Danger Close

by Allen Manning

  * * *

  “Got him,” the technician said. She pulled her headphones off and pointed at her laptop display.

  “Is he on the move?” Travis asked.

  “No, sir. The signal is dead now. He must have powered his phone down,” she replied.

  “Where is that?” Travis asked, leaning in for a closer look.

  “Looks like the mountains.”

  “Zoom out.” Travis crossed his arms and placed a finger over his lips.

  The satellite image on screen widened, showing more of the surrounding area as everything shrunk. Travis’ brow furrowed.

  “Blanchard,” he said. “Get a team there now.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  The M4 clicked as the charging handle slid back, sending the bolt forward to chamber a round in the carbine. John let the weapon hang from its sling as he checked the paracord lashed tightly around the steering wheel of the truck. Sitting on the road, pointing ahead, the route of the vehicle would be locked into a straight path.

  With a grunt he pushed off of the balls of his feet, giving the truck a nudge in the right direction. The gradual decline would afford the three-ton battering ram plenty of time to build up speed and momentum. But the distance gave John the window he needed to get into position first.

  The old metal beast rattled and groaned as it barreled ahead, bouncing along the road toward the front gates of Damien Blanchard’s compound. The guard posted out front stood in front of the approaching vehicle and raised a hand, resting the other on the shoulder strap of his submachine gun. The man’s eyes widened as the truck gained speed, still hurtling toward him. He scrambled and dove to one side, barely escaping the steel bull as it bounded past.

  The wall shook as one of the gates tore free, flying inward. The truck had veered to the side, slamming into a support pillar, but a chunk of the wall crumbled into the compound from the massive impact. The collision lifted the rear high enough to crack the axle as it slammed down again.

  The guard rolled to his back and opened fire along the passenger side of the battering ram. Two more guards rushed in, their weapons joining into the fray. A hailstorm of bullets tore into the rusted metal body of the intruder, ripping through the door and shattering the front windshield. They dumped entire magazines before reloading and repeating the process.

  “Hold fire!” the guard on the ground shouted. “I said hold fire!”

  The shooting stopped, but the hissing and popping from the vehicle continued. Fluids poured from underneath the engine as oily, black smoke billowed from the deformed hood.

  The lead guard climbed to his feet and approached, weapon held up to his shoulder. He peered inside through the remnants of the front windshield, squinting as he spotted the cordage around the steering wheel. “There’s no one inside.”

  “Is it going to blow?” another guard asked as he scrambled to get further away.

  “Get back, just in case.” the first guard said. He turned to face the rest. “Raise the alert level. We’ve got possible—”

  Their radios crackled to life. “Intruders! Intruders! There’s someone inside the compound!”

  Faint shots popped in the distance. The guards at the front gate reloaded their weapons and took cover. The lead man raised his radio as the gunfire halted.

  “What sector?” he asked. “I repeat, what sector is the intruder in?”

  After a moment of silence, the stunned guards exchanged panicked glances.

  * * *

  “The compound is under attack, sir,” Russell said. “We need to get you out of here.”

  Damien Blanchard shrugged the man’s hand from his arm. “You want me to run from my own home because someone crashed a truck into the front gates? Where are Micah and Gabriel? If your men can’t handle this, they can.”

  “Mr. Blanchard, the Alpha assets left twenty minutes ago.”

  “Well then, get them back here, you dolt.” Blanchard straightened his tie. “Tell your men to stand and fight. It can’t be more than a couple of men out there.”

  An explosion rocked the house, rattling the bullet resistant windows around them. Damien’s eyes widened as he looked at his head of security. The man stared back, his eyebrows raising slightly, hoping to convey the danger of staying in the house.

  “The southern sector is down. No one is reporting back.” The voice of the guard warbled, a mix of fear in his words and the crackling interference on his radio. “An explosive detonated near the main gate just took out two more. We’re under attack.”

  “Sir, I must insist that we get you to the roof. You should get out of here now,” Russell said.

  Damien’s eyes narrowed again, weighing the words.

  “They’re inside the house! The intruders are—”

  Both men flinched as the radio squawked before falling silent. Gunshots echoed from deeper inside the compound. The muted pops and crackles reached them from the other side of the mansion.

  “Let’s go,” Damien said. “Get me out of here.”

  * * *

  John’s feet thudded on the grass just as the truck slammed into the wall. He had moved further south, scaling the wall as the battering ram built up the momentum it needed to crash the party.

  The diversion served it’s purpose perfectly as the guards on this side of Damien Blanchard’s compound turned their attention to the chaos in the front.

  Holding the M4 carbine close to his chest, John ran to the nearest door, moving straight across the well-manicured lawn. Out in the open, it wasn’t hard for one of the men on patrol to snap out of his stupor and turn his attention to the wall of muscle heading his way.

  John had the rifle up, trained on the man as he approached. “Put the weapon down, son. You don’t need to die for Blanchard.”

  The guard’s face contorted, swirling from intense fear, to anger, to incredulity before he reached for the submachine gun on his hip.

