Betrayal Page 12

  Ali shook his head, his thick African accent coloring his words. “None. The Director said she was leaving this to us. This has to be Seymour’s work. He either is tying up loose ends with Sara, taking her out of the picture lest she give up anything on him, or he found out we were coming. Either way, we cannot hold back an assault of that size.”

  DJ nodded. “Fine. We take the tunnels out of here and live to fight another day.”

  Carbon disagreed, worry causing his voice to waver. “Can’t. Whoever it is, they must know about the back way out of this place. I count four people watching the manway at the exit. Anyone popping out of the tunnels won’t have a chance.”

  Cash voiced the only other option available. “We can stay here, make this room our last stand.”

  DJ shook his head. “We wouldn’t last long. These walls are sheet rock. They wouldn’t even have to breach. They could just lay down sweeping fire at knee level and kill us all from a distance.”

  Ali checked Sara’s confiscated Scorpion, slinging his own AR rifle over his shoulder. Liking what he felt. “So, then what’s the plan?”

  DJ smiled. “Do you really have to ask?”

  Sara spoke from her position by the wall. “I might have a few toys to help even the odds.” She pointed to a wooden crate under her desk. “Check that.”

  DJ did. He liked what he saw. He liked what he saw indeed.

  __________

  Jeremy Crowder led his team of four to the door located on the northern edge of the compound. There was no way DJ Slaughter and his tiny group could withstand the attack headed his way, no matter how amazing he was supposed to be as a gunfighter. Still, Jeremy was cautious. No need to go into this cocky. Cocky got you killed. He would normally check the door for explosives, but this was the same door DJ’s group had used for entry. He had spotted them from the roof of an abandoned supermarket two hundred meters away. He had a sniper stationed nearby and lobbied for a quick change in plans. They could have ended this right then and there. He had been overruled, of course. Sara Anderson was supposed to be inside. He was told to let them enter and engage her. There was a good chance she would blow them all to pieces and they could call it day, slipping away before the cops showed up to this decrepit section of town.

  No explosions had gone off. This meant DJ and his crew had successfully navigated any booby traps the girl had set. They probably were inside questioning her right then. So much for them all killing each other.

  Inside revealed a large room that might have been used as a reception area, and two hallways led off in different directions. They chose the one leading into the heart of the complex. At the entrance to the hall, Jeremy found the remnants of the first trap. A snipped wire at ankle high indicated DJ and his group had disarmed the device. Tracing the wire led to a claymore mounted in the ceiling. Nasty, Jeremy thought. Scanning the length of the hallway with his thermal goggles showed nothing moving. He motioned to the three others to watch for traps and began moving forward carefully, scanning for threats as he went.

  The coms tucked into his ear announced similar breaches around the building, more armed men slithering their way inside, all of them focused on one target. DJ Slaughter stood no chance. No chance at all.

  They checked each room branching off the hall as they moved, wary of an ambush. Suddenly, a flash of movement at the end of the hall. A figure sprinted past, visible for only a second. Whoever it was had not seen them, and Jeremy launched into a pursuit. He would put a couple through the shoulder blades of whoever it was fleeing. His men followed, running hard and right on his heels. All four rounded the corner, sliding on the ancient dusty floor, guns up and ready to destroy their first victim. The hallway was empty. They must have ducked into one of the three rooms just ahead.

  Jeremy’s heart sank. He had been played. He had fallen for a trap. Maybe he heard something that tipped him off. Maybe it was his sixth sense kicking in to alert him of trouble. Whatever it was, Jeremy dropped to a knee and spun about, looking for the threat he knew was behind him. He didn’t even complete the spin before a bullet tore through his jaw, the sound of shattering bone and mutilating flesh filling his ears.

