Chapter 14
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Texas
Flint pressed his back against the rough-hewn wall and assessed the situation as rapidly as possible. His nose wrinkled when he caught a whiff of limestone that smelled like damp earth as the cold seeped through his jacket.
Tool marks scarred the stone walls as if picks and chisels had carved the space from bedrock. Moisture beaded on the limestone surface and water dripped steadily into puddles on the uneven floor.
“You’ve been in worse spots. All you gotta do is survive the next sixty seconds,” he murmured aloud. But it wasn’t so simple, and he knew it.
Angular shadows fell across the concrete steps in the pale afternoon light, and he flattened himself against the wall.
Every sound echoed in the confined space like whispers in a cathedral. Which meant to stay undiscovered he barely moved.
A shadow appeared in the doorway, backlit against the daylight streaming down from above. Flint noted the man’s gear and his rifle aimed and ready.
Before he could see the attacker’s head, Flint aimed and squeezed the trigger.
The shot echoed through the limestone chamber like a cannon blast bouncing off the stone walls. It hammered his eardrums. Smoke burned his nostrils.
The point man dropped instantly.
His rifle clattered down the concrete steps.
The harsh metallic ringing seemed to go on forever in Flint’s ears, making sounds difficult to discern.
Shouts erupted outside. Heavy boots scrambled across gravel.
The wounded man groaned.
“Man down!” one of his cronies called out. “Medic! I need a medic over here!”
The injured man struggled to wiggle out of his vest and slapped both hands over his bleeding wound. His voice was weak and barely audible. “Tom, I’m hit bad.”
Flint stayed in position with his pistol aimed at the entrance. He waited for the next attempt. His breathing came fast and shallow in the confined space while sweat stung his eyes despite the cool underground air.
More voices. Tactical commands barked in crisp language. A communication style Flint appreciated in combat.
“Flank left around the building,” the team leader ordered. “Cover that entrance.”
A moment later, someone dragged the wounded man back from the entrance. His boots scraped against concrete. They pulled him clear, but he’d died in the process.
The sounds above faded to whispers, then silence.
The man’s rifle lay on the floor near the stairs. A modified AR-15. Flint could barely see the grip and stock from his position in the dim light. He made out black polymer furniture. Extended magazine. Optics mounted on the rail system.
Flint moved fast. Three quick steps. The limestone walls seemed to press close on either side. He grabbed the rifle and the vest, solid, familiar, and reassuring in his hands.
He scrambled back to his defensive position before the outside team reacted.
“Movement in the target area,” one of them called out.
Much better odds now.
The cellar felt smaller with the rifle in his hands. The barrel length forced him to keep even closer to the wall, but the firepower advantage was worth suffering the cramped conditions.
“We know you’re in there.” The team leader again. Calm but pointed. His words echoed down through the entrance. “Let’s discuss this like adults.”
Flint said nothing. No point in conversation with people trying to kill him. His breath misted in the cool air. The stone walls absorbed sound from outside and amplified every noise.
The leader continued. “Nobody else needs to get hurt today. We just want to talk.”
Long pause.
He made out radio chatter too quiet to hear clearly or understand.
Flint surmised the team was regrouping to plan their next move, which was worrisome. He scanned his position again.
The storm cellar had been built to last. Limestone blocks fitted together with minimal mortar. The ceiling was low enough that he could reach up and touch the wooden beams that supported the entrance.
“Your call,” the team leader warned Flint after losing patience with his powers of persuasion. “Easy way or hard way. What’s it going to be?”
Flint checked the rifle. Thirty-round magazine. Three spares from the vest. Full automatic capability. Standard military loadout. The weapon had been well-maintained. Clean action. No visible wear.
As satisfied as possible with his position, Flint readied himself and waited.
The second assault came swiftly.
“All units, fire on three,” the leader threatened Flint and commanded his team simultaneously. “One... two... execute!”
Instantly, fire flew toward the entrance from multiple positions. Muzzle flashes were visible through the entrance like strobe lights.
Flint detected the sharp rifle cracks mixed with the deeper noise of shots from automatic weapons. Once they began, Flint assessed capabilities and fighting strength.
Not as good as he’d expected. Which was more than okay.
Rounds that actually managed to enter through the open space sparked off limestone walls. White chips flew like shrapnel. The stone absorbed most of the impact while fragments stung his face and hands.
