Overwatch

by Logan Ryles

  A large number four was painted on the wall in gleaming white stencil. Sirens and shouts echoed from the other side of the door as Reed fired a three-round burst into the lock. It blew to pieces in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, and he kicked it open.

  The noise on the other side of the door was much louder. Red lights flashed overhead, and complete chaos ruled the room around him. Reed raised the rifle and flipped the selector switch to full auto before unleashing a string of rounds over the tops of a dozen cubicles. Somebody screamed over the familiar popping of a 9mm handgun. Bullets skipped against the wall nearby, and Reed slid to his knees and redirected his line of fire at a short female agent who stood ten yards away between the cubicles. Reed trained the gun on her chest and squeezed the trigger, delivering a 255-grain, lead-nose bullet into the center mass of her Kevlar body armor. She crumpled like a rag doll.

  The air hung thick with gun smoke. Blood puddled on the floor around Reed as he opened fire on the walls and the ceiling, shattering lights and alarm sirens. Sparks and drywall debris rained down on the office in a cloud of white before the gun’s bolt locked back on empty. Reed pulled himself to his feet and dropped the mag. He slammed a new one in place, smacked his palm against the bolt release, and raised the gun again.

  The stock of the weapon ground against his cheek as more agents appeared around the corner, fifteen yards away. Both went down before they could even raise their Glocks. The hellish roar of the submachine gun filled the office space and rattled the windows as brass showered down over the bloody carpet. Reed broke into a run between the offices, leaping across the fallen agents and turning toward the next hallway. A heavy steel door, bolted closed with no window or latch, blocked the way. Reed gritted his teeth and dropped the rifle. Digging into his right cargo pocket, he retrieved a small wad of C-4 and slapped it onto the wall beside the door. He pressed a detonator into the sticky white explosive, flipped the switch, and dove for the floor on the other side of a cubical.

  The C-4 discharged with a floor-shaking blast, and an avalanche of concrete, drywall, and rebar cascaded over the carpet around him. Reed felt something slam into his leg, and at first thought it was a piece of debris. Then he heard another gunshot. He groaned and rolled over. Blood coated his leg and mired the carpet, causing him to slip as he struggled to get to his feet. His vision blurred, and the room around him swayed and danced as though an earthquake had erupted under the building. His hands shook, and he spat dirt and saliva onto the carpet.

  Reed fought to raise the rifle, but the sling was tangled around his arm and hung on the gun belt. He could see the shooter now, standing next to the elevator and firing from the cover of an upturned desk. Muzzle flash lit up the smoke-filled room in little orange bursts as bullets smacked the wall around him. Reed clawed the Glock out of his drop holster and raised it, firing five times. The fast-shooting .357 caliber slugs sent splinters of fake wood flying as the agent dove for better cover.

  The room was dark now and clouded with dust. Reed coughed and holstered the handgun, jerking the KRISS back to his shoulder before turning toward the hole left by the blast of the explosives. It was about two feet across, torn through the block as though a giant had put his fist through the wall. Lights flashed on the other side. Agents shouted, and footsteps pounded the carpeted floor.

  Stepping up beside the hole, Reed winced at the pain in his leg. It throbbed and burned. His fingers trembled with the mad rush of adrenaline and the unbridled desire to survive, as he jerked a flashbang from his chest rig, pulled the pin with his teeth, and flung it through the hole.

  The grenade detonated with an earthshaking blast only a moment later. Reed didn’t wait. He held the gun close to his chest and dove through the hole.

  On the other side of the wall, a large and linear room with stark-white walls and a series of reinforced glass partitions greeted him. The floor was covered in concrete and dirt, and a small table lay on its side. People shouted from somewhere on the other side of the room. The air smelled dirty and burnt, as though he were breathing in ashes. His lungs were clogged with the filth.

  Reed rolled into a crouching position and raised the gun. He fired into the glass panels separating him from the far side of the building. They shattered, leaving the wire reinforcements floating in midair behind them. Glass rained down, and people continued to shout. Gunshots rang out from the far end of the building, and this time they weren’t the rapid pops of a handgun. This gunfire was both faster and louder. It was from an assault rifle.

