Slowly, very slowly, I came to my feet and approached the wall at the lowest crouch I could manage. Once there, I checked my corners for movement and then eased toward a window. The wood around the sill was mostly rotten, the glass cracked in a few places and caked with dust. The window looked like a swollen green blob through the NVGs, so I flipped the goggles up, closed my eyes, and waited thirty seconds before looking around. There was a half-moon overhead, and the sky was a dark, mottled gray with light cloud cover. My eyes had adjusted, and I felt confident I could see through the window.
Since it was dark outside and well-lit within the cabin, anyone looking outside would probably see nothing except their own reflection. At least I hoped that would be the case. My face was painted black and I was wearing a black tactical helmet, so I figured my chances were pretty good. If I was spotted, I would go flat and let the Hawk cover my retreat. But that was a worst case scenario. If the kidnappers saw me before Great Hawk and I were ready to breach the cabin, the chances of Redstone’s daughter surviving would drop dramatically.
Be quiet. Move slowly. No mistakes.
I gently placed a hand against the cabin wall and eased up from a crouch. Once I was upright, I edged closer to the window and carefully turned my head to see around the sill. The dust on the windows made the human shapes inside indistinct, but I still got a good impression of who was where.
The hostage was a lump of blue and brown lying on her side on the bare floor. Her dark hair lay in a pool around her head, and I could tell her hands and feet were bound. I wondered how long they had left her lying there, and felt a surge of anger.
There were four other shapes close to her. They were sitting on stools around a wood stove, backs hunched, hands moving close to their faces. Steamed roiled up from a big cast-iron pot on the stove.
Must be eating dinner.
I couldn’t see anything else from this angle, so I ducked down and moved to the other side of the window. From there, I could see three more men seated at a table. One of them had a portable radio next to his elbow. They all had bowls and spoons and were eating hungrily.
Perfect timing.
Easing away from the window, I lowered my goggles and then walked a careful circle around the cabin. No one else was visible in the fields or along the perimeter, but that did not necessarily mean someone wasn’t out there.
Finished with my recon, I crawled through the grass to where Great Hawk waited.
“Seven inside,” I said. “Girl’s bound on the floor at the northeast corner. They’re eating.”
The Hawk turned his head as he scanned the perimeter. “Entrances and exits?”
I closed my eyes and called to mind what I had seen. “There’s one other window on the opposite side of the cabin. Two doors. The front door has a bar over it, so that’s a no-go. There’s a narrow back door that leads to the outhouse. The hinges are inside, so it probably opens inward. There’s a latch on the door, but I’m pretty sure I can kick through it.”
Great Hawk nodded. “Take the back door. We will count down from three, then I want you to kick the door in. I will cover the window on this side. Give them a chance to surrender. If they do anything other than put their hands in the air, shoot them. If they return fire, move around to the opposite window.”
“You can only see four from the window on this side,” I said. “You’ll have to come through the door to get the other three. They’re at a table on the opposite side of the room, just past the front door.”
“Will you be able to hit them from the other window?”
I thought about the angles involved, and said, “Yes.”
“Then it is decided.”
The Hawk, never one to dawdle when there was work to be done, stood up like a panther on the hunt and padded silently to the window closest to us. I stayed low and worked my way toward the door. When we were in position, I took off my goggles, stowed them on the back of my belt, and pointed at the Hawk. He followed suit, aimed his pistol with one hand, picked a target, and then held up three fingers.
Three.
I took two steps back from the door.
Two.
Weight forward, toes planted.
One.
My finger curled over the trigger and took up the slack.
Go.
The adrenaline hit like a spike to the gut. There was no more time for thinking and planning. Now was the time to act. I took two steps forward and smashed the heel of my right boot next to the door handle as hard as I could. The kick was a good one, hips moving forward, head tilted back like a counterweight, the muscles in my thigh flexing and driving my leg through the motion. As I had guessed, the latch on the inside was weak and gave way immediately. The thin door slammed open hard enough to shake the wall behind it. Before my foot was back on the ground, I was moving forward.
The next thing I did was exactly the same as a drill I had run on the close-quarters combat course at Fort McCray many times. Rather than approach the doorway straight on, I sidestepped so that only half of me was exposed in the doorway and aimed my pistol. The four men seated around the wood stove sat up in shocked surprised.
“Nobody move! Let me see your hands!”
There was an instant’s pause, and then all four men reached for weapons.
Shit.
I had a flash of thought, one of those moments of intuition that lasts maybe a hundredth of a second, and my mind traveled backward to the pistol range I had set up behind my house a few years ago.
There were ten steel targets there, each one an eight-inch disc, that I used to practice speed drills. The idea behind speed drills is to write numbers on the targets from one to ten and then shoot the numbers in ascending order as quickly as possible. Sometimes left to right, sometimes right to left, but mostly in no particular order at all. I even had a little digital shot-timer I used to measure my speed and see where improvements needed to be made.
I practiced at least twice a week. It had cost me a literal fortune in ammo, which my wife reminded me about at every given opportunity, but in that moment, I felt justified. The practice had been worth the cost.
