by Robert White
Des snatched the handset from my grasp and tossed it out of his window.
"Dinnae be doin' that now, pal. They'll know we're about soon enough."
Lauren North's Story:
"Awe fer fuck's sake, Dougie!" bawled Seamus. "Look what you done there now! You've gone and shot our fuckin' doctor there, so you have."
Sid was twitching his last movements as his life blood seeped into the gaps of the flagged floor.
Dougie was swaying from side to side, his gun secured only by his finger hooked in the trigger guard. The weapon wobbled. I said a short prayer to ask the big man to make it drop to the floor. The chance of me making it over to where Sid had fallen was slim, but I wasn't about to let the opportunity pass if the .38 fell to the ground.
Dougie was staring at Sid's body, his coke-addled brain coming to terms with what he'd done.
"Ah fuck," he said. "Sorry there, Seamus."
O'Donnell staggered to the table and poured himself the last of the whisky from the bottle.
"Bollocks," he spat. "Still...look on the bright side, they'll always be another nigger who'll want the cash so, eh?"
Unbelievably, both men laughed, a dead doctor was not going to spoil their party.
Dougie slid his gun on the table and took his drink. With the minor issue of another dead body, both men appeared to have temporarily forgotten about me.
It was a bonus, but wasn't getting me the urgent medical treatment I needed.
Dougie pulled out his mobile and signalled toward Sid's corpse.
"I'll get the boys that Clarke sent out to the field to drop him in the same fuckin' hole as poor Kristy and Ewan, eh?"
Seamus raised the drunken umpire's finger again.
"Plan," he said.
Dougie dialled and put the phone to his ear.
Moments later he screwed his face up, doing his best to focus, he looked at the screen, checking he'd dialled the right number. After a second attempt, he gave up.
"There's no fuckin' answer...I bet they left the phone in the van so."
Seamus lifted his bulk from his chair and wandered unsteadily over to the large arched window that overlooked his land.
He scanned the horizon looking for the burial party.
"I can't see the van there, Dougie," he said. "Where did Clarke say to bury..."
He didn't finish his sentence. The sound of tinkling glass was mixed with a grotesque splat as the back of Seamus O'Donnell's head decorated the floor behind him. The high velocity round that had killed him continued its journey and buried itself into an ancient oak pillar with a dull thud. It was only as Seamus's legs started to buckle that I actually heard the report of the weapon that had fired the round. The shooter must have been half a mile away. Who could deliver a kill like that, through a window, from that kind of distance?
Only one guy I knew...J.J.
Rick Fuller's Story:
Des leaned on the horn of the V Dub as we approached the gates of the farm and the silly fuckers opened them just on cue.
The fact that we were wearing the right clothes in the right vehicle was only going to give us a few seconds' grace before the goons saw we weren't one of theirs and opened fire.
As the van bounced into the compound, the air was cut in two by a high velocity round, closely followed by the boom of J.J.'s M24. We couldn't see his target, but it was welcome support, and right on the button.
Des ran his commentary. "Two to your left and a third by the barn doors!"
The van skidded to a halt and I pushed my door open. Rolling to my left, my shoulder hit the cobbles hard and the shock travelled all the way to my neck. I tucked in my chin to protect the back of my head, but the uneven surface caught my left ear. It felt like I'd left half of it behind as I scrabbled to my feet. If I survived, I was going to be sore in the morning.
We'd decided to use the G36's we'd stolen from the boys in the field and leave the MP7's in the van with our Bergans. Unlike the H and K they were un-suppressed, and the sharp crack of the rounds exiting the muzzle reverberated around the compound as Des and I released a hail of 9mm in perfect concert.
As the two men to my left fell dead in the yard, somewhere in the distance, horses whinnied.
I heard Des's weapon crack again and again as he used the age old tactic of fire and move. I'd lost sight of him. Wherever he was, the Scot would cause maximum havoc. My focus was the barn and Lauren.
Somewhere in my peripheral vision, I saw a flash of colour. Within feet of my head the air was split a second time by J.J.'s M24. I spun left to see Declan O'Donnell, pointing an AK directly at me; dressed in nothing but a red silk kimono. He fell first to his knees and then flat on his face. The hole in Declan's back was big enough to put your fist in.
J.J. had saved my life for a third time in as many days.
Lauren North's Story:
The moment Seamus hit the floor, Dougie lost it. He grabbed his pistol and ran over to me, panic stricken.
He pointed the .38.
"Who the fuck?" he screamed." What the……?" He was blowing hard, the charlie, the booze, the adrenalin, the fear all conspiring against him.
I was so tired, I couldn't give a shit.
"Shoot me," I mumbled.
"Wha....?" bawled Dougie. "Wha...? Fuckin' shoot ya? I'll fuckin' shoot ya alright."
He pushed the gun against my temple."
"Go ahead," I said. "Kill me...see what happens."
He cocked the gun. Automatic gunfire erupted in the courtyard and a second sonic boom cut the air. Dougie physically jumped. Like all bullies, he had no real bottle.
