was time to get creative.
Grabbing a flare out of my pack, I struck the igniter and let the reddish flame grow in intensity. Once it was hissing and sputtering, I peered out from behind the bar to make sure it was safe to throw. When no one immediately took a shot at me, I tossed it through the open door and onto the landing beyond. From the sound of the reaction, I think they were expecting something else. If I had any grenades, that’s exactly what they would have gotten. Since I was all out of the Grade-A bang-bangs, I had to improvise.
“What the fuck?” said a voice from outside the door. “What’s that supposed to do, scare us?”
“Oh shit,” I heard another voice say.
That’s when I threw the bottle of vodka. Actually, I threw three, one right after the other. Just before I tossed the first one, I heard the sound of hurried movement from outside the door. At least one of them had an idea of what was about to come. From the screams that came from the sudden fireball, I knew I’d gotten at least three of them. I’d also made it impossible for anyone to come in or out of that door.
Tossing three more bottles of liquor that I didn’t like, I ducked through the service door and into a kitchen prep area. The floor looked like restaurant tile and everything else was stainless steel. There was plenty of light to see by from the big skylights in the ceiling, most likely used to help vent the smoke from the large grill in the center of the kitchen. My mouth began to water at the thought of some of the foods that had been created in this room.
Heading for the back exit, I readied my shotgun and prepared to sweep the hallway beyond. I activated the tactical light and staged by the door. My internal warning bells were telling me that I needed to be careful. I seriously doubted that my little fire at the entrance had gotten them all. Then there was the fact that at least one of them was smart enough to figure out what was about to happen when the flare hit. That one might be more dangerous than the others.
Kicking the door open, I swung outward to cover the hallway in the direction of the fire. I froze instantly when I found myself looking down the barrel of a weapon. It was some sort of tactical rifle, because I could see the picatinny rails and the holo-sight mounted on top. This was a military grade weapon and the person carrying it held it like a pro. The only thing that kept them from squeezing the trigger was the fact that they were staring down the barrel of my own weapon. Frankly, mine was bigger.
“Freeze, shithead!” snapped the gunman.
“Fuck you,” I replied. “Drop your weapon and I won’t shoot you in the face.”
“It looks like we’ve got ourselves a little stand-off, then,” he replied, not flinching.
“Looks that way,” I confirmed. “Where’s your back-up?”
“You set them all on fire,” he replied icily. “But more should be arriving shortly.”
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me, for the moment,” I said with a sigh.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, cautiously.
“Wylie Grant,” I replied. “Nathanael County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Nathanael County,” he said slowly. “You’re a long ways from home, aren’t you?.”
“It’s a long story,” I answered. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to just be on my way.”
“What about Westbrook?”
“What about him?” I asked by way of answer. “He’s dead. If you ask me, the prick had it coming.”
“No argument
from me,” said the gunman. “Crazy bastard acted like he was a king or something.”
This made me pause and wonder just what the Hel was going on. This undoubtedly was the guy who knew what the flare was about to cause and had reacted accordingly. He’d even guessed where I would come out and was waiting for me. He had way too much on the ball to be just another lackey of Westbrook’s. There was definitely something more going on here.
“Why did you follow him, then?” I said, frowning.
“Because it beat the hell out of being locked in a cage and forced to work in the garden,” he answered. “Besides, I knew the son-of-a-bitch when we were both St. Louis PD. The dumb-fuck thought that made us friends. I was on the SWAT team.”
“Then why didn’t you do something to take him out sooner?” I said, suspiciously.
“Because of his adoring fans,” he replied bluntly. “Kevin always had money and he kept a group of, well, groupies around who thought he was some kind of celebrity because he was a cop and a model. That and the money.”
I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t willing to take the risk to trust him. For a moment, I considered shooting him anyway and taking the chance that his finger wouldn’t tighten on the trigger and take me out with him. From the size of the barrel, I knew the weapon had to be a military grade 5.56mm assault weapon of some sort. I couldn’t tell from this angle, but it looked like an HK of some sort. No one builds guns like the Germans.
Doubt and fear played tug of war in my mind as we stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. I needed a way to know if this guy was really going to be on my side when I lowered my weapon or if he was going to shoot me as soon as he had a clear shot. I exhaled slowly and lowered my weapon just enough that the tac light wasn’t shining into his face. I wanted to get a look at his eyes. You can tell a lot about a man by his eyes. I learned that lesson well in my years as a CO.
He was wearing a tactical helmet and eye-pro’s. He had dark grey eyes that seemed to be studying me just as hard as I was studying him. However, it wasn’t his eyes that caught my attention. It was the necklace he wore around his neck. Hanging outside of his shirt was a brass Thor’s Hammer. It had knotwork on the handle and runes on the head. It was just the sign I had been looking for. With a sigh and a tense grimace, I slowly lowered my weapon.
Shockingly, he did the same.
Chapter Fourteen
Batting Clean-up
“In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry,
the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield.”
- Douglas MacArthur
After we lowered our weapons, we just stared at each other for a long moment. Neither of us seemed willing to take the next step after that. After a long moment, I decided to break the tension before one or the other of us decided to raise their weapon again and the whole thing started all over. Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound.
“Nice hammer,” I said, eloquently.
“Thanks,” he said, not taking his eyes off of me. “Is that why you lowered your weapon?”
“Yeah,” I replied, slowly reaching up and pulling mine out from beneath my armor.