A second man rushed the entrance as four men provided cover fire. He stood a moment too long in the open.
Flint put two rounds center mass this time because the man was standing and well lit, which gave him two clear shots.
The shooter’s body armor absorbed some impact but the hydrostatic shock from the pressure wave assured that he’d never move again. His body tumbled down the steps, coming to a full stop at the bottom and blocking the small walkway.
“Man down!”
The gunfire stopped abruptly.
The sudden silence was almost as jarring as the gunfire.
More shouting. Angry voices fueled by adrenaline and astonishment. The practiced calm was cracking. Flint grinned.
They’d lost two men already. How many were they willing to sacrifice?
“This was supposed to be a simple extraction,” one of the team complained loudly in the strange silence.
“Nothing’s simple with this guy,” another replied.
“What’s the plan now, boss?”
Flint settled in to wait. His defensive position was nearly perfect. Single point of entry. Stone walls thick enough to stop rifle rounds. Clear field of fire at anyone else foolish enough to try those steps.
The only weakness in his current position was that he had no escape route. He shrugged. Nothing he could do about that now.
He’d counted six voices earlier. Now, two were permanently silenced. Four more.
The air inside the cellar grew thicker with gun smoke and stone dust. Every breath tasted like limestone grit and burned powder. Sweat soaked his shirt despite the underground chill.
“Won’t be long now,” he murmured.
He’d barely muttered the words when he heard them discussing gas canisters. Tear gas or some kind of crowd control agent, no doubt.
Metal clinked against metal. They were preparing weapons. What kind?
“Deploy on my signal,” the leader said loudly, and then issued quiet final instructions too low to understand.
A man with canisters rushed forward and appeared briefly at the entrance.
Flint shot him before he could deploy the weapons.
Three rounds slammed the man high in the chest. He fell back and dropped the canisters. All three clanged on the steps as they rolled and bounced down.
They came to rest against the body at the bottom but didn’t activate.
The voices outside grew heated. Flint caught fragments of an argument.
Panic. Excellent.
“Three men down,” one said. “This is bullshit.”
“Shut up and do your job,” the leader snapped harshly.
Professionalism predictably gave way to anger and impatience when the team wasn’t as well trained as expected. Flint allowed himself a quick smirk.
“Two-man entry,” the leader called. “Continuous fire until we’re in position.”
Thanks for the warning, pal.
A moment later, two men rushed forward from different angles. One high. One low. Both moved fast and shot continuously.
Muzzle flashes lit the entrance like flash lightning.
Stone chips flew from the steps where bullets struck.
Flint waited for the right moment and took the high man first. Two quick shots. He fell backward, away from the entrance.
Then Flint shifted to the low man who was scrambling for cover.
He fell backward up the steps, firing as he went.
Flint seized the moment to take him out. He fell, blocking the entrance.
Both targets were done before they’d made it anywhere close to his position.
Five down. Flint grinned.
Even the wind had died to nothing. The only sounds were Flint’s breathing and the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness behind him.
He’d been careful with his ammunition. Twenty-three rounds left in the current magazine. Three full spares. Enough for a sustained fight if necessary.
But the fight seemed to be over. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light from above.
Still, he waited. Flint excelled when patience was required.
Was the field clear?
Could be a trap or total withdrawal.
Either way, the cellar had kept him alive. No point in getting careless now.
He waited a full twenty minutes of complete silence.
He heard no human activity anywhere nearby.
Even the insects had gone quiet. The afternoon light from above grew softer. Clouds passed across the light he could see from the entrance.
Time to find out what was going on. He couldn’t stay in the limestone cave forever.
Flint moved to the entrance. He listened carefully. Nothing.
The stone steps felt solid under his boots as he climbed around the fallen.
Rifle ready, he scanned for threats.
Each step moved him closer to the surface and whatever waited above.
When his head cleared the entrance, he scanned quickly and then thoroughly.
The farmhouse yard was once again vacant. Five bodies were scattered in the area around the cellar’s entrance.
No movement anywhere else.
Blood soaked into the hard-packed earth.
Gear lay abandoned where the men had fallen.
Flint moved carefully, using the ruined farmhouse for cover.
Broken boards and shattered glass crunched under his feet.