Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  Tailor roughly slapped me on the shoulder as he got up, changing magazines as he did so. I stood up, slung the SR-25’s carrying case over my shoulder, and followed Tailor, trying to clear the jam as I moved.

  We headed back into the building. A Range Rover came speeding around the corner and screeched to a halt next to the Hummer. Four more guys, armed with submachine guns and short-barreled Kalashnikovs, jumped out of the vehicle and fanned out. The bodyguard hiding behind the Land Cruiser leaned around the vehicle, pointed in our direction, and began shouting. As Tailor and I hit the stairs, our hiding place on the second floor of the half-completed building was hosed with automatic weapons fire.

  LORENZO

  Half a year of my life . . . wasted.

  That was the first coherent thought that ran through my mind as Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah’s chest puckered into a grapefruit sized exit hole right in front of me. Scarlet and white bits rose like a cloud as he went to his knees, heart torn in half and still pumping.

  I had been on the receiving end of gunfire so many times that I instinctively bolted for cover behind the nearest vehicle. Flinching involuntarily as I wiped the fine mist of Al Falah off my face, I honed in on the shooter’s position across the street. I wasn’t the only one. “Achmed, up there!” the first bodyguard shouted as he lifted his MP5. Two rapid shots came from the building, and the guard went down hard, disappearing from view on the other side of the yellow Hummer. One of the other bodyguards returned fire.

  My ear piece crackled. “Who’s shooting? What the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know! I didn’t fire!” The sniper hammered two more rifle rounds into the fallen man’s back, and now the closest bystanders realized what was happening and ran away screaming.

  “Who did, then?”

  “A sniper wasted Falah.” I pushed myself tight against the wheel as the sniper fired a couple of rounds into the Hummer. The window shattered, and the nearest guard fell, missing half his face. A Range Rover screeched to a halt and the rest of Falah’s men piled out.

  “Witnesses?”

  “Bunches,” I replied.

  Carl said, “Roger that.” Then there was a stream of profanity so vile that it made me cringe more than the incoming sniper fire. “A public killing! This ruins everything!”

  The voice on the radio changed. It was Reaper. “Lorenzo! We still need his computer.”

  “Get it! Get the case!” Carl bellowed across the channel. “I’m on the way.”

  I risked a peek. The other guards were blasting the crap out of the building. Bystanders were running for their lives. Bodily fluids were draining all over the street, and there it was, a plain leather briefcase, still clutched in Falah’s twitching hand. I had to move now, because some asshole had just blown my carefully laid plans. Starting toward it, I stuck one hand under my thobe and grabbed the butt of my STI. I had spent three months wearing a dress, and I was not leaving without that damned case.

  The shooting had stopped. The new guards were shouting and pointing at the sniper’s building. One young man jumped from the vehicle and sprinted toward me. He knelt next to his former boss, barely even registering that I was there, recognizing me from previous visits. The Range Rover tore away, probably in pursuit of the shooter. Good.

  “Khalid! Call for doctors!” he shouted. It took a split second for me to realize that was supposed to be my name. Look one way, look the other. People moving, pointing, talking on cell phones, no other guards in sight, this could still work.

  “At once!” I answered as I reached down and grabbed the case. Al Falah’s hand wouldn’t let go when I pulled. He had it clutched in a literal death grip. I tugged harder, hoping that the guard would keep trying to hold the contents of Al Falah’s chest in rather than pay any attention to me.

  The guard looked up in confusion. “What are you doing? Why—” I kicked him in the teeth, sending him reeling into the gutter. Jerking the case into my arms, I ran back into the club. I pushed past the startled onlookers, their attention mostly on the bodies in the street. Some of them were just realizing that I had booted a man with a submachine gun in the face and robbed the dead. I jerked up the thobe and ran like hell back into the club, through the kitchen, past the startled employees, out the back door, and into the alley. I heard the door slam closed behind me.

  I rounded the corner. The stinking alley was empty except for overflowing dumpsters and graffiti-sprayed walls. Carl wasn’t here yet. “Where are you?” I hissed. “I’ve got it. I’m at the back of the club.”