  More glass shattered, and pieces of foam exploded from the cubical partitions under the raking fire of the rifle. Reed pulled another flashbang from his chest and flung it as far toward the other end of the building as possible. Before it detonated, he followed it up with a smoke grenade.

  The room reverberated with the blast of the first grenade, followed by the slow hiss of the second. The fire alarm overhead began to scream, the sprinkler system kicked in, and cool water showered down, quickly displacing the smoke in the room. Reed jumped to his feet and ran toward the end of the hallway where he held the rifle up to his cheek. Agents coughed, and somebody shouted for backup. Reed slid around the corner of one of the glass partitions and saw a tall man leaning over, coughing onto the floor with an assault rifle held loosely in his arms.

  Before he could lift the weapon, Reed twisted the butt of the submachine gun in an elegant arc and slammed it into the agent’s face. The man went down like a house of cards, crumpling to the floor without a sound.

  More gunfire rang through the room. Reed cursed and returned fire, though he couldn’t see what he was aiming at through the dense smoke. Somebody shouted, and he heard the familiar thud of his bullets striking body armor.

  A body hit the floor. Bullets whistled past his ear. Then the roar of a shotgun shook the walls of the narrow room.

  Two rounds of the heavy buckshot struck Reed in the stomach of his body armor panel. He choked and stumbled as bile and chunks of steak spewed from his mouth. He squeezed the trigger of the KRISS, the gun jerked, and then the bolt locked back on empty. Extreme pain cascaded through his body, but Reed repeated his reloading routine. Saliva dripped from his lips, and his knees wobbled under him as he staggered forward again.

  The smoke began to clear, and Reed saw two men huddled behind a copy machine. A third man lay against the wall in the corner, clutching his chest. A woman was crumpled on the floor next to another reinforced door. This time, though, the door wasn’t locked. It hung open a couple of inches, and through the gap, Reed saw the frightened eyes and washed-out face of Mitchell Holiday.

  Sixteen

  Holiday sat in a folding chair with his hands cuffed to the table top and his face spotlighted beneath the LED lights. In a millisecond, Reed noted every detail of the predicament and his stomach fluttered.

  Why is Holiday handcuffed?

  Gunshots popped from the crowd of disoriented agents. Reed rolled behind a desk and jerked another flashbang from his chest rig. He hurled it over the desk and covered his head. The room shook, and glass showered the dirty carpet. Reed jumped up, raised the KRISS, and placed a string of shots just over the heads of the stumbling FBI agents. They ducked and screamed, raising their hands over their heads as the guns began to drop.

  Reed rushed the disoriented agents and slammed the butt of his gun into the stomach of the nearest one, causing her to double over. He followed the blow with a palm strike to her exposed head, and she collapsed to the floor just as a bullet slammed into his backplate. As if he were hit with a sledgehammer, waves of agony ripped through his torso. He twisted to the left just in time to miss the next bullet.

  The shooter stood ten feet away, firing from between the cubical walls. Reed jerked the Glock from his thigh and shot twice. The agent crumpled to the floor with blood spraying from his right arm, and the final agents clawed their way out of the room, coughing and falling over each other.

  He turned toward the metal door and kicked it open.

>   Holiday stood up, jerking at the cuffs. He stumbled over his own feet and shouted, “Don’t shoot!”

  Reed jerked the submachine gun back to his shoulder and fired twice. The chain linking the handcuffs shattered, and Holiday collapsed against the wall with a panicked shout.

  The folds of the senator’s collar were soaked with sweat, and Reed dug his fingers into Holiday’s neck, hoisting him to his feet before jamming the muzzle of the gun into his ribs. “Do exactly as I say. Don’t scream.”

  The look in his wild eyes told Reed he wouldn’t resist. This man was beyond terrified and on the verge of a total psychotic breakdown. Reed shoved him toward the nearest window and looked out over the senator’s shoulder. Fifteen feet below them, just across a five-foot alley, was the flat-topped roof of a two-story shopping strip. A ladder hung off the far side of the building, leading down to where Reed parked the SUV.

  Boots thundered up the stairwell behind them. Men shouted, and more sirens blared.

  Reed was sick of sirens.

