Chapter 34 – Ivan
Me: It's time.
The absence of the moon turned the water of Lake Michigan black.
It rolled thick and bubbling, stretching out to meet the eastern horizon.
Logic said it was cool and crisp, but from my vantage point it seemed to be a vat of hot, oozing tar.
The smell wasn’t pleasant either. Somewhere, down on the shore, was at least one rotten fish.
The wind picked up the scent and carried it over to add a brackish flavor to our evening.
With a crew of two dozen men, I faced the biker bar. The head of the fucking Polish mob was in there. The rat dealt in flesh and drugs. It wouldn’t surprise me to find girls tied in the basement. Which was the reason we weren’t blasting holes in the side of the building.
The smoke bombs, however, were a stroke of tactical genius.
On my count, the men threw them. Windows shattered in a high-pitched chorus. Shouts became the melody, while the boom of several baritones rose in a sweet accompaniment.
I pressed the butt of the semi-automatic rifle into my shoulder. The moment a man burst through the front door, I paused for half a second to spot the leather cut. It marked him as prey.
Shots opened in a rapid staccato, mine the first to lead the song.
The shooting didn’t last long, because the bikers retreated from the windows and doors. Coughs and raised voices flitted from the interior.
“Move!” I commanded.
As one, the brave souls who’d sworn themselves to me advanced.
Behind the broken glass, muzzles flashed as they aimed blindly. The majority of us had military service from stints spent in the Old World conflicts. The vehicles in the parking lot provided excellent cover for us to move safely toward the target.
White light ripped through the dark, arching over the back of the building. A terrifying boom rang out a heartbeat later.
I sprinted forward.
Rayko launched another flash grenade into the front. I averted my gaze as the bang clapped the air.
I began shooting a moment later.
Bikers dropped like flies. A few lay on the floor, twitching or convulsing. My bullets showed them mercy, ending their torment.
Above, the light fixture flickered, fuses shorting out. It only added to the macabre chaos.
Blood slicked the floor as we closed formation.
“Clear!” Boris shouted from the back entrance.
“Clear,” I responded, not seeing any more rats.
But there were the back offices, and the places the Poles led ‘church’ every week.
“Downstairs.” I jerked my chin to Rayko.
My second nodded and took a group of four men to the basement to check for captives.
Meanwhile, I marched to the meeting room. Boris met me at the opposite end of the hall.
“That was easy, boss.” He grinned.
The heavy sickness of dread fell around me.
I crossed myself against the bad words and hissed, “Quiet.”
My soldier had forgotten his days in the military. We never said things like that until it was time for drinks and toasts in the hours that followed combat. To say it on the field of battle was to tempt fate or some cruel deity to reverse the strokes of good fortune.
I kicked on the locked door. The force jarred my bones, sending a bolt of pain up my knee. A violent curse flew past my lips. It wasn’t just locked, it was reinforced.
“Grenade,” I ordered Boris.
No sooner did he turn on his heels than gunfire erupted from the bowels of this hell.
Rayko!
Before I could turn to help my friend, the office door ripped open.
The shotgun blast from within caught Boris in the back. He crumpled.
I raised my rifle, firing off several rounds in quick succession.
The shotgun responded with another deafening boom.
My arm…tickled.
The rifle fell slack against my body, because I couldn’t hold it with my trigger finger. I pressed my back flat against the wall, ignoring the trails of crimson tears spewing down my numb limb.
A face appeared in the office door. I grabbed my pistol with my left hand and fired.
The biker fell.
Shouts in a language I assumed was Polish warbled in the office.
The next moment, wood splintered two feet from where I stood. The bastards were shooting through the paneled wall, trying to hit me.
I pulled the rifle strap over my head, and when the shotgun sang next, I dropped it. Just as I anticipated, a head peeped in the hole. My pistol was ready, and the rat’s beady eyes became a mushy hole.
Dropping to a squat, I moved again as the shotgun screamed, ripping hole after hole in the wall.
When it paused to take a breath, and the shooter to reload, I flung myself in the doorway and emptied my clip.
The shooter hit the floor with three others, but I had to dive back to safety when his friend opened fire on me with a handgun.
He was the only one left.
The hall blurred. I tried to blink it away, but a wave of nausea rolled through me. I slammed the fresh clip into the gun and clenched my molars tight. Fuck blood loss! I was not passing out until every single patched member was dead.
My legs shook as I tried to duck walk to an opening. I didn’t notice the ringing in my ears until the bastard’s war cry at the open door made me aware that he’d moved. The sound had been muted by my own survival instinct.
The trigger decompressed under my finger.
Two shots rang out.
As the world tilted sideways, my only thought was of my family—my son and my flower.