As he ran, Jabo tossed a smoke canister, without activating it. The distinctive sound of the metal can rolling along the roof top did it's job But Jabo had tossed the can along the roof with a backward spin, so it rolled back toward him when it hit. Grigor assumed it was rolling away Jabo, so he started firing his next clip in the opposite direction the can was moving, directing his bullets back toward its origin, hoping to hit the thrower.
His own rifle on his back with the sling across his chest freed both hands. Jabo twisted his body, like a discus thrower, spinning his heavy, round metal plate, putting all his energy into his throw. The bundle he'd carefully folded up, his parachute wing, flew out, and the nylon canopy unfolded, spreading out in the air above the Russian. It made a cloth wall dropping quickly to cover him and most of the roof around him. For a few seconds Grigor didn't fully notice what was happening until the cloth blanketed his entire world – not paying attentions as he'd hurriedly changed his clip.
The sudden appearance of Jabo's parachute was so surprising and disconcerting he forgot about the battle and the world around him. Starlight and a rising moon barely shone through the sheer cloth so he could barely make out the image of an Eagle as it settled onto his head. Ignoring this ominous, blinding curtain, he worked in the new clip, then released the bolt.
The clingy nylon chute disoriented Grigor, making him forget where the building was, cut off in total darkness,. In fear and rage he struck out, pulling the trigger to spray through the smooth cloth. Jabo stood with his back against the cool metal of the building, only a few feet away, watching the shape struggling under the parachute, freezing when his rifle fired again on full auto. The bullets hit the building then randomly bounced over the roof, hitting metal vents and compressors scattered over the flat expanse. One lucky shot hit Jabo in the leg, a very shallow through and through, but amped up on his own adrenaline surge, it felt like a dog bite.
Grigor's bolt clicked back, empty. Desperate, he rolled around, trying to escape the huge parawing's soft embrace. Irrational, he flailed out, getting his limbs more tangled in the lines and flimsy nylon sheets of the parachute. It stuck instead of pulling away as he punched and grabbed at it. Howling in frustration, he acted like a drowning man, deep in the ocean, looking for the surface, unable to discover which way was up. The bouncing heap of nylon smoldered and smoked where his muzzle had poured out fire, spitting out a flaming line of bullets.
Jabo easily made out Grigor's twisting body in the cloth. It was cheating, to have such an advantage at close range over someone who couldn't effectively shoot back. Jabo hesitated, then the image came to mind of his burned up Grandfather, incenerated until he was a blackened husk – a skeleton tarred with shreds of cracked, burned flesh.
“Grigor?” His name made the large Russian man freeze. His enemy's last words were 'Motherfucker!' This time it was Jabo's turn to empty his magazine at a distance that insured he couldn't miss, enjoying each jerk of the man's body as another heavy slug drove home through the gray parachute.
When he was done he carefully unwrapped the dead man. Jabo poked him a few times, in the balls, certain he was dead, then he looked for the smoke canister he'd tossed to distract him, happy it had rolled up to stop at a compressor thirty feet way, as he'd planned. Not done, he jogged in a wide circle toward the last man, slowing to silently approach the hatch..
It was easy to fool the wounded man. Jabo spoke in a low rough voice, close enough to Grigor's, in decent Russian, speaking to the other man as he approached cautiously, telling him 'don't shoot'. The wounded man was slowly leaking blood and low on energy, almost whispering back to whoever was calling out to him, “Grigor?” “Is that you?”
“Nyet... Jabo,” then he shot him in the head as he peeked around the metal hatch frame, trying to protect himself, unable to keep from looking out at who was approaching. Moving up Jabo fished out the dead man's cell phone, then jogged back to the power building. It was time to turn off the diesels. But this time he'd make sure they couldn't be turned back on so quickly. Taking his time, Jabo ripped out the wires behind the control panels Grigor had used to restart them. He wanted the LazaRuss offices as riled up as a wasp nest knocked out of a tall tree.