  Jeremy was falling then, right alongside his men. Each one of them collapsing without firing a single round; each one stepping into death as easily as breathing. Jeremy spotted him then, DJ Slaughter, standing flatfooted in the hallway, feet shoulder-width apart, rifle slung over his back, a silenced pistol held loosely in one hand like a scene from an old western. If it weren’t for the thermal goggles strapped to the man’s head, Jeremy might have thought he had been teleported into a Zane Grey novel his great grandfather used to read. Jeremy was still alive, though. DJ’s reputed tendency for hip shooting people through the head had just then been proven more than legendary. Still, Jeremy was alive. He had to kill Slaughter. Jeremy wasn’t sure if he could live with the injuries he had sustained; he had no idea how much damage the projectile had done, but it didn’t matter. He had to try. He moved with as much speed as he could muster. DJ moved faster, the pistol held at his waist, flicking just slightly as the barrel refocused on a new target. Jeremy wasn’t sure what happened next. Jeremy wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  __________

  Agent Ali stood over the bodies in the hallway. He was impressed. He had seen DJ at his best more than once, still, it was always astonishing to witness someone as gifted as they were up close. The man was good at any distance, but within seventy-five feet, DJ fired the pistol he named MP as easily as pointing his finger and wishing his targets gone. “Nice job, DJ. Next time, you be the rabbit. By intercepting these when we did, we can get the others and escape while they think we’re still here.”

  DJ nodded. “It’s a good idea.” He unslung his AR and held it out to Ali. “Give me that Scorpion. It’s smaller and more maneuverable.” Ali did as asked and spoke over the radio, telling the others it was safe. DJ inspected the new weapon before slinging it over his back and heading further into the building.

  Ali blinked. “What are you doing? This is our break. Let’s get out of here.”

  DJ called over his shoulder. “You take the others and leave. I’ll meet up with you later.”

  Ali snapped at his friend, frustration coloring his words. “Get back here! There’s no need to prove anything.”

  DJ paused, turning to look at Ali. “It’s not about proving anything. It’s about sending a message.” With that, DJ rounded a corner and was gone. Ali punched the wall in response. What was the man thinking? He was good at close combat, sure, but this was foolish. He would never make it out of here alive by taking on that many combatants.

  A shuffling noise from behind him had Ali spinning with his gun raised, ready to kill whoever it was. Instead of more bad guys, Cash was leading Carbon and a limping Sara through a doorway. Cash stopped, seeing the look on Ali’s face. “Where’s DJ?” he leerily asked.

  Ali’s disgust was apparent. “Where do you think?”

  __________

  DJ pushed into the building carefully, on the lookout for the enemy within, doing math. Four dead guys and five rounds spent, meant he had sixteen left in MP. He had three spare mags with a total of sixty-three rounds between them. Plus, there was the newly acquired Scorpion Evo with its fifty-round mag. It wouldn’t be sighted for his eye, but the distances would be close enough that it wouldn’t matter. It had open sights, and his state-of-the-art goggles would see them perfectly. Even if Sara had never bothered to zero the weapon, it would be close enough from the factory. It might only be two inches off. Still enough for a headshot for the closeup work he was doing. Ali had guessed there were maybe fifty shooters closing in. It was likely less. He had more than enough ammunition to get the job done. He tended to only shoot when he was sure of a hit.

  He was impressed by the number of shooters that had been sent. Since the CIA had disavowed Seymour, the man would have had to reach deep into a hidden reservoir of cash to finance this hit. It would have been expensive to
hire so many men. Another thought hit him. Traitor Sam might have already handed off the drive and Seymour cashed in some of the cryptocurrency to pay for this. If that were so, once DJ caught up to him, Carbon would have to recover what was left. And there would be a lot left. Enough to satisfy Deputy Director Hartley.

  He eased up to another intersection and listened. Sure enough, he could hear the soft approach of footsteps coming down the hallway. If he waited until they reached the corner, they would be even more on guard than they probably were. He would have liked to get further in, maybe come up behind them and catch the whole group of them together. Engaging this group now meant they might radio in his position before he could kill them all. So be it, he thought. One never got to choose the cards that were dealt. You simply played the hand you had.

