Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Limping down a hallway he saw a group of half-naked women huddled together in a large dressing room. He couldn’t just leave them there. He searched for an exit sign, found it and ran to make sure the way checked clear. It did, but as he turned he saw wires and a clay-like block that he instantly recognized as C4 hanging from the top and sides of the doorframe. It looked unsophisticated — simple and deadly. He was no bomb tech but it seemed like a straight remote detonator with no dummy wires or booby-traps. Of course he could easily be wrong and pulling the detonator free could result in a very big boom, but he didn’t have time for guesswork. He reached up and pulled the detonators free. They were basically electronically detonated blasting caps. He tossed them in a far corner. Then ran back toward the huddling women and ducked as two loud pops sounded behind him like small arms gunfire. Turning he saw the smoking blasting caps. They’d been detonated. He let out a breath and ran into the dressing room. He ushered the hysterical women down the hallway and out the side exit door.

  Outside the air tasted fresh and clean and wonderful. He took a lung-full then darted back into the building.

  Inside he ran into groups of people, their faces stamped with the horror of shock and disorientation. Dominic directed them all to the side exit and continued checking the rooms for Detective Rothstein.

  He passed the large mound of rubble at the front entrance again but stopped as he saw a portion of legs sticking out from the pile. The feet had one shoe on the other off. One of the feet twitched; the one without a shoe. Whoever was under there was still alive. Dominic dug into the mound, throwing back blocks and dirt and rebar. The body was huge, dressed in a now dirty and torn tuxedo. Scraping dirt and pulling a splintered 4X4 from the man’s shoulders, Dominic succeeded in getting a firm purchase on the man’s arms. He jerked back with all he had and barely managed to pull the giant’s head out from the rubble.

  The man sat up instantly, coughing and hacking and shaking his head, his dreads dusty and white with plaster.

  It was Kid Kong.

  “Thanks, man. You saved my big black butt for sure. I couldn’t breathe for nothing.” He rubbed the dirt from his eyes and focused in on Dominic. “You!” He grinned. “First you thunk my noggin’, then you save my life.” He shook his massive head. “Thanks, man, thanks.”

  Dominic pointed at a small group of coughing women and men in a corner. “Could you get them out of here? I’ve got to help people in the back and this place could go up any time.”

  Kid Kong struggled to his feet with Dominic’s help. “Go do what you got to do, little guy. “I’ll take care of them.” The giant lumbered over to the people through the haze.

  A thick rolling mass of black smoke rode the ceiling down a back hallway. Dominic ducked low and followed the twisting corridor, covering his mouth with the side of his shirt. Most of the overhead lights were out and those that survived flickered and buzzed ominously, splashing the walls with a strobe effect that did nothing to abate his nausea. Chunks of plaster and ceiling tile as well as splintered pieces of furniture and twisted metal littered the floor, making it hard to make his way in the semi-dark.

  Turning a corner he saw Detective Rothstein standing in the center of the aisle. He held a gun to the head of the smallest women he’d ever seen. Standing, her head didn’t even make it to Detective Rothstein’s hips. The girl sobbed quietly, looking up at the detective pleadingly.

  “What — what are you doing?” asked Dominic.

  Detective Rothstein’s glasses sat askew on his face, one thick lens cracked with a web of splintery cracks decorating a corner. His suit-coat was ripped and blackened and covered with dust, as were his shirt and pants.

  The detective answered without turning his attention from the woman. “You’re supposed to be outside.”

  “I was, until the bomb went off. Then I thought that maybe I’d missed him and you might need help.”

  “You didn’t miss him,” said the detective. “And he didn’t miss us. I underestimated him. I should have thought of explosives.”

  “C4,” said Dominic. “I spotted some around a doorframe. I disarmed it and got some people out. But there’s probably more. The whole place could be rigged to go up. We need to get out of here.”

  “Yes, you need to go.”

  “No,” said Dominic, “we need to go — all of us.” He looked at the small stripper. “Do you want me to cuff her up?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. She’s not under arrest.”

  “Okay, so why don’t you put your gun away and the three of us can get going?”

  “We aren’t going,” said the detective. “You go, but be careful, remember Chicago; he’s still out there.”

  Dominic moved his hand to his pistol. “Lieutenant Rothstein, I need you to put your gun away, okay?”

  “Don’t,” said the detective and his voice was almost too quiet to hear over the clamor of people in other rooms and the continuing crackle of flames and pattering of rubble.

  “Lieutenant, I said for you to…” Dominic unsnapped the safety on his holster.

  What happened next happened too fast for Dominic’s eyes or brain to register. The detective’s hand blurred with motion. Dominic felt the butt of his weapon rip from his hand with such force that it numbed his fingers and hand all the way to his wrist; simultaneously he heard the sharp crack of gunfire. He looked down and saw that his holster and gun were gone.

  Dominic had seen great marksmen in the military, but this classified as something completely different; shooting on a scale beyond his comprehension.

  “You need to leave now,” said the Detective.

  “No,” said the woman, her voice choked with tears. “Please don’t leave.”

  Dominic rubbed his hand, trying to think. “What’s this all about, Lieutenant?”