There was no real aiming involved. It was all muscle memory. I moved the pistol to the man whose gun was the closest to clearing its holster. The front sight came into view, the man’s head coalesced into a hazy oval behind it, and I squeezed the trigger. The head snapped back and dropped from view. The only sound made by the suppressed pistol was a muted phut and the clack of the slide moving back and forth.
Before the others in the little circle had time to react, I shifted aim and fired again. Two targets down. My hands moved, and just as I dropped the third man, glass broke to my left. Two bullets thudded into the man sitting next to the radio. One round hit his chest, the other his neck. He made a choked squawking sound and gripped his neck, hands struggling to stop the pulsating geyser of blood spurting from his severed jugular.
I ignored the shouting from that end of the room and aimed at the last man. This one must have had training, because he was the only one who did the smart thing.
He dropped flat on his back.
There was no hesitation. I couldn’t afford it. My knees flexed, my upper body shot forward, and I rolled as fast as I could across the doorway and into cover. Three shots rang out, and wood flew from the edge of the doorframe where my head had been less than a second before.
Once my feet were underneath me, I ran forward at a crouch and skidded around the corner of the cabin. Stood up next to the window. Risked a peek inside. The radioman was down, as was the man who had been sitting opposite him at the table. The last one had flipped the table over and was pouring bullets toward Great Hawk’s window. I took aim and fired three times. The first two shots caught him in the shoulder, the third went high and tore the back of his head off. The raider’s mouth fell open and he flopped over backward.
A flurry of movement appeared in the corner of my eye, and I dropped flat to the ground. The man who had dropped down before
I could shoot him appeared at the window and pumped round after round through a twelve gauge shotgun at the spot where I’d just been standing. Shattered glass and half-rotten wood rained down on my head as dozens of buckshot pellets shredded the wall above me. I kept my belly to the ground and scrambled forward as fast as I could. When I was clear, the shooting stopped.
Six shots. He’s reloading.
I almost went back to the window, then realized he had probably done a combat reload by simply throwing a shell into the breach and chambering it. In fact, he was probably waiting for me, barrel aimed, ready to make me pay for not thinking things through.
Not today, shitbird.
I ran around the cabin to the other window. Great Hawk wasn’t there. I had half a second to wonder where he was before two more muted thwacks echoed inside the cabin. A second passed, and then a deep voice bellowed into the night.
“Clear!”
I checked behind me. My night vision was ruined by all the muzzle flashes and I couldn’t see anything. Flipped down the goggles. Scanned again. Raised my gun and checked the perimeter. Nothing. Other side. Same process. All clear.
“Hawk, I’m coming in.”
“Which door?”
“Back.”
“All right.”
I walked in. After all the shooting, the silence was a thumping roar that moved in time with my pounding heart. The Hawk stood in the center of the room, weapon down, checking bodies. I could have told him not to bother. The ones who didn’t have their brains blown out were lying in massive black pools of blood. The stench was coppery and raw, like freshly butchered meat. Several of the raiders’ bowels had released, the reek of shit rising above the blood-stench like a hooded cobra.
The girl.
My head snapped around and I rushed to her side. She was blindfolded, and a tight gag had been tied around her mouth. I removed the blindfold and pulled away the gag.
“Emilia, are you all right?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her mouth was a grimace of terror. I wanted to untie her, but knew better than to do it before she had calmed down. Panicked hostages quite often don’t know who they’re lashing out at, and I did not want to have to restrain her.
“Emilia, it’s ok. We’re here to take you home.”
I put a hand on her arm and gave her a gentle shake. She heaved a few more breaths and then slowly, reluctantly, opened her eyes. There was a moment of alarm. I didn’t blame her. A man in military garb with his face painted black and guns and blades hanging everywhere did not a comforting sight make for the recently traumatized.
“My name is Eric,” I said. “That man over there is Lincoln. There are two more of us outside the cabin. We’re here to help you. Okay?”
She looked around the room, the whites of her eyes bulging in terror. “Where…where’s my dad?”
“He’s not far from here. We’re going to take you to him. Do you think you can stand up?”
“I can’t. I’m tied up.”
“Just a second.”
I drew my Ka-Bar and reached for her bound wrists. Emilia screeched and pulled her hands away.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m just going to cut the ropes. I’m not going to hurt you, Emilia.”
She eyed me fearfully for a few seconds, then let me take her hands. I spoke to her softly in a low voice, like calming a spooked horse. After a few seconds she relaxed. The knife was sharp, and the rope fell away quickly. She sat up and I took a knee in front of her.
“Are you injured?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
I wanted to ask if they had done anything to her. Raiders are not known for their sense of restraint. Most women taken by them are subjected to brutal sexual abuse. But now was not the time. There were still two raiders unaccounted for, not to mention the situation with John Redstone back at the trading post. We had to move.
“Can you walk?”
A shuddering breath. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Come on, we have to go. There might be more of them.”
