Chapter 16 #2
"You're gonna army crawl under the trailers that way," he points perpendicular to the long axis of the row, indicating that I'm supposed to head across the width of the pier. I'll draw their fire."
"Killian, fuck that. I'm not—"
Fury suffuses his features, and he grabs the back of my neck and squeezes, shakes. "You're gonna fucking go, Story. I'm not asking. I don't plan on dying, but I sure as fuck will not let them have you. I'll die first."
"Killy, I’m not leaving you."
"If you love me at all, you will." He leaves no more room for discussion, turning and firing. He has my rifle across his back and a pistol in each back pocket, pistol magazines bulging his hip pockets and stuffed into his vest.
A hot snap past my ear brings my attention back to the bad guys, and I fire back, missing but keeping their heads down. I turn back to Killian, but he's kneeling and driving burst after burst at the cluster of SUVs.
"FUCKING GO!" He screams, glancing at me over his shoulder. "You promised!"
"NOT THIS!" I yell back, cracking off several quick shots to keep the flanking squad behind cover. "I NEVER SAID I'D LEAVE YOU!"
Rounds stitch the concrete in a line of shard-spewing craters, walking toward him as he fires, fires, fires, and he doesn't so much as flinch even when the last round of the burst spits concrete at him from less than a foot from his toes.
He fires back, and then tosses that rifle aside and swings mine around.
He glances at me over his shoulder, and the ragged desperation on his face is what sells me on obeying his plea.
"Story. Please. I'm begging you. I will fight to my last breath to live and, if necessary, escape again to get back to you.
But you have to get the fuck out of here before they rush us.
" He pops off a burst while I send a few rounds in the other direction, and then he cups the back of my head, shoves the backpack at me. Kisses me, quick and hard. "Please go."
I choke. "Killy. No. I love you. I'm not—"
"You fucking are," he snaps. "Me, worst case, they do some mean shit to me and then kill me.
I'll fight like a fuckin' savage, I swear.
I'll do my goddamndest to get to you. But you gotta go.
They get their hands on you, it's a fate worse than death.
I'll shoot you my fuckin' self before I let them have you. "
I can't breathe.
"Killy, I…" I squeeze my eyes shut. "This goes against everything I am."
He nips my lower lip. "I know. But it's how it has to be." He turns away, fires. Turns back. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to me, okay? These fuckin' goons don't stand a chance. You know why?" His gaze sears mine. "Because I refuse to die until I've made love with you at least once."
"God, Killy."
"Now for the last fucking time, woman. Go!" The last word is a sharp, intense, growled half-shout.
I shrug the backpack on and tighten the straps, grip my pistol, pause. Kiss him, quick and soft, just a hint of tongue. "I love you."
"I know." He winks at me, cocky and suave, as if we're at a club instead of in the middle of a gunfight we don't stand a chance at winning.
For once, being vertically challenged comes in clutch—I'm short enough that I can run at a decent pace underneath the trailers, albeit hunched double.
Anyone taller would have to damn near crawl.
I refuse to look back. I hear Killy firing with renewed intensity, his bursts long and the pauses between them short.
Don't look back.
Don't look back.
Don't look back.
Just keep going.
Just keep going.
The line of trailers seems endless; Killy told me to cross the width of the pier away from the cluster of SUVs, but I opt to put some distance between us first, moving, perhaps stupidly, toward the pier's seaward end.
But when I finally reach the end of the row and straighten—to the relief of my back—I've come a lot further than I thought.
The sound of gunfire is now at least a quarter mile behind me, and the muzzle flashes are small bright spots in the distance.
Even as I watch from the front corner of the trailer, one of the muzzle flashes swings upward before abruptly going dark—another one falling to Killy's marksmanship.
I should go back.
Circle around the other side and hit them from behind.
I could, I realize.
There's another lot full of parked cars on the other side of the pier. I could cross here, make my way back down the other way, find a likely spot, and start picking them off from behind.
The more I consider this, the better it seems.
Fuck running away.
Feeling a bit better about myself with this decision made, I wait until the mercenaries are focused on shooting at Killian to stroll, as brazenly as you please, across the pier, hoping the distance and the looming darkness of onrushing night will hide my passage.
