Just as he’d hoped, they were loaded down with small boxes, so heavy the shelves bowed under their weight. He grabbed a couple of boxes and sat down hard behind a row of crates, even as bullets stitched holes in the wall over his head.
Training was everything, Chapel thought. A civilian in this situation would not be able to concentrate. The noise and the stink of expended gunpowder and the shouts of the guards and the fear of death—all these things could destroy focus. Chapel had a relatively intricate procedure to complete, and if he’d had to fight down his own panic he never could have done it.
The guards were coming closer. Some of them would be braver than others. Some would be more observant. At least one of them, he knew, would notice what he was doing and what it meant. At least one of them would have the brains to stop him. Assuming they got to him before he finished.
He worked as quickly as he could. One of the boxes held empty clips, plastic reinforced with steel in the iconic curved shape of the AK magazine. The clips were empty, of course. The other box Chapel had grabbed contained the rounds that went into the clips. He had to feed them in one at a time, pressing them down hard against the spring inside. One after another, each one resisting a little more as the spring compressed…
“Just get in there,” Michael shouted, urging his men on. One of them told him to go fuck himself. That made Chapel grin. But he could hear footsteps pounding on the cement floor of the cellar, he could hear men climbing up on top of the maze of crates to get to him. He had maybe a few seconds, maybe less, before they were on him.
One more round. He pressed it down hard. Another. There were thirty total bullets in a standard AK-47 clip. He had to count to make sure he got them all in. One more. Push down. Another. He reached in the box and grabbed a bullet, brought it toward the clip. Pushed it down.
Done.
He slid the clip into the receiver. Felt it click into place. Now all he had to do was—
“Freeze, asshole,” someone said, off to his left.
Chapel didn’t even look up. Instead he grabbed the charging handle and yanked it back, then let it go.
“I said—”
Chapel turned to face the man. He saw a middle-aged guy in a suit, a pistol clutched in both his hands. He saw the barrel pointing at his face. The guards would have orders not to kill Chapel if it could be avoided, he knew. He had no idea how this guard would interpret those orders.
There are rare times in life when you just have to act, and not consider the consequences. Chapel grabbed the pistol grip of his rifle and fired three rounds at the guard, pulling the trigger three times. One, two, three.
19
Red spots appeared on the guard’s forearm, shoulder, and waist. He dropped his gun and spun around, clutching at his arm as he tumbled to the floor. “Oh God!” he screamed. “Oh God, I’m going to die!”
None of those wounds was fatal, by the look of it, but Chapel didn’t disillusion the man. If he was scared enough to make him stay down, good. He scuttled sideways, never quite standing up, and grabbed the guard’s pistol. He was getting a decent collection of weapons, now.
He moved over toward the crates again, because they would give him better cover. Edged around the sides of them so that he was almost, but not quite, exposed. “Hold your fire,” he shouted over the noise of the guns.
Surprisingly, it worked. The guards stopped shooting, though Chapel could still hear them moving around, their shoes squeaking on the floor.
He didn’t want to have to kill or even injure these men. Maybe they could be reasoned with, he thought. “Michael!” he called out. “Michael, I know it’s you leading this bunch.”
“How the hell do you know my name?” Michael replied. Chapel couldn’t see the man’s face. He couldn’t read his body language, and his voice wasn’t giving away anything. He didn’t know if he was scared or resolute or who knew what. “Whatever. Are you giving up, now?”
“Nope,” Chapel said. “Not tonight. I hope your boss won’t be offended that I borrowed some of his arsenal.”
“I’m sure he’s got other things on his mind,” Michael said. “Listen, we aren’t going to hurt you if you just drop your weapons and come out. I promise. Maybe I owe you an ass-kicking for what you did back in the billiards room. But that would be worth my job, so you get a free pass.”
Chapel smiled to himself. “I was about to make you the same offer.”
“Ha ha. Listen, guy. I talked to Stephen. I know you’re hurt bad. You’ve probably lost some blood, you’re probably not thinking straight—”
“One of the first things,” Chapel interrupted, “that they taught me in the Rangers was that a wounded man with a gun is still a man with a gun.”
“Okay. I hear you. Maybe you get one or two of us before we take you down. But in that case you’re going to die, buddy. We’re supposed to bring you in alive but none of us here is stupid. If you come out of there guns blazing, we’re going to shoot back. And there’s a lot more of us.”
Chapel leaned his head back against a crate. He suddenly felt very tired. He didn’t like how this was shaping up, not at all. But he would do what he had to do. “You know you’re already out of a job, right? If your boss gets out of here alive, he’s never coming back. And I doubt there’s room for all of you on his yacht.”
“Have you seen it, man? It’s pretty big.”
So much for reason. “Okay. This is how you want to play it, I guess. A big showdown. Last man standing walks out of here. Your guys all agree with you?”
“I’m afraid so. This is on you, Ranger.”
“I kind of had a feeling,” Chapel said.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle. Checked the fire selector, moved it into the middle position for full auto. Shifted the pistols in his belt around where he could grab them easily.
And then he stepped around the side of the crate, already firing.
20
Chapel had no idea what kind of training Michael had, or whether he’d ever led men into combat. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten a few basics down.
As Chapel came around the corner, rifle blaring and jumping in his hand, he saw immediately that the guards were all behind cover, keeping their heads down. He had expected as much—mostly he was just laying down suppressing fire as he sprayed bullets over their heads. But now he knew where they were. Two were hiding behind a shelf over by the stairs. One was crouching behind the side of the workbench. A fourth had his back up against the maze of crates, facing away from Chapel.
That one nearly killed him. The guard had been creeping up on his position, probably intending to get the drop on him while he was still talking to Michael. When Chapel came out from behind the crates he was nearly behind Chapel, flanking him, and he didn’t waste time on being surprised. He lifted his pistol and fired even before Chapel had taken his finger off his own trigger.
The bullet tore through the silicone flesh of Chapel’s artificial bicep. He felt it tug him around, to the side, but he threw himself the other direction and rolled onto his back on the floor. The flanking guard shifted his aim, lowering his arm to hit Chapel where he lay. Chapel didn’t give him the chance. He lit up the guard with a quick burst from his rifle and saw the man dance like a marionette on strings.
He didn’t wait to see the man go down. Instead he rolled over on his side and dashed back behind the crates.
Back in the relative safety of his previous position, he listened to the man moan and try to scream. He was pretty sure the flanking guard wasn’t going to survive.
He closed his eyes and tried to think.
You couldn’t think of them as human beings in a situation like this. It had been years since Chapel had fought in real combat but he remembered how it was done. They weren’t people with lives and families and maybe children out there. They were obstacles, deadly hazards strewn in your path, and you removed them from play as quickly and efficiently as possible.