I led the way out the door, eyes scanning as I moved. The area looked clear. Great Hawk and Emilia emerged from the cabin behind me. The big Apache was covering her shoulders with one heavy arm, the other aiming his pistol wherever his eyes went.
“Everybody stay low,” I said. “Let’s move.”
We crossed the field quickly and entered the forest. Emilia tripped over something and fell, forcing Great Hawk to reach down and pick her up.
“I’m sorry,” she moaned, half sobbing with fear. “I can’t see anything.”
“It is all right,” the Hawk said gently. “Just hang on to me. These things on my face are night vision goggles. I can see for both of us.”
“Okay.”
We moved in the direction where we had left the horses. I prayed fervently they were still there. If they were not, this night was going to get much more difficult. Another couple of stressful miles went by as we plodded through the woods until, from a distance, I heard the first inhuman howl shred the night’s stillness.
“Shit,” I said, turning to Great Hawk. “Ghouls.”
“Keep moving,” he said.
“What about Vance and Jasso?”
“They know where the horses are. If they are not there, we will attempt to find them.”
“And what if we can’t?”
“They are professionals,” Great Hawk said. “They know what to do.”
“I hope you’re right.”
A few hundred yards later, I heard a nervous snort and the thump of hooves on soft ground.
“This way,” I said, and broke into a jog. Rather than try to make Emilia run, the Hawk simply scooped her up, threw her over his shoulder, and increased his pace. Emilia let out a squawk of surprise, but otherwise did not complain.
The horses were agitated when we reached them. I was glad we found them when we did. If it had taken any longer they might have bolted.
I took my horse’s reins and was about to swing into the saddle when I heard a rustle of leaves, and a voice said, “Identify yourselves.”
I froze. “Jasso, is that you?”
Footsteps. “Riordan?”
“Yeah. Me and Hawk.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“I have her,” Great Hawk said. “There are ghouls inbound. We need to go.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
Vance and Jasso stepped out from behind a pair of trees. Even with my NVGs, I had not seen them. Perhaps they really were as good as the Hawk said.
“Did you find that patrol?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Jasso said. “They’re not a problem anymore.”
“Good.”
The four of us mounted. Jasso threw me a lead rope, which I tied to my saddle horn—an easy way to keep from getting separated in the dark. Vance threw a rope to Jasso, who tied it to his saddle, and the three of us followed Great Hawk south toward the highway.
One last item of business, I thought.
ELEVEN
I have never been all that great at dealing with anger.
So on a night when I had been shot at, had to kill several men, and then forced to flee from ghouls through a pitch-black forest, I was even less agreeable than usual.
After reaching the trading post, I tied my horse to a rail and approached the tavern. There was some kind of commotion going on out front. When I drew close, I was not at all pleased to see a man in road-worn clothing holding a pistol to John Redstone’s head.
The raider was standing in the road just in front of the tavern’s front porch. The two men I’d hired to cover Redstone—a pair of contractors named Thornberg and Broome—had taken cover and were pointing pistols of their own. The contractors were shouting for the raider to drop the gun, and the raider was telling them to back off or he would blow the old farmer’s fucking head off.
“Where are the other raiders?” Great Hawk asked.
I glanced at him.
“Knowing Thornberg and Broome, they’re probably lying in pools of their own blood.”
“Most likely.”
“Stay with Emilia,” I said. “I got this.”
“Be careful.”
I started forward and did not reply. The gunman had his back to me. My contractors were doing a good job of keeping his attention diverted. When I was ten paces away, I drew my pistol, checked the chamber, and took aim.
“Hey asshole!” I shouted.
The man turned halfway around, dragging Redstone with him. His head came a few inches away from the old man’s, giving me a clear shot.
“You sto-”
The muffled crack of my pistol cut off the remainder of his last words. His head snapped backward, a splatter of red erupted from the opposite side of his skill, and the gunman collapsed in a boneless heap of jumbled limbs.
Redstone’s face was frozen in shock. His hands were up at shoulder level in the classic stance of surrender. I lowered my pistol and holstered it.
“Thornberg, Broome, you all right?”
The two men emerged from cover, guns drawn but aimed downward. “Mr. Riordan, is that you?” Thornberg shouted.
“Yeah, it’s me. Was there anyone else with this guy?”
The two men holstered their weapons and approached. Their relaxed stance told me everything I needed to know, but I listened anyway.
“The old man did exactly as you instructed,” Broom said. “The kidnappers refused to show proof of life and started threatening him, so he raised a hell of a fuss. Two others got up from the crowd and rushed over.”
“And you handled them, I’m guessing.”
Thornberg nodded. “Tried to get them to surrender.”
“No luck?”
A shake of the head. “They’re still inside.”
“Dead?”
A nod.
From behind me, I heard footsteps approaching. A small crowd of onlookers was beginning to emerge from the tavern.
“Dad?”
Redstone came out of his shock and looked toward the voice. “Emilia? Is that you?”
The girl ran past me and flew into her father’s arms. The two held each other, half laughing and half crying. I let out a long breath.
Surviving The Dead (Short Story): Quick Killer & The Iceman Page 5
