Alex stared over the holographic sight on Charlie’s AR, dismayed by the scene. Six people walked across the asphalt parking lot toward the tree line at the rear of the parking lot. Two men wearing MultiCam uniforms and boonie hats nudged the family forward with their rifles.
Not on my watch.
He leaned back. “Change of plans. We drop both of the militia guys and rush the corner of the building. You’ll suppress the gazebo, and I’ll clear the building. Once the building is clear, I’ll help you with the gazebo.”
“If there’s anyone left,” said Charlie.
“No adjustment necessary on the ACOG. Start taking them down. I’ll meet you at the corner of the building,” said Alex, rising to a low crouch.
“I got this,” said Charlie, settling in behind the scope.
“Take your shots quickly. If they reach the trees, the family is dead,” he said, grabbing his pistol off the ground and sprinting to the next tree.
Alex stopped behind the next tree and holstered the pistol. The suppressed rifle barked twice in rapid succession. Alex dropped to one knee and leaned around the backside of the tree. One gunman lay on the pavement. The other teetered on his feet for a moment. A third shot passed through the man’s neck, showering the pavement with blood and dropping him instantly. The family ran for the tree line, screaming.
Alex sprinted for the corner of the building. The heavy rain may have drowned out the suppressed rifle shots, but a quick look at the angles ahead told Alex that the men in the gazebo had a direct line of sight to their downed comrades. Even if they hadn’t noticed the men fall to the ground, there was no way they could miss an entire family scrambling across the parking lot. He just hoped that the security team didn’t decide to gun down the family from the gazebo.
He was still a few seconds away from the corner when he caught a glimpse of movement and raised Charlie’s rifle, snapping two shots at the figure that appeared in the EOTech sight’s illuminated reticle. He moved the rifle to the right, finding his second target, but a storm of splinters and supersonic cracks forced him flat against the side of the building. He shifted the rifle to a left-handed shooting position and backed up a few more feet, dropping to the blacktop. Leaning the rifle out at a forty-five-degree angle, he reacquired the target. Both targets.
The first shooter was down on both knees, clutching his neck, blood pumping through his fingers. The second man kneeled next to him, yanking medical supplies out of his vest. Alex fired a single .223-caliber projectile through his head, knocking him over. The next bullet struck the wounded man in the forehead. With the only two visible targets down, he turned to Charlie.
“Don’t let anyone through that door! I’m going through the front,” he said, waiting for Charlie’s acknowledgement.
Satisfied with a thumbs-up and Charlie’s choice of position on the right side of the concrete stoop, he quick-peeked around the corner, verifying that the parking lot was still devoid of militia. He assumed the ready carry position and shuffled down the side of the building, crouching at each of the evenly spaced windows imbedded into the white vinyl siding. He passed nine cars, all with out-of-state license plates, before he reached the door and drew his pistol.
The sound of a revving vehicle engine stopped him from opening the door, and he slid between the two closest cars. Staying below window level, he moved to the rear of a Honda Pilot and transitioned back to Charlie’s rifle. Shots from the suppressed rifle in Charlie’s hands echoed through the parking lot.
We’re now on the verge of a complete disaster.
He stayed concealed, watching the visible portion of the driveway through the cargo compartment window. He kept his peripheral vision attuned to the building’s front door. With Charlie blasting away into the building, the militia members inside might attempt to flank him. Their most logical path to Charlie came through the door he had almost opened.
When the vehicle appeared, Alex waved frantically, trying to get Ed to stop the Jeep before it became visible to the shooters in the building. Ed turned the Jeep off the driveway, screeching to a halt just past the corner. Alex heard the front door open and stayed low, switching back to the suppressed pistol.
He moved swiftly between the Pilot and the silver four-door sedan, staying low with both hands extended forward in an isosceles triangle. The first figure appeared above the hood of the Pilot, and Alex pulled the trigger twice, adjusting his aim for the head. The hollow-point bullets penetrated his skull, plastering the white siding beyond him with a mosaic of dark and bright red clumps. Alex pressed forward, firing repeatedly over the hood at the second man barreling through the opening. The 9mm bullets struck hard, knocking him against the gore-stained cedar siding with a grunt.
A third figure emerged from the doorway and locked eyes with Alex. Before Alex could line him up in the P30’s sights, the militiaman lurched forward, firing his AR-15 wildly over the hood. Bullets snapped overhead as Alex crouched low behind the engine block, windows exploding in a pattern toward the rear of the vehicle. Alex slid in front of the Pilot and fired three shots through the windshield toward the back of the SUV. His pistol volley was met by several .223 projectiles, which showered Alex and the hood with hundreds of milky blue safety glass particles and splintered the cedar siding behind him.
He was effectively wedged between two threat vectors, unable to simultaneously watch and engage targets coming from both directions. He quickly peeked above the hood, spotting the familiar boonie hat through the punctured windshield. Bullets snapped past Alex’s head, forcing him down. He detected movement behind him and turned halfway to the left, switching pistol hands. The second man he had shot with the pistol groaned, desperately trying to reach the rifle lying next to him. Alex extended his left hand and fired a single bullet through his face, slamming the man’s head into the side of the building.
The shooting stopped for a moment, and all Alex could hear above ringing in his ears was the low din of heavy rainfall beating against sheet metal. He needed to reload the pistol. He dropped to the asphalt and reached along the left side of his vest, searching for a spare pistol magazine, while scanning the space under the vehicle. He could see the man’s boots shifting on the pavement beyond the protruding axles.
The sound of fast-moving footsteps drew his attention to the front door. Alex propelled himself forward, slamming into the bloody wall just as a man dressed in MultiCam utilities stepped onto the porch, firing wildly into the cars. Sliding down the wall into a shallow puddle, Alex slammed the fifteen-round magazine tightly into place, depressing the slide-stop to chamber a round. Three 9mm hollow-point projectiles struck the man in a tight pattern under his exposed armpit, knocking him out of the doorway.
By hastily moving against the wall, he had put too much distance between himself and the front bumper, giving the shooter behind the SUV a clear line of fire. If he had more time to consider his next move, he would have been better off dropping out of sight—hoping that he could beat the rounds that would soon be headed in his direction at three thousand feet per second. Instead, he did what most people trained to defend themselves with firearms would do. He shifted and fired—at nothing.
“He’s down!” yelled Ed, the barrel of his Ruger 10/22 protruding beyond the edge of the church corner.
Saved again by Ed.