  Turning back to the window, he fired three rounds into the reinforced glass and was gratified to see it shatter. A few swift kicks removed the remaining shards, leaving a wide hole into the open air outside.

  “Hold your arms to your chest,” Reed snapped. “Run and jump.”

  Holiday shook his head. “No way!”

  Reed pulled the trigger of the gun twice, and the laminate flooring erupted in a haze of dust next to Holiday’s feet. The senator jumped and held up his hands again.

  “Jump. Now!” Reed shouted.

  Holiday hesitated, then glanced toward the stairwell and back at Reed holding the gun.

  The senator flung himself through the window, and Reed watched him hurtle through the air like a lame duck, arms and legs flailing before he crashed onto the pea gravel of the flat roof. There was a snapping sound on impact, and Holiday screamed and grabbed at his knee.

  A flashbang detonated from the other side of the door. Reed’s ears rang, and his head was light, as though it were filled with helium. He blinked back the mist of confusion, then launched himself through the window. Clear air and bright sunlight flashed past him as he fell forward, preparing himself for a parachute landing as the roof of the shopping center rocketed toward him. Gravel and dirt crunched under his shoulder, and he rolled once before hauling himself to his feet, just yards from Holiday. His head still swam, and every step was uncertain, as though he were walking on a cloud.

  Blood coated the gravel under Reed’s boots as he stepped over Holiday and grabbed him by the collar again. “Get up! Move!”

  Holiday’s eyes were clamped shut, as though he had decided the world couldn’t hurt him if he couldn’t see it. He cried out in pain at the pressure on his neck, but limped to his feet.

  Reed shoved him toward the ladder, continuing to shout and prod him with the submachine gun. “Move, Senator!”

  Holiday went down the rusty ladder first, fumbling with shaky hands and groaning with each step on his right knee. Reed followed just above him, keeping the gun pointed at his head. The ladder stopped ten feet above the sidewalk, and Reed pressed his boot into Holiday’s shoulder, forcing him to drop. Even Reed winced when Holiday landed on both feet and screamed in agony. His knee must be shattered.

  Torrents of pain ran through Reed’s body as he fell to the street.

  “Let’s go!” He hoisted Holiday into a semi-standing position and dragged him around the corner of the shopping mall to the SUV. Holiday’s shoes scraped on the ground, and the blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen white and barely conscious.

  Reed jerked the rear door of the Toyota open and hoisted Holiday into the back. He crashed into the cargo space with a pained groan, and Reed shoved Holiday’s legs in, then lifted the butt of the gun.

  “I’m sorry, Senator.”

  Another flash of fear crossed across Holiday’s face, but he didn’t have time to shield himself. The butt of the gun smacked him in the base of the skull, and he fell limp in the cargo space. Reed slammed the door shut and then ran to the driver’s seat. His fingers trembled as he fought with the ignition wires. Fire alarms still rang from the building and were now joined by the whine of a fire truck siren. The SUV sputtered to life, and Reed planted his foot into the accelerator. In the rearview mirror, the FBI field office was shrouded by smoke. The slow whoop of a police siren joined the fire truck. Or was it several sirens? They were closing in on his position like hounds racing after a rabbit.

  For all of that, no black SUVs swerved to follow him. No helicopters buzzed down on him like vultures, ready to gun him down in a shower of lead. The street ahead lay empty, providing a clean avenue of escape.

  Reed winced as a stabbing pain shot through his ribcage. His lips were dry, and he dug a half-empty bottle of water from the door pocket of the SUV and guzzled it down. The fresh taste washed away the dust and bile, dampening his dry throat and promising new life into his battered body.

  Blood loss. Bruised ribs, or maybe broken ones. A few bullet grazes that may require stitches later. Plenty of strained muscles. All things considered, Reed felt lucky. The element of surprise mixed with three or four flashbangs made for a winning cocktail.

  He pulled the ski mask off his head and sucked in fresh air. The SUV didn’t smell half bad after the warzone behind him. He turned onto I-85, and the warmth of the sun blazed down on the back of his neck. It was strangely relaxing, in spite of the reminder that darkness was barely ninety minutes away. With a little more luck, it would be time enough.