  “I can put one between your eyes before you even flinch,” said Rothstein. “Colors are faster than a bullet squared. If you don’t want me to prove it then leave.”

  “I can’t let you kill her.”

  “You can’t stop me. You can only stay and die with her, or leave and join the music.”

  “What did she do? Why do you think you need to kill her?”

  “She pi’d my heart, reduced it to a negative fraction, converted it to an icosahedron, played it in E scale, then stepped on it with a stiletto heel. She also tried to kill me.”

  “No,” said the stripper, “no I didn’t. I couldn’t. I love you, Sammy. I love you.”

  “You don’t want to see this, Officer Elkins. Turn around and leave.”

  “You don’t want to do this.”

  “No, but I have to. It’s all I have left.”

  “If she hurt you,” said Dominic, “you can forgive her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes — yes you can. It’s a choice — it’s a choice you can make. God gave you the ability to choose.”

  “Me and God, we don’t get along so well. And it’s not just that I can’t forgive her…I can’t live without her.”

  Dominic shook his head. “This isn’t the way.”

  “It’s the only way. Halos are just circles and the segment of a circle is different than the arc. Do you understand?”

  “No, but I’ve been where you are now, not exactly, but similar. And I can tell you that living with such a choice is hard to do.”

  For the first time Detective Rothstein looked at Dominic. “Khost?”

  Dominic nodded. “Khost.”

  “We have a deal; you don’t have to tell me about it.”

  “I know, but maybe we can make a new deal.”

  “No. I have to do this.”

  “Come on,” said Dominic. “That big brain of yours has got to be dying to know exactly what happened. And I don’t blame you, it’s wild, something even you could never figure out on your own.”

  The detective’s buggy eyes, magnified behind the diagonally set glasses stared into him.

  “You know you want to know,” said Dom
inic. “You have to know. And knowing that should tell you that life is still worth living.” He looked at the stripper. “Hearts get broken, it happens, it’s terrible and it hurts, it hurts bad. But hearts heal. I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true. You just have to give it time. Time heals just about everything.”

  “Not you,” said the detective. “You’re still broken. Your rectangles are out of joint.”

  “That’s true,” said Dominic, “but I’m better than I was, stronger and better.”

  Detective Rothstein kept the gun pointed at the stripper’s head. “So tell me. Then I’ll decide.”

  70

  Enrico Da Vinci

  Chuck Creed

  Sarah Hampton

  * * *

  Enrico Da Vinci triggered the detonator for the north exit doors for the fifth time — nothing happened. The explosions must have damaged the wires just as they’d taken out the cameras. There still remained plenty of C4 loaded around the base support pillars of the building. He could bring the whole place down anytime he wanted. But not yet. He needed to know what had happened to Cinnamon. Did the detective kill her? If he did, Enrico would hunt down his friends and family and kill them all. He might do it anyway just for having the audacity to threaten her. Enrico considered the detective as far beneath Cinnamon as a worm to man. She was art — pure and perfect art. Only Enrico deserved her and if she refused to be his she would be no ones.

  Enrico set down the detonator and picked up his rifle. As soon as they came out the killing would begin. The detective would be the first to die.

  Chuck Creed scrabbled at the hole. His gloves helped protect his fingers somewhat. He could almost fit his shoulders through, but it was still a little too tight. He gripped a fractured cinderblock and pulled with all his strength. The stone canted and fell, landing in the pile of dirt below the hole.

  The smoke hung thick back here and he had to rest — to catch his breath, but he didn’t know how much time he had before the guards or Larry Sipes might wake up. Not to mention firefighters and cops coming on scene.

  He gulped in a few more breaths of air and went back to work. He’d worked harder for overtime pay during his career and a million dollars spent a lot better than time and a half.

  Grabbing a metal I-beam he twisted and pulled, feeling the sweat bead his forehead beneath the hoodie.

  Sarah grabbed a fireman and dragged him toward the front of the collapsed main entrance.

  “We need to get this open!” she screamed into his face. The clamor was so great she could hardly hear her own voice. There were sirens and alarms and so many voices; the sound of people in pain, the sound of people dying. The entire front area of the building roared in flames.

  “Fire is the first priority,” he screamed back at her.”

  She pointed inside. “I’ve got people in there.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Sorry. The paramedics will take care of the wounded out here, but we’ve got to get these fires out before we can start digging our way in.”

  Sarah looked at both stretches of the building. All the windows were barred. “I’ll try the north entrance,” she yelled.

  The fireman nodded, his big helmet moving with his head. “Good luck.”

  I’ll need it, she thought as she started for the north end of the building. The cats were still there, so many cats, impossible for them to really be there. She knew it must be her imagination and that all she had to do was push her way through them, but when she saw the door standing open and tried to approach, one of them shot forward from on top of the door and raked her face with its claws. A sharp pain followed by blood running down her face. Sarah tried again but this time two cats jumped for her and ten or so more attacked her legs and stomach. She blocked the ones trying for her head and batted at the ones clinging to her legs and stomach, but more were coming at her. The closer she got to the door the more cats attacked, until she fell to her knees. She screamed and cried and huddled into a ball as they converged in a howling mass, covering her.