He looked surprised when he saw it, but soon his face began to brighten.
“Did you get that from some crazy old man?” he asked, his eyes lighting up.
“No,” I said. “I’ve been wearing one for years. What crazy old man?”
“Right after things went to hell,” he said, shaking his head. “I met this old man. He showed up at my campfire one night when I was hiding in an enclosure over at the Endangered Wolf Sanctuary.”
“Was he skinny and had a bandage over his left eye?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.
“Yeah, have you seen him too?”
“We’ve met,” I replied.
“He gave me this and told me that I was some kind of chosen person,” he said, shaking his head. “At first, I thought that he was just crazy. But the more he talked, the more he made sense. He told me that I was descended from warriors who were born to fight the dead.”
“The Einherjar,” I said, nodding.
“Yeah, that’s the word he used too,” he said, shouldering his weapon. “He told me to head back into the city and to look for the warrior who would show me the path. I think he meant you. He told me to look for someone who matches your description. White beard and eye-patch.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked, surprised.
“Like I said, it was right after all this started. About three months ago, I think.”
“Three months,” I muttered. “How did he know I would lose the eye and my hair would turn white? That only happened in the last couple of weeks.”
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Just thinking out loud.”
“My name is Marko Rainer,” he said, extending his hand.
I shook it with a firm grip, gauging his in return. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they shake your hand. His grip was firm and confident with good eye contact. No deception there. Despite myself, I found that I was already beginning to like Marko. If he really was one of the Einherjar, then I had the feeling that he was going to make a great ally.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” I said, gesturing around the area.
“Don’t be,” he replied. “I only went along with it because Kevin’s people were locking anyone who didn’t go along with them in cages and using them for slave labor. It was only a matter of time before I had to do something to stop them anyway.”
“They would have killed you, if you tried,” I said, frowning.
“Probably,” he agreed, nodding.
I reached into the kitchen area and grabbed two fire extinguishers that were on a rack by the stove and tossed him one of them. Then I headed towards the fire that was still burning where I had thrown the improvised Molotov’s.
“We’d better put this out before it gets out of hand,” I said, yanking the pin out of the top of the nozzle.
Instantly, hours of endless classes flew through my head as old certifications came to mind. All Law Enforcement Officers have to maintain a certain amount of certifications and training every year. One particular class I had was about emergency usage of fire extinguishers. While I was in no way as trained as a firefighter, I could put out small fires without too much effort. Anything bigger than that and I would gladly leave it to the professionals.
The voice of my instructor came back to mind and I heard him repeating the mantra of P.A.S.S. That is Pull, Aim, Squeeze, and Sweep. Pull the pin, Aim at the base of the fire, Squeeze the handle and Sweep side to side. I’m not entirely sure why that all sprang to mind, but the training worked like a charm. Marko did the exact same thing that I did and we had the fire out in seconds.
In the aftermath, I found four dead bodies that had been engulfed in the alcohol fueled conflagration that I had launched at them. I was glad that Marko hadn’t been caught in it, but I was equally as glad that he hadn’t shot me in the head. It’s strange how things work out sometimes. I wonder if the old man had foreseen this as well. He probably did.
“How many more of Westbrook’s people do we need to deal with?” I asked, still a little concerned that he might not be on my side after all.
“We left six guarding the prisoners,” he said, frowning. “Plus there’s another three up in the top of the stadium walking perimeter.”
“I’m surprised Westbrook even thought of that,” I said, as I headed for the stairs.
“He didn’t,” explained Marko. “I did. All these idiots wanted to do was drink beer and talk tough. Not one of them had any real training.”
“What about Westbrook?” I asked. “I thought he was a cop.”
“Sure,” replied Marko, “if you mean that he wore a uniform. He was an admin staffer. He had an Uncle who worked for the mayor and pulled some strings for him. I don’t think Westbrook ever worked a real job. He was the department spokesman for dealing with th
e media.”
“I’ve known a couple like that in my day, too,” I said, shrugging. “I think every department has at least one.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “The bigger the department, the more of them you find. What about you? What did you do with your department?”
I was kind of dreading this moment. I knew that at some point it would come to this. I was hoping that he wasn’t the kind of patrolman who looked down on the jail staff. If he was, our working relationship might be strained before it even got started. I really hoped he wasn’t like some of the people that I’ve dealt with in my career who thought that CO’s were the scum of law enforcement.
“I was a Corrections Officer before this all kicked off,” I said, gauging his reaction carefully.
“Whoa!” he said, smiling. “You guys are crazy. I wouldn’t have traded you jobs for love nor money. Just the thought of being locked in a housing unit with a couple hundred inmates is enough to give me nightmares. There’s no way I could have done that.”
I smiled, despite myself. He was one of the good ones. I would never take away from the danger that road officers faced. They had a dangerous and thankless job that too few people really appreciated. The fact that he respected what I did was a testament to a good law enforcement officer. We were all part of the same team. Each of us had a dangerous job to do. It didn’t make it any easier when someone looked down on you and thought they were better.
“Thanks, man,” I said, and held out my fist.
We bumped knuckles and kept moving.
“No prob, brother,” he said. “I knew officers who used to make fun of the CO’s until they needed you. I’ve went into a couple of prisons and jails to help out during riots. The officers that work in there are a special kind of crazy, but they do a job that doesn’t get enough respect.”
Ragnarok Rising Page 27