I looked up at him and smiled.
"Rick's here....and you're a dead man."
He stared at me for the longest time, fighting with his demons. I wanted to live, but I wanted my pain to end. It was the finest of margins. Taunting him was against any training I had ever received, yet I was unable to stop myself. My fear and loathing were at an all-time high.
"Go on...shoot me, you fat fuck...you fucking pervert. You haven't the balls, have you, Dougie?"
I couldn't feel my hands, and my feet were a mass of pins and needles as my brain instructed my internal organs to fight for my ever fading blood pressure. I panted as I spoke.
"You know what Rick will do to you if you kill me, don't you? It won't be quick..."
Suppressing another coughing fit I nodded toward the plastic sheeting at our feet.
"You'll use this stuff after all, Dougie. I hope he cuts your balls off."
Dougie was scared. I could see it in his eyes. He did his best to tough it out.
"You think you've won eh? Well watch this, darlin.'" He twisted his heavy frame around and ran to the window, ducking down at the last second to get cover. His drink and drug-filled head was causing him all kinds of problems. He stupidly punched his fist through the window and emptied the remaining five rounds from his .38 blindly into the field.
The revolver gave a noticeable click as it failed to find a full chamber. Dougie opened the weapon and dropped the empty shells onto the floor.
He sat with his back to the brick wall, fumbled in the pocket of his coat and pulled out spare rounds.
He held the handful of bullets out at arm's length, eyes wild.
"See these, eh? When he comes....your fancy man, your British fuckin' Hun soldier boy...when he comes through that door, one of these is for him." He laughed hysterically. "And you're going to watch him get it eh?"
As he tried to push the bullets into the revolver, the sound of a small war erupted outside.
Dozens of rounds were being fired from multiple weapons. There were screams. People were dying.
If it was indeed J.J. firing from the distance, he too was keeping busy and the thunderous sound of his M24 cut through the countryside and echoed across the farm.
Dougie was shaking so much he dropped some of his ammunition, but on the second or third attempt he finally closed the chamber with its full complement of six rounds.
&
nbsp; He knelt behind a pillar fifteen yards from the door of the barn and brought the .38 up into the aim. "I'll show you who's the fuckin' dead man."
Rick Fuller's Story:
I was pinned down about ten yards from the barn entrance.
Clarke, our man from the Ministry and traitor of this parish, was throwing down enough lead to re-roof Lauren's flat. What remained of the security team was starting to get their shit together. They were accurate and organised. I got the impression they didn't want to leave their well-paid posts just yet.
As nine-mil from Clarke's G36 bounced around me I was eternally grateful for the ornamental stone trough the O'Donnells had positioned in the yard. It made a fetching water feature and kept my head from being blown off.
Due to the deluge of fire, I was unable to return anything meaningful.
That was until Des had an idea.
Phosphorous grenades are horrible things. In battle they are used for smoke cover, well... that is what they should be used for. In the Vietnam War, the Yanks dropped tons of the stuff on the Cong. It caused almost as many burn victims as napalm.
Des tossed the evil little bomb up onto the balcony of the main house where Clarke had both cover and advantage. When the grenade explodes it looks like a firework going off. Shards of white hot phosphorous fly in all directions; they lodge themselves into any soft tissue and continue to burn at levels that would weld your car together. They don't stop until they are totally deprived of all oxygen; by which time, the shard has buried itself deep into your skin. White phosphorus is also insanely toxic. As it burns you, it shuts down all your major organs at the same time.
It is not a good way to go.
Clarke was screaming in agony.
I popped up from behind the trough and used the last of my G36's ammo to put him out of his misery.
I needed cover to get to the doors of the barn, and seconds later it arrived.
J.J. ran into the yard and started to give anyone who looked vaguely like the enemy the good news with his MP7.
His hands and forearms were cut to pieces and I figured he had climbed the razor wire fence to get to us.
Top man.
I used my window of opportunity to crawl the last ten yards or so to the heavy doors of the barn. Rolling to one side I drew my Glock 17, so called because of its magazine capacity.
Despite J.J.'s efforts, one of the security guys had me in line of sight. He was a big bruiser of a guy, all shaved head and neck tattoos. He sprinted toward me holding his G36 one-handed, firing as he went. The rounds were flying about wildly and I had to stop him before he got close enough to do any damage.
Lying on your side, firing one handed, at a running target, with a handgun is just about as fruitless as asking the twat nicely to 'please go away'.
I was down to my last four rounds by the time I'd dropped him.
Scrabbling across the slippery cobbles I grabbed the dead man's weapon and pulled the mag. It was empty. We had hundreds of rounds in the V Dub, but I would be cut down before I got within ten yards of it.
Fuck it.
I pushed my shoulder against the barn door and I was inside.
The moment I got my foot in the door, I saw him.
Dougie McGinnis was leaning behind a wooden pillar directly in front of me. All I saw was his big ugly smiling face and the barrel of a .38 snub nose.
A split second later I heard the gun go off.
I cried out as the bullet buried itself deep into my left thigh, just below my hip. I staggered, almost losing balance.