  Her cries turned to whimpers as the sheer weight of the multitude pressed down on her. She reached for her gun, but claws slashed and tore at the flesh of her hand until she pulled it back under her.

  She was useless — useless to everyone — useless to John Doe — useless to herself — and worst of all — useless to Dominic.

  The cats continued to pile on, smothering her beneath a grave of fur. Sarah screamed, but a cat lunged its head into her mouth and screaming was no longer possible. Neither was breathing.

  Part IX

  71

  Dominic Elkins

  * * *

  The Massacre of Khost

  * * *

  Dominic stood back on the roof in Khost, the sun baked clay so hot it could set off primer charges on mortar rounds. He moved easily, weighed down with a mere twenty pounds of gear, as were all his men, a light load because of the need for speed and stealth. The last man disappeared down the airshaft. Dominic’s turn next, the LT would stay on the roof to coordinate additional insertions or rescue if needed.

  Dominic still had bad feelings about Nassif’s plan. Foolish, incompetent, ridiculously dangerous, the closest thing to a suicide mission he’d ever seen. He should have found a way to stop it, but orders were orders.

  He turned to step into the shaft when the lieutenant started chanting behind him. He turned and saw the rifle pointed at his chest.

  “Sir?” he said.

  “Allah Akbar,” said the Lieutenant. “Our god is greater.” He fired — once — twice.

  The first bullet hit Dominic in the upper right pec, just above his armor, passing through uniform, flesh and bone as though they weren’t even there. The second slug hit on the heels of the first, only lower. Its kinetic energy pushed him out and away from the airshaft, but the Kevlar coated ceramic of his SAPI plate armor kept the round from punching completely through. He landed on his back, his breath gone, his thoughts in turmoil, the rifle’s strap keeping it glued to him.

  Lieutenant Ben Nassif stood over him looking down. “Our god is greater,” he whispered again and even stunned Dominic saw the fire in his eyes, the passion. The lieutenant continued his chant, “Allah Akbar — Allah Akbar,” as he pulled out a red buttoned detonator and let his flak jacket hang open to reveal another jacket beneath. This one was packed with C4 and nails and glass and marbles and sheet metal. “Everyone will die,” he whispered, “the rescue party, you, me, everyone.”

  Dominic struggled to speak, the words catching in his throat, the air not making it from his lungs. “The hostages…”

  “Already dead,” he said, “before we arrived. They were only bait. All that awaits your men is a trap — death — and after, I will join them. I will go to meet my god.” He held up the detonator. “Now we wait.”

  The rifle rested in place on Dominic’s chest. He moved it to point at the lieutenant, thumbed back the safety switch, but his movements were slow, cumbersome, his muscles sluggish to react. Nassif saw the action, sudden terror coming to his eyes as he realized his mistake. Too late to shoot again he simply closed his eyes, pushed the detonator button and said “Allah Akbar,” a finale time.”

  Dominic’s finger touched the trigger as he heard the click of the detonator — nothing happened — he held — waiting.

  The lieutenant’s eyes opened, looking around as if expecting to see Allah and his promised virgins. Instead he saw the bore of the M4A4 pointed at his face. Instantly he dropped the detonator and threw his hands over his head. “I surrender.”

  The international laws of the Geneva Convention were clear, as were his rules of engagement. The man was now a prisoner of war and Dominic was honor bound not to kill him. But his men were somewhere below stepping into the deadly jaws of a trap. He was their only chance. But he couldn’t — it would be murder. His country said no — the Marine’s said no — God said no. All his life Dominic had followed the rules — the law — both the letter and the spirit — all
his life.

  Dominic’s finger twitched firing a single shot. The bullet struck Nassif just below the chin and tunneled upward through flesh and skull and brain. His knees unhinged dumping his lifeless body to the clay of the roof.

  From below Dominic heard the clatter of machine gun fire and explosions. He forced himself to his feet, dropped his gear, picked up the detonator, pulled out its battery, just in case, and dropped it. Then he staggered to the airshaft and let his body fall inside.

  “And that’s it,” said Dominic. “I was able to save most of my men — most, but not all. I got us out, took another round and some shrapnel from a grenade. The Marine Corps did a full investigation, found out they should have seen the signs of him being a traitor, but didn’t, or if they did, couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything because of the political climate at the time. Either way they didn’t feel it would be in the best interest of the Corps to let everyone know that a commissioned officer had taken part in killing a bunch of innocent hostages and tried to kill his own troops, not after Fort Hood. But then again they couldn’t very well let me stay in after murdering a superior officer that had already surrendered, not without the word getting out. So they doctored the records a bit, gave me an honorable discharge, and told me if I ever talked they’d try me for murder. I didn’t want to make trouble anyway. All I ever wanted was to be a Marine.”

  The detective nodded slowly. He looked at Dominic. “That fits. There’s harmony. All the puzzles are solved…except for John Doe’s…” he looked to his right and Dominic followed his gaze. A severed hand lay on the floor, two fingers were missing and a section of splintered bone could be seen where the wrist should have been.