“Exit ONE, stand down team one and two, that's me coming down,” he clicked the phone off, then stuffed it in his back pocket. The snipers would relay his message to the RF team monitoring calls in the back, if they hadn't already heard him. He thought of usnng the chute to cover Grigor, then gathered it up, quickly folding the bloody cloth into a small bundle. You never know. He secured one end the rope he'd brought along in the tool box, then threw it over the side. Preparing to leave, he attached a rappelling brake near the head of the line. He'd already decided what he wanted to salvage and packed it in the dented metal box. Looking at the parachute bag and harness, given by the a patriotic father, he couldn't leave it behind. It would be useful again, parts of it anyway, since the big parawing was shot up and burned. Like the vet's father, the equipment had a sentimental meaning. The large chute had brought him good luck. The man's son would be happy his son's equipment had helped kill one more of America's enemies even if it had been torn up by Grigor's last, useless blast.
He stuffed the chute inside the harness, tossing it over the side, followed by the metal box with the rest of his gear he carried to the short concrete wall lining the edge. They'd both survive the drop to the ground then he'd follow, rappelling to the bottom. He pulled a loop of rope through the handle, getting ready to ease it down by letting the rope run through the handle as the box dropped.
A second after he heaved the metal toolbox over the side of the building to start working it down, a shot rang out. Moving automatically, he sprang back then fell face-down, assuming a push-up posture next to the short concrete wall along the edge as the rope whipped though the handle on the box which clanged on the grass below, banged up once again. He caught himself before his face mashed into the gravel surface, pressing back with his hands flat on the roof, gasping as the rocks dug into his palms. His bandoleers, crossing his chest, banged into the roof first. Lucky for him, their extra bulk added to the gap that kept him from smashing his face.
Rolling on his back he worked out his phone and called the RF team in the back where the shot had originated, “who the fuck shot at me? I said stand down.”
It rang and rang. Nobody picked up. He called his sniper electricians, stationed on a building far away in the opposite direction, hoping they'd seen something. They answered on one ring and said they'd seen a flash from behind the LazaRuss building, far from the RF team's hide, hearing the boom coming a few seconds later. It hadn't been either of them. From their post far behind the building, the RF team had no shot. They couldn't have seen him drop the toolbox over the South side of the building. It had come from a different location behind the building, South of the R/F team's hide. Maybe someone from Grigor's team was stationed behind the building and had used the distraction of the fire fight sneak up on his men in the Hummer. A terrible feeling rose up in Jabo's gut. He'd been the one who asked them to help, to follow his orders and assume their appointed position and stay out of the fight, until ordered.
“If it wasn't you, then it had to be them, but they're not answering, what the fuck is happening, are they that stupid, are they scared to talk to me? They almost killed me after I said to hold fire. Did you send the weapons free signal?”
“No, they're good men, they'd never do that. Nobody said anything as you were fighting. Something's wrong. There was a vehicle that showed up and rolled behind the building, going up the hill a bit. We couldn't tell you anything. You said no calls when you were working, remember?”
“A car, what kind, when, how long? Where?”
They explained a large SUV had driven up, going around the building, staying out of the parking lot, driving off to park away from the building, before the shooting had started. He called Albert, fumbling at the small buttons on his stolen smart phone.
“Jabo
? Is something wrong, were you hit?” Cathy took the phone immediately, “Jabo are you hurt?”
“Go, leave, fast, anywhere, away from the building...” the sound of shattering glass told him someone had shot at the car they were in. A large boom arrived a long second later. That had to be the electricians offering counter fire from their distant position. This was going to shit, fast! What were those idiots thinking? No, think Jabo. It couldn't be them, then who the fuck was it? It hit him instantly.
“Cathy, stay down, I'm coming, there's a sniper. I think it might be the one who killed my grandparents, the one who killed everyone. Yes, we thought he'd left. He's back and dangerous. He won't stop shooting until he gets you. The our sniper team can shoot at him but they don't have much ammo. He might have taken out my RF team behind the building. Drive away if you can, Cathy, are you hit? You have to get out of there fast.”