He fired again and again, missing me by inches.
Grabbing a pillar of my own to steady myself, I raised my own gun and fired. The first round slammed into the thick wood that protected the Irishman, but the second found its target and I heard him grunt in pain.
I was in agony as I slithered left to get a better shot at Dougie. He was fucked, I'd hit him in the chest, just below his collar bone, yet the bastard had managed to stand and get back in the aim. I was out in the open and he fired two more shots.
Both hit the ground in front of me.
He fired again, wild, not even close.
I punched the Glock forward, aiming at his massive chest, a double tap. I'd done it a thousand times.
Both rounds found nothing more than oak.
The Glock's mechanism stayed forward. I was out of ammo
Dougie's .38 gave a tell-tale click.
There was a strange silence. Sporadic automatic fire came from the yard, yet the barn sucked the sound of battle away from my ears and all I could hear were three people breathing.
Three people.
For the first time, I saw Lauren. She was some twenty feet away, her back resting against a pillar, head forward, hair hiding her face. She was naked and looked in shit state....but she was alive.
I did my best to find a hand hold in the wooden support, to pull my body upward, but my left leg was useless. Whatever damage the bullet had done it was serious; I couldn't feel anything below my hip.
Dougie staggered over. He was going a funny blue colour. My shot had punctured a lung and he was struggling like fuck to breathe. Nonetheless, he was mobile and I wasn't. I tried my comms and got a big fat zero. The unit had probably been damaged in the fighting.
"Fuller!" he bellowed, before coughing up his other lung. "You're out of fuckin' bullets, eh?"
I had to grit my teeth, the pain in my hip was horrendous. "So are you, Dougie...we're both out."
He did his best to focus on me. I saw the empty bottle of scotch on the table, next to a bag of white powder and reckoned that had it not been for his cocaine and alcohol consumption, the gunshot would have killed him instantly. Pink blood bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth.
He waved the empty .38 toward Lauren.
"We fucked her, you know?"
I wanted to tear out his heart.
Dougie gestured toward two dead men behind him. The one with most of his head missing was Seamus O'Donnell, the other, I didn't recognise, he was a young black guy with his trousers around his ankles.
"They fucked her too," slurred Dougie.
There was a mumble from over his shoulder.
"No they didn't," said Lauren, finding my gaze.
I couldn't help but smile.
"You look like shit," I said.
"Maybe," she coughed. "But I have not been fucked...by anybody."
"Shut up, bitch!" barked Dougie.
He continued to grumble to himself, as he wandered over to a large window. He began rooting about on the floor, his breathing laboured. He eventually straightened himself.
"You fuckin' beauty!" he declared, holding a shiny .38 shell between thumb and forefinger.
His hands shook as he slid the round into the chamber of his revolver. Sweat poured down his face.
He stood between Lauren and me, first pointing the gun at her, then me.
I had to do something.
"Now, ye wee Hun bastards," he shouted. "It's decision time! It's who's calling the fuckin' Golden Shot, eh? Who shall I fuckin' kill, eh?"
He shuffled closer to Lauren and took aim.
All I could do was pull myself across the floor toward him. If I could grab his leg, he was so weak, he'd fall.
I scrabbled at the cold stone, tearing out my nails, dragging my useless leg along the floor, a thick trail of blood behind me.
"Hey! Dougie! Come on! It's me you want."
Dougie locked eyes with me, smiled and said, "No, Fuller...what I want is fer you to see this."
He pulled the trigger.
My scream was drowned out by Des and J.J. tearing McGinnis to pieces in a hail of bullets.
J.J. ran to each corpse on the floor of the barn and put a round in each before declaring the room clear.
The battle for the farm was over.
Des stepped over me, dropped a pressure dressing into my arms and ran to Lauren. I stuffed the dressing in my wound and pushed myself over to where the Scot was worki
ng on her.
"J.J!" he shouted. "Get me my Bergen from the V Dub."
Dougie had shot Lauren in the stomach. I grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. On the third attempt I found one.
Des Cogan's Story:
She'd lost so much blood, then there'd been the cold, God knows what other internal injuries she'd suffered, even before the final gunshot. She had nothing to fight with, just like my wife that day.
I administered morphine and adrenalin and wrapped her in a thermal blanket. Her breathing was shallow, a trace of a pulse.
I looked at Rick holding her hand. She had minutes rather than hours.
I offered him my phone. "We need that chopper now, mate."
Rick cradled Lauren in his arms.
"You do it...call Cartwright," he said. "Make the call...non-negotiable."
Rick Fuller's Story:
It was the longest twenty-seven minutes of my life. Finally I heard the blades of the chopper.
The doors to the barn opened.
Snow was blown inside the building from the powerful rotors as the aircraft touched down in the courtyard.
I started to shiver as the cold air hit me.
I could hear the shouts of the medics and their trolley trundling across the flagged floor.
Lauren's eyes flickered open. She looked at me.
"Kiss me, Rick," she said.
And our lips met.
End.
