Chapter Fifteen #4
I picked them up, scanning the compound as I stepped into position.
Even with smaller units to test the militia’s response, the Carlisis had come in harder than Marcel had expected.
Various vehicles had breached the outer fence line, two already disabled, one burning near the first gate, flames licking up the side and throwing thick black smoke into the air.
The enemy moved through the gaps in tight formation, advancing in short, controlled pushes, covering each other as they closed distance.
They weren’t rushing blindly; they were taking ground.
I moved my line of sight, and my chest tightened.
Marcel’s men were holding the line, but it was costing them.
I tracked movement along the barrier where Thomas had gone.
A second later, he popped into view, rushing toward and then crouching behind a concrete slab, leaning out just enough to send measured bursts downrange.
Naomi held to his left, lower, tighter to cover, while Ibarra had shifted farther right, using the corner of a vehicle to create a cross angle.
Their targets were chosen deliberately, laying down cover for a small section of the perimeter.
It didn’t take long to see why. Zeke was already moving to a fast-spreading blaze, dragging a hose toward a burning vehicle near the gate.
Taylor and Tyler came in from the east at a run, cutting through the yard as soon as the call hit, hurdling and vaulting debris without slowing as they headed straight for Zeke.
They took the line without hesitation, falling into position with coordination that only came from years of experience.
Water cut through the flames in hard, sweeping arcs, steam rolling up on contact.
Thomas and the others adjusted around them, reconfiguring their lines to keep pressure off the firefighters as they worked.
A round struck the tower railing, just inches from my hand. I dropped back, the impact sending a rattle through the metal that traveled straight up my arm. The sound came a fraction later, a sharp crack cutting through to my bones.
They had eyes on the tower.
“You might want to keep your head down unless you’re volunteering as target practice,” a woman said, keeping low as she came around the corner. Her cheek and fatigues were smeared with blood.
I crouched and reached for my bag, already going for the med kit, but she caught the motion and kneeled, reaching for my arm.
“Save it.” She glanced down at the drying stains across her chest and sleeves, chewing the pink wad of gum in her mouth. “Not mine. My gunner’s. Took him down the back way,” she said, gesturing to the space behind her. “Easier when you’re wearing a six-foot-two meathead as a backpack.”
I must’ve hesitated, because she made a face, half-offended I didn’t follow. “He’ll live.”
“You’re Kansas Marcel, right?” I asked after a beat.
“Affirmative,” she said, blowing a quick, pink bubble. “You two here for moral support, or you plan on aiming those things at Vito Corleone down there?”
I looked down at my rifle and then across at Abby.
She was kneeling with her back braced against the tower, her expression tightening as she watched Kansas, trying to reconcile her flippant tone with the chaos below.
Abby stared at her in disbelief a second longer before looking down at the sidearm I’d given her, holding it close to her chest.
“Still okay?” I asked her.
Abby nodded in quick movements.
“You’re only here until there’s a breach, and then you’ll go back to the bunker and tell them if anyone but us tries to enter, to fall back to the tunnels.”
“I know,” she said, nodding again.
I reorientated, lowering my profile, using the base of the .
50 cal for partial cover as I recalculated.
Staying in place offered sightlines, but it also made me a target.
Moving wasn’t an option; I’d lose the vantage.
With stray rounds hitting the tower, I wasn’t sure it would be safe to send Abby down once the fences were penetrated.
The .50 cal sat where Kansas’s gunner had left it, already angled toward the source, belt-fed and ready. It was bigger than anything I’d handled firsthand, but the setup was intuitive enough, mounted and built to hold a line.
I stepped in, hands finding the grips, making a quick correction to the angle. The first burst kicked through the mount, heavier than a rifle but steady, the recoil absorbed into the frame as I drove rounds out toward the advancing line.
“Stay put,” I called back to Abby between bursts, not looking back.
I fired again, shorter this time, controlled, tracking movement instead of chasing it, forcing them to slow, to take cover, to think twice about pushing any closer.