  DJ stepped out, picking out glowing targets with his thermal goggles quickly and firing from the hip with ease. It was another four-man team. They never got a chance to radio his position as he feared. They just died as they were supposed to.

  Twelve rounds in MP. Sixty-three in his spare mags.

  Further in, DJ approached another doorway. For a moment, he thought he heard something. He paused and listened carefully. Hearing nothing more, he edged in closer to the doorframe and peeked in, ready to retreat from gunfire. Nothing. He had been mistaken. He stepped into the doorway, seeing another open door on the opposite side of the room, intending to follow it.

  The room was a thirty-foot square. It looked to have at one time been a break room for employees. There was cabinetry on the far side room. Some of the doors were missing, others hanging askew by ruined hinges. Graffiti decorated every portion, and trash littered the place. There were still tables and chairs, flipped, scattered, and on their sides. He stepped into the room, heading for the other side, and realized his mistake. The tables all had their tops pointed in his general direction. They had been set up as cover for people to hide behind. As one, guns began peeking over the tops and rounds started to fly. They had known he was coming. While no one had said anything over a radio, this group must have heard him. Silenced gunfire wasn’t silent, after all.

  He reversed and drove right along the hallway, narrowly avoiding the gunfire intended for him. He kept going, knowing the sheet rock walls would offer only concealment and no protection. Bullets ripped through, walking their way from the door and in the direction he had gone. He had a choice. He could continue running, or he could wait for the pause in gunfire and attack. He liked the latter option the best. It was time to use the equalizers picked up in Sara’s office.

  Stashed in a box under her desk were eight hand grenades. They were NATO issue and ones he was familiar with. This meant he knew they had a five-second fuse. He pulled the first one from his vest and removed the pin. DJ waited for the hail of bullets to pause, released the spoon, counted off two seconds, and raced back across the opening, hurling the grenade into the room as he went. Inside, men were coming out of concealment and heading for the door with weapons raised. His reversal in direction caught them off guard. There was gunfire, but nothing that came close.

  Only a second passed from his throw before the explosive went off. The sound was deafening, a mighty thunderclap that would have rendered him deaf if not for the high-tech earpieces he wore. They served to not only communicate with his team but to save his hearing from the noises of battle and training. Even with hearing protection, the blast was loud. Shrapnel ripped through the walls, some of it peppering him. He felt a burning in his right leg and the back of his neck. It was nothing to slow him down, however, as he reversed course once more and charged into the room.

  Three were clearly dead, the remaining five injured, some gravely. He finished them off with little fight, a single bullet ending them all. The last managed to get off a shot, hitting DJ square in the chest, causing him to stagger as the projectile impacted his plate carrier. Shame, DJ thought, the man should have gone for the head. DJ put his answering round just below the idiot’s left eye.

  Four rounds left in MP. Sixty-three in his spare mags.

  DJ performed a hot mag swap, leaving twenty-two rounds in his pistol and two full spare mags. He positioned the next grenade for easy access and moved through the far door as intended.

  He was met instantly with four more adversaries. The first was practically in his face, the man’s weapon inches from DJ’s cheek. He reacted instantly, moving his head to the right and pushing the man’s barrel to the left. It let out a short string of gunfire through its silenced front end and they flew harmlessly to the side. DJ placed MP under the man’s chin and squeezed the trigger, the dead man falling to DJ’s left. The next man received nearly the same punishment. DJ extended his arm, placing his pistol against the man’s lips, and fired again. The last two men were shooting back then, through the body of the dead man in front of them but DJ retreated into the breakroom. He was there for a moment, putting six rounds through the wall, walking them sideways, hoping to at least injure them. He stepped forward once more and into the hallway beyond. His enemies were retreating. They saw him and fired at nearly the same time as DJ. It did little good. DJ dropped both with two more quick shots.

  Twelve rounds left in MP. Forty-two in his spare mags, plus the four in his nearly depleted mag. Still plenty enough ammo to make them wish they never took this job.