  A double-tap to the sternum put the man down before he could bring his weapon up. Still on the move, John twisted his body slightly to the side as another guard attempted to return fire.

  Three quick presses of the trigger punched a triangle pattern into John’s target just as the man’s UMP stuttered, throwing rounds wide into the grass.

  “Intruders! Intruders! There’s someone inside the compound!” a third guard shouted into his radio as he ducked behind the base of a statue near the patio.

  John’s thumb found the selector switch, snapping it to full auto. He knelt and took aim. The lone sentry had found the strength he needed to join the battle, but his rounds lacked the accuracy, fear still controlling his weapon. John worked the trigger with precision. The M4’s rapid rattle sent two bursts, tearing away flesh and concrete as the 5.56mm projectiles eliminated the threat.

  A voice from the dead man’s radio called out “What sector? I repeat, what sector is the intruder in?”

  Pushing himself up, John ran for the entrance and pressed himself against the wall before retrieving a detonator from his belt. He thumped his palm against the lever three times, the signal answered by a boom in the distance.

  Debris rained down across the property, even reaching his position as the Semtex package shredded what was left of the truck at the front gate.

  Letting his carbine hang from the single-point sling, John pulled the Mossberg 500 from his back and pivoted to face the mansion’s side entrance. Even though the door had an ornate hardwood facade, it was clear that it was reinforced. Taking aim at the lock, John fired a slug and worked the pump before firing again.

  He kicked the steel-core barrier inward, racking another shell into the chamber as he entered. A man and a woman bounded around the corner with their weapons already drawn. They came face to face with the war machine that had just barged into their compound.

  The pops from the submachine guns were drowned out by the thunder from the Mossberg. A slug struck the first man center mass, staggering his body back into the woman behind him. She shoved him t
o the side for a clear shot, but John unleashed another slug as the ejected shell bounced off the wall next to him.

  With the entryway clear, John pulled the shotgun across his body and brought his M4 up again. Keeping his target at the top of his mind, he stalked forward, looking for Damien Blanchard.

  * * *

  “That’s inside the house,” Russell said as more automatic gunfire echoed in the distance.

  “It’s Stone,” Blanchard said. “I just know it.”

  “Be that as it may, we are not prepared to face him right now, Mr. Blanchard. We need to get to the roof.”

  “This man has the nerve to step foot onto my turf. I’ll have his head for this.” Damien’s eyes were alight with fire and rage.

  “Another day, sir,” Russell said.

  “Fine. Let’s get to the roof.” Damien let his jacket drop to the floor.

  He tugged at the Desert Eagle in his shoulder rig and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling up the sleeves as they left the office.

  * * *

  Deeper in the house, three more of Blanchard’s men tried to stop John. A man focused solely on a single objective, he moved straight down the hallway, carbine braced to his shoulder as he worked the trigger with precision. Another guard fell as two more dropped back.

  With a surprising bravado, one of the men pivoted out and opened fire as John dropped his spent magazine. The bullets whipped past him, chewing up the walls and ceiling. John side-stepped into a nearby doorway and slammed the reload home, thumbing the paddle to send the bolt forward.

  He leaned out and fired a burst to dissuade the guards from regrouping and pressing the attack. With the path clear, John once again proceeded forward, fixing the front sight where the guards retreated behind the corner. Only meters from cover, a voice barely reached his ears through the sounds of battle.

  “Frag him.”

  Again, one of the men turned into the hall, but before John could fire, he watched the guard toss something in his direction. Not expecting the intruder to already be so close, the grenade left the man's hand in a high arc toward the doorway farther back.

  Out of instinct, John’s hand left the grip of his weapon and caught the explosive before it bounced off his chest. Time stretched out, milliseconds filled with a thousand possible choices as the two combatants locked eyes.

  Both acted simultaneously. The guard’s hand fell to his SMG. John’s circled in a tight arc, hurling the grenade like a baseball. On the move in a flash, the Army Ranger’s shoulder bashed another doorway in as the metallic case rang off the enemy’s face, cracking several teeth.

  The powerful blast pulsed out, but with his hands over his ears, John mostly felt the thump through his body. Bits of shrapnel tore up the walls, but the furniture inside the room he barged into absorbed the deadly force. Plaster and wood sprinkled down like rain as John’s breathing filled his ears.

  He pushed himself up and shouldered the M4, continuing his hunt. Leading with the muzzle of his carbine, he prepared to face any survivors, but the explosion eliminated all three guards.

  Deep in the mansion, the resistance had lightened, with most of the private security either fleeing, or possibly moving into position to protect their boss.

  John’s boots thudded up hardwood steps as he reached the second floor. He heard more commotion on the next level, so he continued up the next flight.

  A pair of soldiers opened fire from the end of a long corridor. They stood their ground protecting a set of heavy-duty double doors leading to the roof, if John’s memory of the floor plan was correct. A bullet slammed into the chest of his tactical plate, but John’s carbine had already spit a pair of bursts that tore into the man on the left.

