“The barrel is dangerously overheated!” the ex-soldier said.
“It can handle another two hundred rounds. Keep firing until the helicopter lands,” Yergei said. “Move to the LZ! Thirty seconds!” he said, emphatically motioning for the rest of the team to pick up the pace.
The light machine gun unleashed a furious volley against the battered structure, filling the house with deadly fragments of steel and wood. Yergei reloaded his weapon on the run, headed toward several yellow putting flags crowded onto a closely mowed circular patch of grass due west of the house. A massive post-and-beam lodge loomed behind the landing pad, offset to the right and out of both groups’ lines of fire. Three gray-haired, overweight men stood on the deck, bizarrely cheering them on with drinks raised over their heads.
A bullet hissed past him, followed shortly by another as he sprinted for the putting green that would serve as their primary landing zone. He fired controlled bursts at the house while running, letting his machine gunner do most of the work. By the time he reached the short grass, the volume of fire had intensified, kicking up patches of sod around him. He ran onto the soft grass, throwing the flags to the ground as the helicopter appeared over the western tree line.
Sheffield fired a few hastily aimed 5.56mm rounds through the shattered dining room window at the group lying prone next to the putting green, quickly shifting his aim to the commando removing the yellow flags. His last shot missed, mainly because he was more focused on getting back down to the floor as quickly as possible. Standing for more than a few seconds nearly guaranteed taking a bullet from the light machine gun pummeling them from a well-protected position less than a hundred meters away.
The agent positioned in the far corner of the dining room rose quickly to his knees and fired an extended burst through the same window. The drywall below the window framing exploded at the same time, showering them both in a chalky white powder residue. He covered his face with his right arm and buried his head into the hardwood floor as the room took another devastating extended burst from the machine gun outside. He heard the agent’s body hit the ground hard and scrambled through the chunks of building material to reach him.
Bright arterial spray decorated the walls on both sides of the corner, continuing to jet from the agent’s lower thigh. Sheffield instinctively started to remove his belt in an attempt to fashion a tourniquet, but stopped upon further examination of the agent’s contorted, twitching body. A bullet had passed cleanly through the middle of his neck, rendering the level of trauma care he could give at the moment utterly pointless. He had to do something to even the odds and take revenge for the brutal murder of his security agents.
“Lopez, Graham. Get ready to go full auto. Full mags. Pour it on the group next to the green and get down!” he said, pulling a fresh thirty-round magazine from his combat vest.
The two men spread across the kitchen, changed magazines, and signaled him with a thumbs-up.
“Pour it on those motherfuckers!” he screamed, rising up in defiance of the steel-jacketed rounds cracking overhead.
All three of them emptied their magazines on full automatic toward the group huddled near the putting green. Within three seconds they had unleashed ninety 5.56mm bullets in a hail of gunfire that struck down the group’s leader, who just kneeled next to the group. He saw thick splatters of blood erupt from behind the commando, but that was all he could confirm before dropping out of sight and preparing for the inevitable, overwhelming response. Upstairs, he heard at least one friendly gun continue the shooting spree and something else. Shit. Now he understood.
“Helicopter inbound! Get away from the wall!” he said.
All three of them clambered on their hands and knees for the center hallway in a desperate attempt to move deeper into the house. Sheffield was the last man through the opening before bullets started to tear into the kitchen and dining room at a downward trajectory that would have killed most of them immediately. The deep thumping of the rotors competed with the utter devastation unleashed on the house, rapidly growing along with the intensity of incoming fire.
“Keep going out the front door! Out the front door!” he said, pushing them along until they tumbled down the granite steps and onto the gravel driveway.
Bullets continued to rip through the house, passing completely through the structure and forcing them to huddle behind the thick granite steps and concrete foundation. He just hoped that the helicopter didn’t plan to circle the house. They’d have nowhere to go but back inside, where they would eventually die. The machine-gun fire continued, but didn’t change trajectory, leaving him with the impression that the helicopter was here for one single purpose. To extract the team.
He turned to the two men, hoping to muster one last attempt to stop Reznikov’s escape, but both of the agents had taken multiple hits. None of the bullet wounds looked immediately life-threatening, but he could tell by their eyes that they were thinking the same thought that Sheffield had just pushed out of his head. There’s no point anymore. It’s over.
He crawled along the foundation to the right corner of the house and risked a peek toward the putting green, which was partially obscured by the far end of the house. The helicopter’s tail rotor protruded into his view, giving Sheffield hope that he might be able to disable the helicopter. They’d still have to contend with two light machine guns and four commandos, but at least he’d make it a little harder for them to get away. He didn’t care how good they were, escaping on ATVs would present a whole host of problems that the CIA might be able to contend with.
He aimed at the tail rotor and fired a burst, seeing sparks fly off the rotor assembly. His burst was answered by concentrated machine-gun fire from rocks northwest of the house. He’d hastily assumed that the machine gunner had already fled for the helicopter. The rounds chewed up the concrete foundation and splintered the painted wood above him, leaving him no choice but to withdraw. He waited a few seconds and leaned to the right, squeezing off three shots at the rocks, which were not met by return fire. He rolled along the gravel until the machine gunner appeared, running full speed for the helicopter. Sheffield found the fleeing figure in his holographic sight and centered it in the red circle. He fired two rounds before the gravel ten meters in front of him erupted, barely giving him enough time to roll out of the way of the helicopter door gunner’s fusillade.
He backed up to the porch and prepared to climb inside the house to seek shelter, unsure of the helicopter’s intentions. He could tell by the whine of the engines and the deeper pitch of the rotors that the helicopter had taken off at high speed. Seconds later, the sound started to fade, and he stood up, walking back to the corner of the house. He watched a red and white, Bell 427 medium utility helicopter disappear beyond the western tree line.
“Check on the rest of the team in the house, then get the staff in the lodge organized. I want all hands on deck helping out with the casualties. Full prisoner count in five minutes. Get on one of the handheld satellite phones and notify headquarters,” Sheffield said.
“Got it. Where are you going?” Graham said, leaning on Lopez’s shoulder for support.
“To check on Karl Berg. He was here to permanently retire Reznikov,” he said.
He started to jog down the center gravel path, stopping for a moment to survey the putting green. He counted two bodies on the ground, indicating that his final shots had found the machine gunner’s back.
Sheffield slowed down once he entered the forest and cautiously approached the residence. Scanning over the barrel of his compact assault rifle, he immediately saw that the front of the cottage had suffered the same fate as the security complex, but that the damage had been contained to the left side. A body lay in a widening pool of blood on the covered porch, which caused him to stiffen, until he realized that the man was dressed in the same camouflage pattern as the rest of the assault team that tore up his compound. There was no need to examine the body. The back of the man’s head was missing, giving him some hope that Berg might still be alive inside the house.