In the foyer, Foster, looking white as snow, with almost lifeless eyes, and on the verge of unconsciousness, sat up, taking his leg off the chair, and leaned against the wall. He heaved his MP7 to his shoulder and put his sights on the front door. He tried to hold the weapon steady, but his hands wavered and felt numb. There was no pain — there was at this point no longer any need for his body to transmit pain, and it instead released endorphins to minimize the body’s discomfort — but he felt weak and soft. He concentrated on taking deep breaths, oxygenating his blood and brain. He still had some life left in him, and he was sure as hell going to cover his teammates’ backs while he was still here.
Six feet away, Layton moved in closer to the front entrance on the right side of the couch barricading the door. He dropped onto one knee, near the side of the couch, and plucked a stun grenade from the clip on his vest.
Harris maintained position seven feet away, left of the door and the couch, near the blown-out window. He flipped his selector switch to single-shot to conserve ammo. He peered through the window frame, then sprung up on his feet, aimed, and tapped his trigger twice, dropping one of the approaching Empresa shooters. Harris immediately dived back down below the window as the enemy opened up and directed a fusillade of bullets in his direction.
Seconds later, Layton heard the oncoming attackers smashing the butt-stocks of their rifles through the front door, wood splintering and snapping against the heavy blows.
Almost simultaneously, Tyson shouted out from his position that he also had enemy contact.
Layton pulled the pin on the stun grenade and maintained a tight grip around the safety lever. The barrage against the door continued, and finally the upper half of the flimsy door split apart above the couch and collapsed inward. But the Empresa shooters were unable to push past the couch barricading the remaining lower half of the door.
As the attacker’s torso and face filled the space of the hole, Layton drilled him three times. The body dropped, revealing two more gunmen behind him. Layton managed to take out another one, and the remaining attacker sidestepped left, out of the way of Layton’s bullets and out of sight.
Layton tossed the stun grenade outside and waited for its blast before swinging his MP7 to bear through the mangled hole in the door. He drew his sights over a target and dropped the startled Empresa attacker, striking him in the back and ass as he attempted to run away.
Before ducking out of the way of incoming fire, Layton caught a glimpse of another pair of attackers running left, after realizing that coming through the door was no longer a viable option.
Layton sprung up onto his feet and ran around the couch to Harris’ position. “They’re going to try for the window!”
On cue, a perfectly-pitched grenade was hurled through the window. It bounced off a wall, hit the floor, and rolled. Layton’s and Harris’s eyes followed the lethal egg-shaped bomb, now six feet away in the middle of the open space.
So did Foster, in whose direction the grenade rolled. Time froze, and suddenly Foster was no longer cognizant of anything else. Fueled by adrenaline and the primordial urge to save the lives of his teammates at all costs, or at least prolong their lives for another couple minutes, Foster threw his weight on top of the grenade, grabbing it and curling himself around it.
The explosion lifted his body a couple inches off the floor as he absorbed the brunt of the shrapnel. His blood suddenly materialized against the nearest wall and the low ceiling. More blood seeped out through numerous holes and lacerations across his body, and a gray smoke cloud expanded in the air over him. His eyes were open and stared vacantly at nothing.
For a second, Layton was left in a state of shock, his mind catching up with what he just saw. But he heard the supersonic crack in the air of bullets whizzing past his head, and he put his mind back in the game.
Believing they’d incapacitated the besieged DEA agents inside the apartment building’s foyer, the Empresa soldiers converged on the window. One, a West African in his early twenties with a glazed-over look to his bloodshot eyes, stuck the barrel of his AK into the foyer through the window frame and fired a wild spray on full automatic from left to right. Harris took two hits against his vest and was knocked back. Layton stepped up from the side and fired back through the window into the attacker’s unprotected chest and neck. The gangbanger dropped straight down and never moved again.
Four feet back from where the first one died, another gunman fired his AK-47 into the foyer. Layton and Harris, who regained his bearings, fired back simultaneously and eliminated the threat.
Meanwhile, the Empresa attackers had far less difficulty making entry through the building’s unobstructed rear door, blasting their way through to find Weaver and Tyson positioned in the hallway, ready and waiting.
The two DEA agents immediately opened up with their MP7s, taking out the first Empresa shooter making entry, and then Weaver rolled a stun grenade down the hallway, and both DEA agents shut their eyes tight and averted their faces to the side.
The flashbang detonated, fully living up to its name, as the next two men entered the building. After the flash cleared, the DEA agents opened his eyes, aimed through the smoky haze, and double tapped each of the disorientated intruders.
Another attacker was right behind the first three, partially concealed behind the exterior wall directly left of the doorjamb. He flinched as a shot from Weaver drilled through the wall inches from his face, throwing up a cloud of cement dust and particles in his eyes, and then he fired two three-round bursts from his M16, moving his muzzle in a wild figure-eight pattern.
Tyson grunted as multiple shots smacked against his vest, hitting him in the sternum. It was like taking fast, hard hits from a baseball bat or sledgehammer, because the vest disperses the force of the tiny bullet into a larger surface area. The blunt impacts knocked the wind out of the DEA agent, cracked his ribs, and bruised his lungs. He stumbled back a couple steps and gasped, trying to suck air into his lungs, but his breaths were cut painfully short.
With Tyson disabled and left defenseless, the Empresa shooter fired another two bursts. The agent took a round of 5.56mm NATO through his right hip, cracking the coxal bone, and another round bore through his femur. As his body reeled, Tyson’s mind made the unpleasant realization that he was finished.
Weaver had reacted quicker, sidestepping left, turning, and flattening his back to the wall. He felt the bullets whip past him, just inches away, and saw Tyson’s body jerk, give out, and collapse.
Weaver fired back at the attacker, forcing him back out of the doorway and further behind the wall. With his MP7 nestled into his shoulder, Weaver stepped over the writhing Tyson and advanced four steps down the narrow hallway. When the Empresa shooter next swung back around the outside of the doorjamb, lower this time, having dropped onto one knee, Weaver was ready. He dropped the MP7’s barrel five degrees and tapped the trigger twice in rapid succession. The Empresa soldier’s head flung back, blood misting in the air, and he fell over.
Fueled by adrenaline and rage, Weaver held his position, his sights trained over the center of the open space within the doorframe.
From where he lay on the floor, Tyson lifted his head and shoulders from the floor, submachine gun held in front of him, barrel aimed down the hallway. He held aim for several seconds before the pain overcame him, and his head slumped against the floor.
Two dozen more seconds of silence passed.
There wasn’t a second wave of attackers.
Up front, Layton took a head count and assessed the team’s status.