  The other guard hesitated for a split second, his eyes snapping to his fallen teammate. Seizing the advantage, John pressed forward. His finger pinned the trigger to the rear as he leaned into the M4’s stock, absorbing the recoil. The remaining rounds in his weapon stitched a tight zig-zag pattern of holes into the soldier’s body from hip to throat.

  John reached the door as he patted his vest for another magazine. His rifle ammunition used up, the big man barreled through the double doors and drew the 1911 holstered on his thigh.

  The pilot snapped several switches above him, and his hand fell to the controls as the helicopter rose off the deck. John pressed the pistol between his hands and took aim, firing five rounds into the aircraft. He shifted his sights to the passenger, recognizing the man inside. The last two rounds cracked the glass as Damien Blanchard flinched, ducking from view.

  The empty mag bounced at John’s feet as he slammed another in. Thumbing the slide release, he emptied another seven rounds into the fleeing chopper as he walked forward. The .45 caliber slugs tore into the craft, causing it to lurch as a stream of smoke spewed from the engine. John reloaded again and dumped all of the rounds into the hull.

  The helicopter lost altitude, spiraling in a slow circle.

  His hand fell to his belt, unable to find another pistol mag. He watched as the pilot regained control of the craft, just before they crashed into the hillside below. Before John could unsling his shotgun, the fleeing chopper dipped below a ridge line in the distance.

  The muscles in John’s jaw tightened, threatening to crack something as he watched Damien Blanchard escape. The rushing blood filled his ears, almost drowning out the approaching sirens.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Travis Chambers checked the time on his watch, pinching the bezel of the TAG Heuer between his thumb and forefinger to hold the face still. An officer approached the bench where he waited.

  “Mr. Chambers?”

  “Yes. Is my friend out yet?” Travis asked as he stood.

  “Not yet. The, uh, Captain wants a word first,” the officer said.

  Travis let his smile widen, masking the frustration as he nodded and followed the young man to an office deeper in the precinct.

  The man inside spoke before Travis crossed fully through the doorway.

  “I don’t know what kind of trouble you brought into my house, but I gotta tell you, I really don’t appreciate it.”

  Travis looked at the Captain sitting across the desk as he sat. The man had to be roughly the same age but carried an additional forty pounds of mass, a fair mix of muscle and body fat.

  Bouncing his gaze quickly off the placard on the desk, Travis answered. “Captain Schiff, I assure you that this situation will not escalate any further.”

  The grizzled old man closed his eyes and let out a short breath through his nose, his mustache wiggling from the rush of air. “If it were up to me, your man would be rotting in my cells.”

  Travis’ eyes softened. If it were up to me. He knew that meant the Captain had no real authority in the matter.

  “Your guy must have some connected friends well above my pay grade,” Captain Schiff said. “What are you, CIA or something?”

  “Or something,” Travis said with a smile as he rose to his feet.

  He extended a hand and Schiff took it in one of his own.

  “Again, you have my assurance that this will not continue any further,” Travis said. At least not in this state, he added in his mind.

  “Please see to it that it doesn’t,” the Captain said, his eyes growing weary, knowing that this entire situation was far beyond his reach.

  By the time Travis made it to the front desk again, John was waiting for him, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had dug into his flesh. The look in the Army Ranger’s eyes was one of borderline rage, the man’s anger ready to bubble up and launch him into another mission of vengeance.

  “It took a lot of favors to get you out,” Travis said as they left the precinct, stopping in front of the glass double doors. “I told you to stand down. You shouldn’t have done anything that rash.”

  “And I told you Damien Blanchard had to be stopped,” John said, continuing down the steps toward the waiting black Escalade.

  Travis opened the passenger do
or and climbed inside. Curtis Clarke looked over his shoulder at John in the back seat.

  “Save some fun for the rest of us?” he asked.

  Travis shot Lieutenant Clarke a not now look, and Curtis smirked, facing the front again as he drove the SUV out of the precinct lot.

  * * *

  Damien Blanchard struggled with the cap to the whiskey bottle. His hands shook and his breaths came in short ragged huffs. He wiped the sweat from his mustache and cursed, ready to hurl the bottle across the cabin of his private jet.

  “What’s taking so long?” he asked. “Get the plane in the air right now.”

  Russell brought another bottle of whiskey, already opened, and poured some into the tumbler on the table next to Damien’s seat. “Sir, your old compound is currently being prepared for our arrival. Get some rest, the trip will take a while, so you’ve got time to relax.”

  Damien sat back in the seat, taking a sip of the whiskey with his eyes closed, unable to admire the cream leather and hardwood interior around him. He needed several more breaths before he could regain control of his emotions.

  “Call Barrett Anderson,” he said. “Have him send Gabriel and Micah to meet me at the compound.”

  “Right away, sir,” Russell said as he made his way to the back of the aircraft.

  The engine increased in pitch as the air around Damien finally started to stir. The plane rumbled gently as the pilot turned onto the runway for take-off.

  Fingers easing their grip on the tumbler, Damien felt the tension in his neck and shoulders finally subside. In the air he would make the necessary arrangements to continue the hunt for John Stone.