  At the end of the hallway, more people appeared. He ducked into the room and pulled the pin on a grenade. Leaning into the hallway briefly, DJ chucked the thing as far forward as he could. Ducking back into the room once more, he imagined the combatants at the end of the hallway were scrambling like pigs at a bacon convention. He performed another hot mag swap before the grenade went off, then charged down the hallway as fast as he could, hoping to catch them off guard.

  The room was two stories tall and looked to be part of the manufacturing floor during the original construction. Rusting walkways stretched overhead, dividing the space into large cubes. Remnants of machinery, some of it still bolted to the floor, others laying scattered about like refuse, filled the place. Large steel tanks, chains, pulleys, and other things DJ couldn’t identify, made the place feel creepy and ominous. The ceiling was comprised of peaked skylights, many of them broken or missing. Light from a nearly full moon cascaded from above like many fingers, poking through the thin dust that hung in the air like light fog. Even though he was wearing thermal goggles, it was still visible, casting an ethereal, otherworldly gloom over the space.

  Immediately in front was one dead soldier and another who had been downed but was reaching for a fallen weapon. DJ took him out with a pull of the trigger, blood spraying from behind his head as the round passed through. Spotting no one else, DJ raced for the side of a concrete pedestal off to one side, the base for a piece of missing machinery that had once perched on top. A blast of full-auto gunfire came from somewhere to his left as he slid in behind, bullets ricocheting off the corner of the concrete. He peeked once to see where it was coming from and nearly took one through the face for his efforts.

  “Be more careful,” DJ mumbled to himself.

  His peek had verified at least four shooters hiding behind a concrete retaining wall, all lined up in a row about fifty feet away. He would have trouble picking them off one at a time. So, DJ pulled another grenade, yanked out the pin, and tossed it overhead as high and as far as he could.

  The thing always overlooked in the movies was just how heavy a grenade was. On-screen depiction showed the heroes hurling them great distances like baseballs. That was a farce. A baseball is just over five ounces. A grenade is three times as much, coming in at about a pound. It’s like a small shotput. One did not fire it in like a baseball, you could injure yourself that way. You lobbed it in a long arc when distance was required. Luckily, DJ worked out. The distance wasn’t an issue here. The overhead catwalks were. The grenade landed on a steel-grated walkway halfway to his target. “Crap,” DJ muttered, and tucked in as close to the concrete pedestal as he could get.

&nb
sp; The grenade went off with its standard clap of thunder, sending shards of metal in all directions, including DJ’s. One of them dented the top of his steel-toed boots, pinching his toes. For a split second, he panicked, thinking he had blown part of his foot off. Seeing the damage was only superficial, DJ popped up, caught another person in the face with a well-placed shot, and dropped back down before the dead man’s friends had a chance at payback. The answering gunfire skipped across the top of the pedestal, causing one of the soldiers to swear and call DJ a quite inventive combination of swear words. At least his adversaries were creative with colorful metaphors.

  Crouching next to the concrete base, DJ caught a flash of movement from the doorway he had come through. A person peeked in, darting his head out and back again. Then he leaned out once more, swinging a rifle up. DJ drilled him in the forehead before the man had a chance to fire.

  Nineteen rounds left in MP. One full spare. Two partials. Four rounds in one, twelve in the other.

  Knowing the man at the door wasn’t alone, they seemed to be traveling in groups of four, DJ pulled another grenade, let the spoon fly, and tossed it through the opening. Before it had a chance to go off, he readied the Scorpion: pulling the strap over his head and resting the weapon on the floor.

  DJ did some math in his head while he freed himself from the submachinegun, waiting for the grenade to do its thing. When he entered the room, there was one dead guy, another DJ killed, and four hiding behind the retaining wall. That was six. If they traveled in groups of four, where were the other two? DJ felt the hair stand on the back of his neck. They must be trying to flank him. But from where?

  There was a shouted curse from the hallway and the grenade blew. Five seconds was a long time in the world of combat.

  He couldn’t stay here any longer. He was pinned down. It was only a matter of time before the missing men flanked him and ended his vigilante vendetta. He had to move. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stood.