The dog whined. He held his breath to a count of four then released it to the same count. Maybe humanity didn’t deserve to survive. “Jesus Christ!”
PFC Folger slammed into his back. “Sorry, Sergeant—” The kids eyes widened and green tinted his pale complexion. His freckles stood out like liver-spots and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck.
David stepped forward blocking the view. The kid hadn’t been with them in Iraq. Hell, he’d flown drones from Germany and shot the bad guys like a video game, then moved onto guarding the gate at their temporary base. He did not have the time for the kid to shut down, nor could he spare a man.
But a liability would endanger them all.
Ray hitched the spare munitions bags higher on his shoulder. His jaw thrust forward. He shook his head and stared fixedly at the openings in the wall. Janovich gagged, swallowed it down and filed by behind Ray.
He nodded to them as they passed. The dog sat down, but stared after his men. “Look at me, Private.”
Folgers’ brown eyes locked on his. He didn’t even blink. “Sir?”
David let the slip pass. “We’ve got targets to destroy, a mission to complete, do you understand?”
“Target. Mission.” Folgers swallowed again. Finally, he blinked then a shudder rippled through him. He tightened his grip on his weapon and his chin raised a notch. “I won’t let you down Sergeant-Major.”
“Let’s move out.”
Folgers stepped around David and jogged to where Janovich and Ray crawled passed the opening in the downed wall. Scanning the area, he followed. Too bad the targets would be taken out cleanly. For this, they should suffer; they needed to suffer.
“We’re in position, Sergeant-Major,” Robertson whispered in his earpiece.
“Status of targets?” He crawled across the dirt and rocks poured in through the collapsed retaining wall before jumping to his feet and closed in on his men. The dog raced ahead and waited by the next opening.
“Still alert on the rooftops. Down in the grass, Priority One has dressed for his funeral and seems to be using original quarry as a punching bag. In the pens, the targets are clustered in four groups.”
Good, let the bastard suffer. Too bad it couldn’t last an eternity. He joined his men bunched up by the second collapse in the wall. Almost an entire section gone. Six whole feet of opportunity—for the bad guys—to pick them off. He eyed the packed dirt and followed it to a wooden board spanning the ditch.
Since someone took the time to roll out the red carpet, they would go in there.
“Any movement in the buildings?”
“Negative,” Robertson reported. “Looks like they’re making it easy for us.”
Yeah, because that’s what assholes did, made it easy to take them out. David waited for his balls to draw up tight or the skin between his shoulder blades to itch. Maybe this wouldn’t be a FUBAR moment. “Vegas. Singleton.”
“Ready.”
The single word shot adrenalin into his body. Muscles warmed, pain disappeared. He stalked to the front of his men and double-checked his M203. “Take ‘em out.”
The dog crouched low. His muscles shuddered as he waited to take off.
The report of two rifles bled into each other until they sounded as one.
“Priority One is down.”
After he slid his optic onto his rifle, David’s heart picked up tempo. The M-4 settled into his arms like a favorite lover. His senses opened, feeding everything to his brain—the lazy path of an incoming fly, the burble of the water in the ditch, and the sweet anticipation in his mouth.
A second duet cracked across the valley. Then a third.
“Quad is clear.”
After two more blended shots, he rushed through the opening. The dog sniffed the air, caught a scent and leapt over the ditch.
“Roofs cleared.”
Wood thudded under his boots and the board bounced as he sprang across the ditch. Ten feet to the parking lot. Thunder rolled over the next volley.
“Galley chickens are running in all directions.” Robertson chuckled.
Gravel crunched under his boots. The dog panted. Seventy yards across the parking lot to the auditorium’s covered entrance.
“More like fish in a net,” Michaelson added his own bastardized cliche.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Vegas and Singleton hustle across the open parking lot, heading for the football field. Sixty yards to go. Thirty-three yards until he could use his grenade launcher. Bullets sprayed asphalt chips at his feet. The dog yipped.
“We’re taking heat,” he spat into his microphone. There were fuckers inside.
“Roger that,” Michaelson returned. “I’ve got movement three up, two left.”
Third floor, second window from the left. David glanced up. The auditorium was one solid wall of red brick. What the hell? Where was the shooter?
“I haven’t got a shot,” Michaelson growled. “The bastard is popping up and down like a weasel.”
“Got him,” Folgers squeaked in the headset.
He felt more than saw the private stop. White light winked from the second floor of the school building. Well, damn, he was looking in the wrong place. A red bead raced across the white stucco.
The weasel popped his head up.
Folgers found the target’s right eye, then his bullet found his skull.
“Game on, Folgers,” Robertson spoke. “Maybe next time you can play with the big boys.”
Folgers grunted.
Fifty yards. He began to breathe through his mouth and sighted the glass front of the auditorium. Another red ball played on the glass ten feet from him.
“Damn it,” Michaelson swore. “The targets are taking hostages.”
“How many are left?” At forty yards, he pulled the trigger of the grenade launcher. He felt the recoil tear the stitches in his shoulder. The dog slowed, keeping pace. Warmth trickled down his chest. With a hollow k-thunk sound, the explosive arced from his weapon. A second one joined it.
“Three.” Robertson shouted. “Fuckers are hiding behind the naked women. I can’t get a lock.”
Faster. He pumped his legs harder. His men drew abreast of him. His round punched the glass and exploded. The second one landed a foot from the box office before going off. Glass bowed, splintering and blowing inward. The deadly slivers left the twisted metal frame dusted with sharp-edged glitter.
“Me neither.” Michaelson’s frustration prowled the space between them. “Come on. Come on, ladies. Get out of the way. Give me a clear shot.”
He didn’t urge them to keep trying. They would. Adjusting his hold on his M-4, he dumped the spent shell and reached into his pocket for another.
Folgers hit the first floor doors of the classroom building. Ray aimed higher, hitting the second story landing. The stuccoed balustrade showered the yellow grass with chunks of plaster and wire mesh.
David pressed against the outside wall and closed his eyes. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of IR goggles right now. He heard his crew fall in beside him, including the dog. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and opened the remains of the door. Metal squealed. He stepped inside, grinding the glass to sand under his boots. Well, it wasn’t as if the assholes didn’t know they’d made the Army’s most wanted list. “We’re entering the classrooms. First floor.”
“Roger that,” Robertson interrupted his humming to answer. “Holy shit!”
He aimed straight then right as he stepped into the hallway. The dog snaked around his legs, sniffed the ground and then the air, then the ground again. Boxes crammed the space, reducing the aisle from six-feet wide to two. They’d stolen all the ready-to-eat meals. God knew where the medicine had gone.