“No, not yet, I'm good but Albert's hurt, his shoulder. He's laying down on the seat with me, out of sight. Here,” she handed the phone back to Albert who sucked in his breath, obviously in pain, clearing his head.
“Behind the building, a rifle, a sniper rifle I'm sure, good shot too, nearly hit my head but the glass made it deflect upward, thank you Lexus. It's a small round, very flat, fast trajectory. That makes them bounce off thick glass like the windshield if the angle is right. Maybe a .270, or smaller, a well aimed .223? The glass on this car has a very high slope angle and we were tilted back as well. That made it bounce off a little but it still penetrated, deflected enough it to throw it off its trajectory. I think of chunk broke off to tear through my shoulder. Could be a piece of glass. I can't tell. Something. It's nothing arterial, no pumping or spray, won't kill me, pressure stops most of the bleeding. I'll survive. It hurts like hell if I move my right arm so I'm useless.” He paused, sucking in breath, forcing himself to stop panting in fear. Jabo had everything he needed to know to form a new plan and start issuing orders.
Albert continued, “I'll have Cathy keep pressure on it. You need to get down and work around to the back, if he's still there. I'll call the other team to keep him from working around to either side, or shoot his car if he tries to run, go, we're fine here, behind the engine. Get that bastard, you know who it is, right? the guy who killed your grandparents? He has to be over five hundred yards from us.”
“Hell Albert, anyone else would have said the bastard shot me, go kill him. It's him, I'm sure. He's back to finish his job. You two get the hell out of there, find somewhere to hide close by, behind a building or something he can't shoot through. You're out of the fight, both of you.” He waited, then heard Cathy call out she loved him and to 'end this'.
“I most certainly will. Get moving. Out.”
As he crouched, feeling his anger rise up he felt something. He turned, looking into the blackness power outage had created in the surrounding area, filling the rooftop with shadows. A person, how his ancestor would look, standing nearby, ghostly and semi-transparent, barely visible through the last wisps of multicolored smoke. This was what the previous Colonel Bowie had experienced, hundreds of years ago, in his last fight. His vision had been troubled by wandering fumes of battle at the Spanish mission – fires stoked by gunpowder flashes, billowing smoke from straw, dry weeds and grass, burning along the ground inside the Alamo, blocking out the sun with murky blue and gray smoke. Old Jim was with him, to help him continue his line, to insure it lived on into the future, made new history and stories. He sensed his forefather telling him, 'finish the fight, take it to him, win'.
Jabo had distracted and a little scared, but the ghost's demand made his emotions disperse like the smoke finally wandering away from the top of the building. He'd come back, the Russian assassin who'd killed his family, trying to make it a full sweep, killing off the last direct descendant of James Bowie, ending his line. Both were unfinished business to each other. He'd even shot at Cathy, the mother of his future sons, sealing his fate.
“Not tonight fucker, not anytime soon, you're mine,” his voice was a low hiss. The spirit of a deadly rattlesnake entered his heart, filling him with the black energy of revenge. One of them would die tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
A duel demands a perfect singleness of intention, a homicidal austerity of mood
Joseph Conrad
Jabo's mind floated, assessing the situation he saw in his mind. Closing his eyes he recalled the satellite photo of the data center. The surrounding area appeared, with his location as he snapped to a closeup, tactical view from where he lay, alongside the concrete knee wall along the edge of the building. “Crawl,” he told himself, feeling the pain in his leg from the bullet Grigor had luckily hit with his last, desperate spray of his rifle, shooting into the parachute cloth covering him with absolute darkness.
Working down into the center of the building's roof, he didn't dare raise his head. He wished he'd done a more thorough analysis of the surrounding area, relative elevations from the land around him to the top of the building. Once he'd made his own choice of where to position his men, the other elevations, farther from the building and more specifically, behind it, had become unimportant. When he'd made his plans, sitting in the coffee shop overlooking this robin's egg blue building, his only opponent had been Grigor and his team. With his men front and back, they could have taken out anyone who tried to sortie out the front or move out from the back, seeking higher ground outside, a place to look down on the top of the building and pick him off with ease. Now someone else, the sniper who'd killed his grandparents or one of Grigor's men had done just that. He'd be able to pick Jabo off easily, if he had night vision on his rifle and moved to high spot to look down on the flat roof surface. He'd have nowhere to hide.