I reach the first line of parked cars without incident, crouch next to a dust-caked green Lancia sedan, and slow my breathing.
I only let myself pause for a handful of seconds and then push myself back into a crouched jog down the aisle between rows of cars.
The chatter and rattle and crackle of automatic weapons fire grows louder and louder once more; Killy is out of ammunition for the MP-5, I assume, since the return fire comes in semiautomatic rhythm, single shots fired in fast succession, single shots and the occasional pair or trio.
I pause and peek up over the trunk of a battered blue compact pickup with a tangle of fishing netting in the bed; I'm a couple hundred yards away from the mercenaries' position; I need to get closer. I jog forward, pausing every so many steps to assess my surroundings. Panting and shaking with nerves, I take another peek—I’m even with them now.
Less than a hundred yards of open concrete separates me from the mercenaries. Easy pickings.
I check the load on the pistol in my hand—it's a battered old Glock, one that looks like it's been thrown out of a car, maybe sat at the bottom of a pond for a few years next to The One Ring, and then got run over by a bulldozer.
Knowing a Glock, it'll probably fire, but I feel like since I have options…
I rummage in the bag and find a nearly new Colt M1911. Not my personal favorite handgun, but better than that thug special. It takes another paw-through to find the spare mags that go with it, since there's both 9mm and .45cal in there.
As long as I hear Killian's steady, rhythmic crack…
crack…crack…crack of his pistol, I know he's okay.
I crouch with my back against the front passenger-side tire of the pickup and take three slow breaths to steady my nerves.
Don't rush—I hear Dad's voice in my head almost as if he’s crouched beside me, a hand on my shoulder as I lay on a hill, scope targeting an elk: "Never rush your shot, liebchen.
Nerves make misses. Control your breathing.
Steady your hand. Remember, slow is smooth and smooth is fast. I have learned this from your American soldiers, many years ago. Now. Breathe, aim, squeeze."
I pivot around to a knee, brace the elbow of my supporting hand on my upraised knee, take aim at the human-shaped blob of shadows that is a body at this distance in this light; I wait until my target is faintly illuminated by the staccato flashes of muzzleburst. Inhale.
Curl my finger around the trigger, gently take up the slack.
CRACK!
My pistol bucks; the blob drops. I move away from the truck in a low crouch, jogging up the line of cars and taking up a position against the front quarter panel of a rusted red hatchback; the windows are cracked open to let out the heat, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke wafts out, turning my already-queasy stomach.
I wait a few beats and then drop to my belly and take aim from under the front bumper.
A muzzle flashes yellow in the darkness, and I aim just above it. Inhale, take up slack, exhale…CRACK!
I roll to my back and curl upright to my feet, doing the crouched shuffle-run back the other way, down the row to a new position a good ten yards further down than my first.
I hear Killian firing, firing—a pause to reload.
During that reload pause, I settle on a knee and take up my firing stance, waiting until Killian has reloaded and starts shooting again—the idea is that they won’t realize too quickly that there’s another shooter if I synch my shots with Killy’s and keep changing my position.
Eventually, they'll cotton on, I assume, but I hope to reduce the odds a bit until then.
The brief silence as everyone reloads at the same time is one of those weird idiosyncrasies of a firefight.
I see the flash of Killian's muzzle—contrary to Hollywood convention, the muzzle flash of a 9mm handgun is not a big fireball in the darkness but rather a brief, bright spark.
The unsuppressed barrels of the assault rifles being fired by the mercs, on the other hand, are a much brighter and much larger flare of orange-yellow starburst light.
Killian's muzzle flash is just bright enough to give away his position, but he's smart and savvy enough to crack off a shot or two and duck back behind cover as fast as possible.
All at once, the mercenaries open fire in a sustained barrage.
At first, I'm confused by the change in tactics—until now, they've seemed content to try and keep him pinned down.
In the hopes that he'll run out of ammo before they do, I would assume. Which, to be honest, is a solid strategy. They just haven’t factored in my little gambit.
I see the plan, now though—in the quick flashes of illumination, I see a patch of shadows peel away from the group and slink around to try and flank him again.
The sound of sirens has ceased, I realized. And yet, no cops.