  His voice was slightly distorted in my ear. “Coming. I almost got hit by some crazies having a car chase or something.”

  I glanced back to the club. Nobody had followed yet, but it wouldn’t be long. I jerked my head around at the noise of an engine. A vehicle pulled into the alley, only it wasn’t Carl’s van, but another car full of angry Muslims, and I immediately recognized the driver screaming into his cell phone as Yousef, one of Al Falah’s men.

  No cover, no place to hide. No time to run. Yousef’s eyes widened when he saw me there, splattered in his boss’ blood, stolen briefcase in hand. He was probably on the phone with the guard I had just booted. Ten yards to that vehicle, Yousef behind the wheel, one passenger, no other options, and the 9mm was in my hand before I even thought about it. Car doors flew open as my STI cleared leather.

  Time slowed to a crawl. The passenger was quicker, coming up out of the vehicle, stupidly leaving cover, stubby black MP5 rising. Dropping the case, my hands came together, arms punching outward, the gun an extension of my will. The front sight entered my vision, focused so clearly that the bad guy was only a blur behind it. I stroked the perfect trigger to the rear.

  The sound should have been deafening, but it seemed more of a muted thump in the narrow alley. The heavy 9mm had virtually no recoil, and I fired as fast as the sights came back into place. The man with the submachine gun fell, his weapon tumbling from his hands. My muzzle moved, seemingly on its own, over the driver’s windshield where Yousef, face betraying his shock, was slower to react, cell phone falling from his open hand as he wrestled with his seat belt. The glass spiderwebbed as I opened fire, obscuring my target. Uncertain as to his fate, I continued firing, pumping round after round through the car. The slide locked back empty. The spent magazine struck the ground as I automatically speed-reloaded.

  I had done this kind of thing a few times.

  Carl’s white van careened wildly into the alley, locked up the brakes and narrowly stopped inches from the car’s bumper. “Down! Down!” he screamed out the window, creating a weird off-time effect as my radio earpiece repeated it a millisecond later. Without hesitation I flung myself into the garbage. The muzzle of a Galil SAR extended from the van’s window as Carl fired over my head. The cracks of the .223 were ear-splitting compared to my 9mm.

  Rolling over, I could see dust and debris spraying from the club’s rear exit. The guard I had kicked a moment ago was sliding limply down the door frame, already on the way to his seventy-two-virgin welcoming committee.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Carl shouted. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the case, and ran past the shot-up car, keeping my gun up, scanning for threats, and pulled myself into the already moving van. We sped off into the streets, Carl’s beady eyes flickering rapidly back and forth, looking for cops. I reholstered my gun and watched as my hands began to shake.

  “Did you get the computer?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t get hit. Thanks for asking,” I replied.

  He rolled his eyes. I opened the case, and inside was the unharmed laptop. So at least we hadn’t screwed everything. Months of planning and preparation, Phase One almost done, Phase Two ready to go, and all screwed because some mystery person whacks my target in public. Damn it. Damn it. Could we still pull this off? We had to. We sure couldn’t afford to fail.

  I closed my hand into a fist as the trembling continued. I was going to figure out who screwed us, and I was going to make t
hem pay.

  Chapter 5:

  Grand Theft Auto

  VALENTINE

  “Nightcrawler, Xbox, this is Control, report! Give us a status update!” Anita sounded anxious over the radio.

  “We’re fucking busy right now!” Tailor snapped. We quickly moved down the two flights of stairs and out the back door of the building. We stopped at the fence. Tailor went through the hole we’d cut first, his carbine pointing to our left, up the alley. I followed, pointing the heavy SR-25 to our right. I was startled when four muffled shots rang out; one of the bodyguards had come around the corner, and Tailor had cut him down. The man crumpled to the ground, his MP5K clattering on the pavement.

  Moving quickly, I opened the door of our truck, an extended-cab Toyota pickup, and tossed my gear onto the backseat. I then climbed into the driver’s seat. Tailor jumped into the passenger’s seat. I put the pickup into gear and stepped on the gas.