The electricians! His egotistical battle plan had limited his tactical thinking. Though they were nearly a kilometer away, until he told them to move, they could easily tell him if there was any natural high spot on the far side of the data center, opposite their perch.
“Kilo two, Jay Six, over,” the military jargon put him back in the correct mindset, leading a team instead of playing Rambo, doing it all by himself. That was over.
“Kilo two,” they kept their talk to a minimum, good, showing their training and frosty demeanor, what he needed now more than enthusiasm or bravado, what he'd been indulging in until now.
“Jay six, sit rep, all hostiles on the rooftop are gone,” he smiled, feeling his accomplishment, against murderous odds for the first time. “Keep an eye on the hatch, there's more inside.”
“Roger that. What's your status?”
“Something tagged my leg, but I can walk, not a problem for now. I still can't raise the RF guys, any luck on your end?”
“No, assume KIA.” There wasn't any need to sound hopeful. When you didn't check in during a fight, you were as good as dead.
“Roger, can you tell me if there's any high ground...” he paused, trying to remember the orientation of the satellite image he had in his mind, “East of me, Houston side.” The small river that had run through this wide valley insured both North and South was a wide, flat river bottom, the reason they'd built here. Hills rose up in the West, where his sniper team was, and East where the new threat had appeared.
“Let me look,” he took a few seconds, with his naked eye then using the scope to verify what he'd seen. “One spot, from your location, say North East, about five hundred meters from you, hard to guess, low rise but taller than your rooftop, he could look down if it makes it there, but his last shot was half a click South, at least, nothing that high there. The hill top is sparsely covered with trees, great cover, you're fucked if he gets there, but it's rough ground, no road up to it, lots of rocks and brush. He'd have to hump it by foot, take at least ten minutes, more over that ground.”
“Keep an eye on it.” Jabo sighed, remembering he had one more smoke canister he could toss to cover his descent down the side, but there was no guarantee the sniper wouldn't be somewhere else, resetting easily to catch him o
ff guard, like he had before. He was waiting for Jabo to rappel down one of the flat sides of the building like he'd tried before. There wasn't any other way down. Going down the hatch would be suicidal, appearing in the midst of Grigor's terrified security guards. Until he could exit, he was stuck here, liable to being picked off with a well placed head shot, unless he came up with something, he needed to draw the man out, to take another shot...
“Ready?”
“You sure you want to do this?” Sgt Parker was worried they'd lose him, the young man who'd turned into a revenging angel of death as they'd watched, concerned then amazed at his abilities, killing three men in less than five minutes. Good thing he was on their side.
“Yep. Give me a five count after I set mark, then look for movement on the West side, near the front... Mark! GO, GO, GO!”
Jabo pushed the man he'd killed last, the smallest and lightest of the three, dragging him with some extra parachute cord off his Alice gear. Staying low, he crawled to the other side of the building near the front. In the dark the two of them made an amorphous mass. It was the best he could do and unless the sniper had enough height to look down on him, it didn't matter, yet. In a few minutes, staying as cautious and smart as him, the sniper would set up in a new hide, near the small hill, probably on the opposite side of the building, searching for movement. Once the sniper was ready to shoot, he'd be forced to wait for the perfect shot, fully aware of the long shot, counter fire capability of his own long range sniper team. At over a kilometer, they couldn't be accurate, but the sniper might not know that. The electricians, with their Barrett rifle could easily strike near his hiding spot, once they saw the bright flare of his shot, but the fall of their very long range shot would hit far from his layup – good for harassment. All he had, it let Jabo even up the odds a little.
Hell To Pay Page 33