  The buildings around him gradually gave way to rising hills and trees as he passed through Buckhead and turned toward Doraville. Ten minutes later, the green signs on the side of the highway advertised exits for Duluth and Lawrenceville. Reed took the ramp onto Georgia State Highway 316 and continued east. Occasional cars passed him, piloted by tired men in business suits and stressed soccer moms with frazzled hair. Nobody gave a second glance to the stolen Toyota or the killer who sat behind the wheel. As the cityscape gave way to horse fields and peach orchards, the BMWs were replaced by pickup trucks and large SUVs, but the faces remained the same: detached and uninterested.

  After another half hour, he turned onto a dirt road and drove a couple more miles. Pine trees and dense, dying undergrowth clogged the fields on either side of him, encroaching on the orange roadbed like the claws of nature, ready to swallow it whole. An armadillo scampered across the road, its tail dragging in the dust and sending orange clouds rising in the face of the Toyota. Birds flitted between the trees, singing songs of impending winter, and nesting down for the night. The isolation was perfect, and it brought calm back to Reed’s strained mind. He relaxed in his seat and loosened the body armor, which allowed him to take his first real breath in hours. It hurt like hell, but the oxygen brought welcome relief to his frayed nerves.

  Reed turned the SUV off the road and onto a narrow trail, barely marked by shallow ruts. Branches scraped against the side of the SUV as he lurched over potholes and fallen tree limbs. Around a bend, a locked cattle gate blocked the way.

  Reed got out of the Toyota and pulled a key from his pocket. The rusty lock binding the gate to a half-rotten fence post squeaked and stuck, but Reed jerked it open and shoved the gate out of the way. Back in the SUV, he wound his way another half mile into the trees.

  The single-wide trailer sat by itself in a clearing barely large enough to hold it. There was no driveway or parking space, no mailbox or front lawn. Faded yellow sheet metal clung to the sides of the trailer, showing traces of rust amid the dents and scratches. Pine needles and small limbs were piled high on the flat roof, and what was left of a narrow front porch leaned to one side, with a chunk of the rail missing. The battered home looked tired and broken, as if nobody had laughed or shared a beer with a friend in this place in a long, long time.

  Reed got out of the SUV and looked up. The sun descended into the western sky, sending stunning rays of gold, orange, and red streaming through the tre
es like a continuous burst of fireworks. He opened the rear hatch and pulled Holiday out. The senator was still unconscious, with saliva draining out of his mouth. Reed checked his pulse, then slung the inert lawmaker over his shoulder, and dragged him up the front steps and onto the rickety porch. The damp smell of rotting wood and musty insulation filled his nostrils, and he coughed as he shoved another key into the deadbolt. It twisted with a dry squeak, then the door swung open, revealing a pitch-black living room on the other side. Reed drew the flashlight from his belt and flipped it on, then dragged Holiday inside.

  The trailer belonged to Oliver’s company; one of a network of safe houses and hideouts littered across the country. Both the trailer and the half-acre it sat on were registered in the name of a Georgia LLC, which was owned by a Kansas LLC, which was owned fifty-fifty by two Montana LLCs, and so on—a typical procedure for company property. Reed had never used it before, but he always kept it in the back of his mind in case there came a time when he needed to lay low close to Atlanta.

  A time such as this.

  The floor shuddered and creaked as though it might collapse, as Reed dropped Holiday onto the torn linoleum. He walked into the kitchen and shuffled through the drawers, dumping plastic forks and rat poop onto the counter, until he found a wooden spoon. He drew the Ka-Bar from his belt and whittled the end of the spoon’s handle into a sharp point, about the same diameter as a .30 caliber bullet. He returned to the living room and knelt beside Holiday.

  Empty darkness filled the senator’s eyes. He lay on the floor with his arm twisted under him, his jaw slack. Reed drew a small bottle of ether from his pocket and held it under Holiday’s nose, waiting for his breaths to become more consistent. When he was confident the senator was well and truly incapacitated, he stretched the front of Holiday’s dress shirt and lifted the sharpened spoon. Two swift stabs to the chest left twin holes just above Holiday’s heart, about half an inch deep and three inches apart. Blood pooled out of the holes, soaking the shirt and draining onto the floor.