  “Look out!” Tailor yelled. The bodyguards’ Range Rover had pulled into the alley ahead, blocking our exit. They got out and started shooting. Worse, the alley wasn’t wide enough to turn around in. Swearing aloud, I threw it into reverse and stomped on the gas.

  We backed down the alley entirely too fast. Tailor fired through the windshield, his suppressed rifle hissing and snapping loudly in the passenger cabin. The enemy took cover behind their truck and returned fire. Several stray rounds peppered the front of our vehicle.

  Scrunching down, hoping the engine block would provide me with protection, I tried to navigate the Toyota down the alley in reverse by using my side mirror. Rounds came whizzing through the windshield. I hit the walls five or six times, smashing through garbage cans and terrifying stray cats. Seconds later, Al Falah’s bodyguards piled back into their truck and started down the alley after us.

  We exploded onto the main road, still in reverse, and were nearly broadsided by a minibus. I cut the wheel to the right and stomped on the brakes. Cars swerved around us, horns screaming as they went. I put the pickup back into drive and hit the gas. We got moving just as Al Falah’s men made it onto the street.

  I sped along, having turned the wrong way to use our preplanned egress route. They were in close pursuit. At that time of the night, the roundabouts in Zubara were clogged with traffic. I didn’t want to get in a gunfight in the middle of a traffic jam, too many bystanders, too many witnesses. I hung a quick right, turning down a narrow side street. Such streets in the city had one lane going each way, with a small roundabout at each intersection. In the middle was a raised concrete divider, almost like a sidewalk, making left turns difficult.

  The street was mercifully free of traffic, but within seconds, Al Falah’s men began firing at us again. Rounds entered through the back window and hit the tops of our seats. Tailor and I were hunkered down about as far as we could go.

  “Will you please shoot back?” I screamed. He turned around, twisting to his left, and returned fire through what was left of the back window. Hot brass peppered me in the side of the head. I flinched and almost went off the road. “Be careful!”

  As Tailor swore at me, we came to the first roundabout. My heart fell into my stomach as I realized a large truck full of sheep had broken down in the middle of it, blocking the road. Several cars were stopped around it. There was no way past. At the last instant, I cut the wheel to the right. The Toyota bucked as we jumped onto the sidewalk. I had to swerve again to avoid hitting a planted palm tree. It was hard to see clearly; the windshield was full of bullet holes and was covered in a spider’s web of cracks.

  I laid on the horn as terrified pedestrians jumped out of our way. Clear of the traffic jam, I swerved back to the left, ripping off the truck’s passenger-side mirror on another palm tree as we landed back on the street. The pursuing Range Rover was right behind us now. Two men were leaning out of the windows, firing at us with pistols. I snarled in pain as a round clipped my right shoulder, causing me to almost lose control of the truck. The sudden swerving of the vehicle made Tailor drop his spare magazine as he was trying to reload.

  To hell with this, I thought. “You buckled?”

  “What? Why?” Tailor shouted back. I floored the brake pedal.

  The Range Rover smashed into the back of our truck, crumpling the bed and tailgate. Our perforated rear window shattered completely. The big SUV considerably outweighed our little pickup. We fishtailed to the left; the Range Rover went on and crashed into a parked car.

  Our ride was trashed, but we were stopped, and we were alive.

  Dazed, I unbuckled myself, opened the door, and literally fell to the pavement. I somehow managed to get to my feet and looked over at our pursuers. The driver and the front passenger hadn’t been wearing seat belts. They appeared injured or dead. The airbags had deployed.

  I looked around. Cars drove by, slowing down to gawk at the wreck. We didn’t have much time. With my left hand, I swept my jacket to the side and drew my revolver. I brought the gun up, pointing it at the Range Rover, but pain shot through my right shoulder as I attempted a two-handed hold. I remembered then that I was bleeding, and was suddenly aware of the pain. Holy crap did it hurt. I winced, but continued on, holding my .44 Magnum one-handed.

