Slugs punched through drywall, peppering the metal shelving and cabinets.
A scream as a man was hit.
The hostiles ducked for cover, their return fire going spotty.
Time to move.
Liam limped past Luther into the kitchen, slicing the pie as he went. Cautiously, he stepped over several bodies. The floor beneath them slick with blood.
It was like slogging through molasses. His legs dragged, full of cement. His arms made of lead. His hands trembled as he pressed the carbine to his shoulder.
Luther moved past the threshold, entered the kitchen and swung left, weapon up. Clear.
Liam turned right. He took the corner and swept back to the center of the room. Clear.
At a crouch, they moved forward into the massive kitchen, past shelves and counters, sweeping back and forth. Heart in his throat, he checked left then right, scanning for threats.
The battery-operated lanterns had been knocked to the floor. The watery light reflected off steel, throwing wavering shapes and shadows. His mouth was bone-dry.
Rounds snapped past their heads.
Luther dove behind a stove the size of a steam engine. Liam flung himself after him.
They returned fire. Liam did a tactical reload, ejecting the not-quite-spent magazine and inserting the fresh one into the mag well. Luther lobbed a vicious volley at the bullet-riddled doorway.
A pause in the enemy fire as they reloaded spent magazines. Their opponents had to be running low.
Luther covered Liam as he scurried across several yards of open space. He crawled along a long counter and dove behind a massive refrigerator.
Pain hamstrung him. Every second felt like a minute, his movements slow and sluggish.
Liam checked the service door—now in sight ten yards to his left. He knelt, half turned, and provided cover fire as Luther bent double and sprinted toward him.
A stray round pinged off the top of the fridge.
Liam ducked—
“Behind you!” Luther shouted.
A sense of movement.
Two shadows burst from the service entrance to his left.
Liam dropped onto his back as rounds screamed over his head. Swinging the M4 around, finger already squeezing the trigger. He opened fire on the hostiles attempting to flank him.
The M4 stitched lead up their torsos. Spent brass clattered across the tile floor.
Blood sprayed from the first hostile’s throat. The second toppled but fired as he fell.
Slugs peppered the fridge inches from Liam’s face. Shrapnel shredded his cheek. An intense sting like a thousand needles piercing his flesh.
Alarmed, he climbed to his feet, scanning frantically. He scrambled for cover from the crossfire. They were being fired upon from at least two directions. Maybe three— Pop! Pop!
A sharp pain in his spine. His legs turned to water. He sagged, flopping against the fridge like a fish out of water.
He twisted, got the carbine up, and aimed for the new threat at his six.
Three yards behind him, to his left, Luther spun on one knee. He fired three-round bursts.
With a scream, a man dressed in black fatigues tumbled from behind a stainless-steel counter. The suppressed pistol slid from his hand.
As he fell, Liam stitched the rest of his magazine into him. The man slumped to the floor.
In the mayhem, a hostile must have escaped the entrance bottleneck unseen. He’d circled around behind them before opening fire.
He was dead now, but he’d done his damage.
Luther fired twice more and scuttled across the open tile. He squatted at Liam’s side, pressing his back against the fridge door, breathing hard. “I’ll cover you! Go!”
But Liam couldn’t go.
His legs would not work. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything from his waist down. Numbness spread like white fire.
“Liam!” Luther cried.
With one hand, Liam fumbled at his back. Warm, sticky liquid smeared his fingers.
He’d been shot.
67
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Fifteen
Quinn raised the rifle to her shoulder and pressed the stock to her cheek.
Her hands trembled. She willed them to steady. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck.
Hundreds of pairs of headlights barreled closer and closer. Engines gunning. The roar louder and louder.
“God be with us,” Bishop said.
Several dozen belt-fed machine guns opened fire simultaneously. A rapid boom-boom-boom like cracks of thunder. Like the sky itself ripping open.
It was the loudest sound she’d ever heard. Rounds riddled the barricade as the Fall Creek fighters screamed and ducked. Dust rained down. Pings and thuds as bullets impacted all around her.
The main element thrust toward them. A secondary element of about forty vehicles broke off and left the main road, rumbling down the grassy embankment, paralleling the river as they searched for a way to flank them.
Eventually, they’d succeed.
Heart in her throat, chest pounding, she searched for targets.
She found two figures darting between a stalled truck and a minivan on the highway and lined up her sights, aimed and fired.
Missed. Adjusted her aim.
Steady, steady. Aim. Exhale. Squeeze the damn trigger, girl!
This time, the lead figure jerked. She squeezed three rounds in quick succession, and he fell down.
She blinked sweat from her eyes and searched for the next one through her scope. His companion was long gone.
She focused on the muzzle flashes in the gray pre-dawn, took careful aim just below the flash and squeezed the trigger in short bursts.
An enemy muzzle went dark. She searched for her next target.
Every time a figure dropped, five popped up to replace him.
Someone was shouting. A male voice screamed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t take her eyes from the scope or cease firing.
Her magazine ran dry. She ducked down, fumbling to eject the empty one. It dropped to the ground. No time to pick it up. She grabbed a fresh one and slapped it in, charged the bolt.
Up on her knees, searching for the next target, aiming and firing.