I leaned in, picking off Carlisis men advancing just beyond the fence. Below, someone shouted for suppression. Another voice answered. The compound responded, pressure intensifying along the line where hostiles were pushing hardest.
Something detonated near the main gate. The impact punched through the yard a heartbeat before the shock hit the tower, shuddering the structure hard enough to knock me off balance. My hand slipped on the grip, my boot scraping across the metal floor before I caught myself against the railing.
Debris lifted then fell, dust filling the space between us and them until everything beyond a certain distance blurred into movement and shadow. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, blinked the grit away, and forced my focus through it.
Thomas had moved, no longer where he’d been. I told myself if he’d been hurt, Taylor and Tyler would be crowded around him or dragging him away. Naomi and Iberra were also missing from their former positions, but Taylor, Tyler, and Zeke were still fighting the flames.
They’ve just moved, I assured myself.
I scanned left, then right, tracking movement along the line until I caught Thomas again farther forward than he’d been before the explosion, repositioning behind a reinforced barrier that had taken multiple hits and was beginning to fracture along the edge.
“You’re too exposed, damn it, fall back,” I hissed.
A round struck the barrier inches from his head, concrete chipping away in a violent spray. He didn’t pull back. He adjusted, fired, and moved again.
My next shots came faster. I picked a target advancing toward his position, dropping that merc bastard and three others near him before they could close the distance, then progressed to the next group, disrupting the angle long enough for Thomas to reposition.
“Move,” I said under my breath.
As if he could hear me, he rushed to a more defensible location, but I knew better than anyone he’d never leave his brothers while they were exposed and in the line of fire.
A figure broke from the smoke too close to our tower, rifle up, scanning through his sights for targets above. He wasn’t one of us, and he saw me a second too late. I released the grips of the .50 cal, shouldered my rifle, aimed, and took the shot, dropping him before he could line up his own.
“Look at you, sniper Barbie,” Kansas said. Her rifle remained trained on the same position, now without a threat to engage.
The radio at Kansas’s shoulder crackled to life. “North tower, elements are being pushed to your sector. Stand by for contact.”
“Copy that, Sta—” Kansas began.
Another heavy round hit the tower, lower this time. The structure shuddered.
“Shit!” Abby growled, hanging on to whatever she could. “We’re sitting ducks up here!”
I repositioned to keep the metal between me and the line of fire, adjusting my angle to maintain sight on the north approach without exposing myself more than necessary. I turned to check on Abby, and then Kansas, who’d used the railing to steady herself, her other hand still gripping the radio.
“You were a little late, Stan,” she grumbled into the radio, her jaw set as she leveled her rifle and aimed below.
Behind the militia’s inner fences, the flow toward the bunker had all but stopped, replaced by a steady stream of wounded being pulled back—soldiers dragged under the arms, slung over shoulders, boots scraping against the ground as they were hauled from the line.
The air carried the constant crack of gunfire mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
Calls for medics rose and collided with voices issuing orders, names and movements cutting across one another as the injured were pushed inside as fast as they could be moved.
“Abby?” I called behind me. Her gaze met mine for a fraction of a second, then fell to the carnage below.
“Get ready. You’re going to make that run soon.
Just like we talked about, okay? Take the gun.
Leave your bag. No matter what you see, you don’t stop.
Don’t even slow down. Your only responsibility is to get to the bunker in one piece.
Take Ellie down with you, and if anyone but us tries to get through the door, the two of you move everyone back to the tunnels.
” I waited half a second. “Abby!” I yelled to get her attention.
She looked back at me, only her eyes moving.
“Run. Don’t stop. Ellie. Tunnels. Do you understand? ”
“Yes,” she said, holding tighter to my nine-millimeter. “Yes, I understand.”
“Get pissed, it’s easier than fear. Remember those Carlisi bitches taking out Jim in front of your children?”
Her expression morphed from terror to wrath.
“Good. There’s no safety on a Glock. Be careful when you secure it,” I directed, and she complied, placing it carefully into her waistband. “And heavy on the in one piece part,” I added.
She breathed out a laugh, grateful for the distraction.