  Approaching the SUV carefully, I looked for signs of movement. I stumbled as I walked, and couldn’t hear very well. The driver begin to stir behind his airbag. He tried to open his door, but it crunched up against the smashed tailgate of our pickup.

  He didn’t see me. I fired. A fat .44 slug tore through his head, splashing the airbag with blood. I fired again, putting a bullet into the passenger. He looked dead, but I wanted to be sure.

  There was a third man in the backseat. He sat up, obviously dazed. There was a cut on his forehead; blood was pouring down his face. He placed his hand on his head as he came to, not noticing me at first, but he froze when he saw the big .44 leveled at him. His eyes went wide. My hand was shaking. I could hear sirens in the distance. We had to go. We weren’t supposed to leave witnesses. I pulled the trigger again. The terrorist disappeared behind the door in a small puff of blood.

  My ears were ringing. My heart was pounding. I was injured. The Calm had worn off, and I was half in shock. I took a deep breath, reloaded, then holstered my revolver. I moved to the passenger’s side door of our pickup. Tailor was starting to come around, but he was in a daze.

  “C’mon, bro, we gotta split,” I said. “Cops are coming.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay . . . You get ’em?”

  “I think so. C’mon, let’s go!” I grabbed the SR-25 and its carrying case from the backseat. My shoulder screamed in protest as I hefted the rifle, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. Tailor stumbled and nearly fell down but was able to retrieve his backpack, his carbine, and the spare magazine he’d dropped onto the floor of the truck. We then hurried away from the scene of the crash, heading up the street a short way before turning into a narrow alley.

  Rounding the corner, we were immediately illuminated by headlights. Oh, hell. The vehicle, a small French Renault, came to a stop just under a streetlight. I could see the driver. He appeared to be a Westerner.

  Not sure what to do, I leveled the SR-25 at the Renault. “Get out of the car!” The man hesitated, then raised his hands, seemingly in shock. I squeezed the trigger. The suppressed rifle cracked thinly in the night air, and the Renault’s left-side mirror exploded as a 175-grain match bullet tore through it. “Now!” I ordered. The driver stepped out of the vehicle. I lowered my rifle and moved toward him. “I’m sorry,” I said without looking at him. “We need your car.”

  “Bloody hell! Just take it! Don’t shoot!” He was British.

  Tailor stepped up to him. “Drop your cell phone,” he said levelly, even though he still looked a little wobbly.

  “Are you mad? You’re taking my car, do you have to take my bloody mobile, too?”

  I’m not going to repeat the swath of obscenities that Tailor let out at that point, but an instant later the unlucky British
man dropped his phone onto the ground. Tailor stomped on it, smashing it.

  “Get out of here!” he yelled. The terrified man ran off down the street.

  “You drive,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m bleeding, that’s why!” I said as I tossed my weapon into the little French car’s backseat.

  “Fine,” he said. We got in, Tailor put the car in gear, did a three-point turn in a narrow driveway, and we took off down the alley, away from the crash scene, just as the police arrived.

  LORENZO

  We drove south toward our apartment. After a few minutes I was positive that nobody was after us. Our vehicle was as bland and common as could be had in this city, even though Carl had worked it over so that we had some speed on tap if necessary.

  Carl’s Portuguese accent was a lot more pronounced when he was enraged. “Everybody knows Falah’s dead. We’re screwed!” he bellowed as he slammed his fist into the steering wheel. His eyes flickered back to the mirror as the sound of a siren went behind us, but it was heading for the scene of the crime and not our way. He continued, slightly calmer. “What now?”

  “Pull over.” My mind was racing. The mission depended on making Al Falah disappear. “Nobody has to know he’s dead.”

  “And how’re we supposed to do that, genius?” Carl pulled us into the lot of the Happy Chicken on Bakhun Street and parked the van behind a brand new Audi A8.

  I got on the radio. “Reaper. Come in.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  “You’ve got the police band. Figure out where they’re taking Falah.”

  Carl’s eyes studied me in the rear-view mirror. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me . . . No. You’re not,” he sighed. “We’re gonna die.”