Van paused behind a sedan that was little more than a blackened chassis with melted tires. He plucked a grenade from his tac vest. “Grenade out!”
O’Neil heard the clunk of the grenade against the asphalt as it landed between a pair of the Russians, their faces lit up in the flash of muzzle fire. Half a second later, a blaze of light erupted between them, both thrown forward from the blast.
As another Russian ran for cover from the explosion, O’Neil stitched his back with rounds. The man went tumbling forward, scraping across the asphalt.
Return fire chiseled into the concrete barrier, forcing O’Neil to duck once more. He signaled to Tate to find another position, and they both ran at a hunch toward a sedan about twenty feet to their east. Loeb and Van provided cover fire all the while.
O’Neil hit the next position, his heart thumping, sending a gout of adrenaline through his body. Time seemed to slow as he posted up and took shot after shot, doing his best to hold the Russians back. Those that were still left had firmly entrenched themselves behind the concrete barriers.
They fired and maneuvered to new defensive positions every time the SEAL teams tried to get a bead on them.
These weren’t inexperienced fighters, and they were nothing like the kamikaze-adept Skulls they’d been engaging for months.
In fact, once the initial surprise of the ambush wore off, the Russian soldiers fought back with an intensity and skill O’Neil hadn’t faced in years. No Taliban fighters, no group of Al Qaeda bastards moved with such precision and pressure, constantly forcing O’Neil to re-evaluate his own team’s tactics.
The Russians spread out down the barrier to prevent another unlucky grenade blast taking out more than one of their guys. Worse, they were seemingly trying to push O’Neil’s team apart, cutting them off from each other.
“Grenade!” Van yelled.
O’Neil saw it flying too late, the explosive soaring over a concrete barrier, right toward the sedan he was hiding behind. He dove to the ground, scrambling away on his knees and elbows, desperate to reach the cover of a delivery van.
The blast tore through the air before he reached it. Bits of hot metal and rock kicked up from the explosion peppered his back with a wave of heat that scorched over his skin. An intense ringing ripped through his eardrums, the sounds of battle fading.
He looked around, trying to reorient himself, struggling against the pain throbbing through his head and back. He could still move his legs and fingers.
“Tate!” he yelled. Thought he did at least.
He couldn’t hear his own voice as he looked between the tentacles of smoke and dust, blinking to refocus his vision. Tracer fire poured overheard. Rounds sparked against the carcasses of destroyed vehicles and pinged against the walls of the apartment building just beyond.
“Tate!”
Then he saw movement, crawling forward over broken glass and stone. Tate was covered in dust but pushed himself up to his knees. Gave O’Neil a thumbs up, shouting something.
O’Neil couldn’t hear him. Just that ringing. He pointed to his ear, then shook his head.
With a signal, he got Tate to follow him to a new position, past the smoking car. They dropped to their knees again, firing back at the enemy. But with those concrete barriers in the way and being forced back from the grenade, they didn’t have clear firing lanes.
One of those Russians had set up a machine gun near one of the transport trucks, too. Rounds tore through the air, relentlessly pounding every position O’Neil tried to take.
He could see other rounds tearing into the spots where Van and Loeb had set up, too. He tried to call over the comms to Delta and Charlie, telling them they needed support now.
But with his ringing hearing, he couldn’t tell if they’d even heard him or were even in a position to help.
All he could do was fire and pray, while occasionally glancing back, looking for the pair of claws and set of teeth that would tear into his team from behind. Wondering when the Skulls would respond to the unyielding din of the intensifying battle.
They needed to end this fight. Soon. Before the Skulls did.
But O’Neil could hardly move from his position without attracting the ire of the machine gunner. He ducked low again, peering through his reflex sight, trying to find where the gunner was without getting his head torn off by gunfire. Rounds punched through the metal of a truck nearby and blasted into the concrete barrier, sending more concrete chips and dust into the air.
Then, finally, he spotted the gunner. The guy appeared to be lying prone just in front of one of the trucks, most of his body shielded by the vehicles’ huge tires.
Getting a shot on the guy would be next to impossible with the other soldiers watching for O’Neil and his team, waiting for them to pop up so they could turn the SEALs into a pulpy mess.
O’Neil’s hearing started to return. The ringing gave way to the throaty bark of the machine gun. He crawled on his belly as fragments of the concrete barriers pounded over his body, tracer fire screaming past.
Then he reached toward his tac vest. Took a grenade from it and pulled the arming ring, keeping his body low to the ground. He stole a glance though the crack between two concrete barriers, making sure his aim was right, then lobbed the grenade over toward the machine gunner.
A second later a blast rang out. Shrapnel flew and rang against the vehicles. A scream of agony wailed out from where the machine gunner had been. O’Neil pushed up from his position and immediately sighted up the writhing machine gunner. Three shots hammered into the guys’ side, and he fell completely still.
Almost as soon as he did, return fire tore into O’Neil’s position. He threw himself low again, finding a new position as Tate covered him.
The machine gunner was dead, but that left a handful of riflemen firmly rooted behind other concrete barriers and vehicles. The smell of death and the acrid odor of burning plastic and fuel stung O’Neil’s nostrils, his eyes watering all the more. He patted his chest, taking account of the three magazines he had left.
They hadn’t planned to be engaged in such a drawn-out gun battle, but the Russians’ early departure and the choking fog had schemed against them.
“Delta, Charlie, where are you?” O’Neil called over his comms again, trying them once more.
“Taking overwatch,” one of the operators called. “Now.”
O’Neil couldn’t see where they were in the apartments above. His sight lines to the auto shop were completely blocked by the smoke billowing off the Typhoons.
But then he heard the familiar whoomph of suppressed rifles, and the crack of snipers taking measured shots. Rounds slammed into the Russians’ positions from above. The enemy troops began yelling at each other. O’Neil saw a pair stand and start running toward one of the trucks. He and Tate tore into the two soldiers, sending them both sprawling forward, their weapons clattering across the ground.
That torrent of supporting fire from the other fireteams broke into the ranks of the remaining hostiles until finally, one of them began yelling, screaming in what sounded like English.
“Hold your fire!” Reynolds called over the channel.
O’Neil didn’t stand yet, cautious that this might be a trap. He kept his finger by the trigger guard, rifle shouldered, aiming at where two Russians had their hands up.
“We surrender!” one said in accented English. “We surrender!”
The two started to emerge, hands held high, close to where Loeb and Van were sheltering behind a small SUV.
“Start walking toward us!” O’Neil called to them. “Hands where we can see them.”