Smoke everywhere. Cordite strong in her nostrils. Sweat and blood and fear.
An explosion in the distance. Loud and fiery. A grenade had found its mark. Seconds later, another explosion. Somewhere far off to the west.
It was hard to figure distances and locations with the static inside her head, the dull ringing in her ears.
Even with the ear protection, the thunderous assault stunned her senses.
To the southwest, another firefight erupted from the Fall Creek Estates mobile home park.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted movement.
Units were breaking off and flanking them from the sides. Fire hitting them from the west. Rapid-fire slugs pounded in just over her head, dirt raining down on her.
Something whistled past her. A searing heat kissed the skin of her neck. Eruptions of dirt showered upward. Incoming rounds chewed into the earth all around her.
Quinn fell back, ducking beneath the lip of the foxhole, panting, heart thundering in her ears, everything tinny and far away.
“They’re maneuvering on us!” Bishop said. “They’re trying to put us in a pincer!”
The Syndicate were overwhelming Fall Creek with sheer numbers and force of power.
Rounds struck all around them. The thundering barrage never stopped. It felt like the earth itself quaking beneath her boots.
Someone screamed and went down—Robert Vinson, the pharmacist.
“Fall back!” Bishop shouted. “They’re about to surround us. We’ve got to go!”
“We’re losing!” Jonas said, his voice cracking.
Still crouching, Quinn took a trembling step backward. Her hands felt glued to her rifle. Her foot struck something soft.
Chest heaving, she dared a glance down. She’d tripped over Robert Vinson. A round had caught him in the face.
Acid clawed up the back of her throat; she nearly vomited.
“He’s gone, Quinn!” Bishop seized her arm and shoved her backward, out of the foxhole. “We’ll put ‘em in a chokehold at the bridge. Go! Go!”
“Retreat!” someone screamed. Then others took up the cry. “Retreat! Retreat!”
68
Liam
Day One Hundred and Fifteen
Liam gasped. “I’m hit.”
Luther backed up to his side. He squatted beside Liam, only half-concealed by the fridge.
A long steel counter next to the fridge separated them from the next aisle. A few counters between them and the opposition bombarding them.
Liam sat, legs splayed in front of him, back against the fridge, M4 in hand. Blood spread dark and thick beneath him.
For a heartbeat, Luther dropped his gaze to Liam. He muttered a curse. His mouth moved, the ringing in Liam’s ears too loud to make out his words.
Fresh gunfire blasted. The fridge rattled, vibrating from the strikes. Just above Luther’s head, a slug pinged off the counter. It ricocheted and punched through the far wall.
Crouching, Luther twisted around. He raised the muzzle of his carbine over the counter and returned fire. Shell casings clattered to the floor. Spent brass rolled against Liam’s useless legs.
The scent of cordite singed his nostrils. Dizziness washed through him. He gripped the M4, told himself to MOVE, DAMN IT.
Nothing happened.
Luther’s body jerked. He might have made a sound; Liam couldn’t hear it.
Luther tumbled back on his knees, chest heaving. The carbine sagged in his hands, his left arm slack.
A hole appeared in his right shoulder, a rip in his jacket beneath his armpit, a few inches to the right.
Not much blood. Blood being a lousy indicator of actual injuries. There were enough tendons, bundles of nerves, and tissue in a man’s shoulder to do plenty of damage.
The real problem was the stuff you couldn’t see—internal organs punctured, intestines shredded, tendons ripped to hell.
“I’m sorry!” Luther said. “Tell my dad—” He gave a sharp shake of his head. Like he wanted to say more but realized there was no time.
This wasn’t the movies. Bad guys didn’t wait for moving speeches.
“Go,” Liam mumbled. “Just go.”
Footsteps pounded. Getting closer.
Liam heard it as if underwater—dim shouting, distant cracks like thunder.
They’d breached the kitchen.
“Don’t—”
Luther didn’t hesitate. Leaping to his feet, he turned to face the onrushing hostiles beyond the counter.
Rifle butt propped against his stomach, firing one-handed, he unleashed a spray of firepower. Rounds exploded from the barrel. With a muzzle velocity of over 2900 feet per second, the slugged ripped through anything in their path.
Distant booms shook the room. The tile floor quaked beneath him.
Liam held the carbine against his shoulder, biceps trembling from the exertion. Finger on the trigger. His muscles straining. The pain hit him in unrelenting waves.
The gunfire ceased. Smoke drifted in the air.
Silence, but for the dull buzzing in his head.
His pulse hammered in his throat. He waited, unable to move, to get up and fight.
He couldn’t see anything beyond his limited line of sight. The bullet-pocked cabinets across the aisle. The steel doors dented and dinged.
Blood rushed in his ears. Dread slicked his insides.
“Luther,” he said hoarsely.
No sound. No response. None that he could hear.
He tugged on the man’s pant leg. Tugged harder. Nothing.
Liam forced himself to wait. He strained to hear, but his senses were muted. Still no sound or movement that he could discern.
When enough time had passed, he moved.
With the fridge as leverage, he managed to scoot sideways. He looked up.
Luther slumped facedown across the counter. Still standing—only because the countertop bore the weight of his listless upper half.
Unconscious or dead? Liam wasn’t sure.
He leaned the carbine against the cabinet within easy reach, then used the counter to pull himself up. From the waist down, he was numb. His legs two sacks of concrete attached to his torso.
Using his upper body strength, muscles straining from the effort, he raised himself far enough to see over the lip and scanned for threats.