“C’mon, biiiitch,” he yelled as the sweat began rolling off his forehead and into his eyes. The more he pushed, the more carbon dioxide settled near the bottom of the cooler. The angle of his body was putting pressure on his diaphragm. Mason could hear concrete beginning to slide off the lid as he summoned a final burst of strength and forced the box open. His legs were shaking as he lay soaking wet in the bottom of the box and sucked gulps of air into his lungs. Looking up, Mason could see a huge hole above his head and the dark sky peeking into the shattered shop.
After a few moments, he shakily climbed out of the cooler and tentatively swung his leg over the edge. Huge blocks of stone and brick fragments were scattered everywhere. The cash drawer of the vintage register stood open. Smelling like a wet bum, he took a few small steps and tried to shake the lactic acid out of his muscles. It had seemed like such a good plan an hour ago.
From inside the destroyed shop, Mason could see muzzle flashes erupting in the night as a firefight broke out along the eastern perimeter. Rifles cracked in the distance, followed by the heavier chatter of the crew-served weapons. Creeping out into the street, he was greeted by a veritable wasteland. Through his night vision, the city block was now just an abstract collection of right angles and the skeletal frames of shattered buildings.
Moving to one of the only freestanding buildings in the area, he slipped inside and “dirty-cleared” the bottom floor. If there had been more time, he could have afforded to be more thorough. But right now, time was just as powerful an enemy as Barnes. Once he found the staircase, he ascended to the second floor and crept over to a shattered casement.
Waiting was the hardest part of an operation, and patience definitely was not one of his strong suits. Digging in his assault pack, he grabbed a bottle of water and took a small sip. Swishing it around in his mouth, he spat it onto the floor before taking a deep gulp. It was very still outside his makeshift hide site, except for the distant rifle fire. Doubt began to creep in like an uninvited guest as he stared out of the detritus and his mind began to play tricks on him. Objects began appearing more human the longer he waited. He had to force himself to focus. Cursing, he wished he had brought a thermal scope with him.
At first Mason wasn’t sure if he had heard anything, the sound was so imperceptible. His breathing seemed impossibly loud as he strained to pick up the scratch of stone on metal. Trying to hold his breath only made his heart pump louder in his ears, but then he heard it again. The trickle of pebbles over stone was unmistakable. Something was definitely moving. Mason’s boots scuffed the floor as he shifted closer to the wall to get a better look.
Mason prayed. He begged God for a miracle. Ever so slowly the moonlight washed over the street. In the shadows Mason saw a figure crouched low to the ground. His fingers began to ache as they involuntarily throttled the hand guard of his rifle. He forced himself to loosen his grip, and his night vision picked up the unmistakable glow of light emanating from an optic. That was all he needed. He knew he had a target, but now he couldn’t decide if he should take the shot. Mason was conflicted. Did he move or stay? Shoot or wait? It was an easy shot, but there was only one target. He didn’t want to blow the element of surprise.
“Shit.” He brought the rifle up and paused. In his mind the debate raged until he pulled the rifle down and moved for the stairs. He came out onto the street and quickly got his bearings before breaking into a trot. Every second he didn’t have eyes on his target, there was a chance the figure could slip away.
Mason knew he needed to move south but couldn’t find a cut-through and was forced to keep moving east.
Finally, he pushed through the opening of an alley. He stayed on the balls of his feet to muffle his footfalls while straining his eyes for any debris that would give him away. At last he came to the end of the alley and stopped before stepping out into the road.
The rising moon amplified his night vision, and the surrounding details appeared clear and crisp. His heart was beating in his ears, and he struggled to control his breathing. Mason judged that he was fifty meters from where he had seen the man, but there was no longer any sign of him.
Panic trickled down his spine like a drop of cold water. Where the hell did he go? A low hiss drifted from his left. He turned his head very slowly and peered down the street until he made out an arm in a doorway. The figure had moved across the street. Now he didn’t have a shot. A rustle came from his right, and suddenly another figure emerged from the shadows.
Mason had two targets now. There was no way to engage both. On top of that, he couldn’t positively identify his targets. They could have been Barnes and Harden, or they could have been two hapless locals looking for something to steal. Either way he needed to be ready. Mason had to decide if he was going to wait until they met up or try to catch one in the open and hope he had time to pin the other man down.
He slipped his left hand into his kit, felt the metal pin of a frag, and slowly pulled it from the pouch. Mason moved it into his palm and waited for someone to make a move while keeping his right hand on the rifle, in case he needed to fire. Mason watched the second figure as he began inching his way down the low wall. Clamping the rifle against his leg with his bicep, he eased the pin out of the grenade while still holding on to the spoon.
The figure bounced up from the crouch and sprinted for the road. Mason released the spoon, which cartwheeled into the darkness. Suddenly he realized he couldn’t make the throw with his left hand. Quickly switching hands, he took a tiny step forward and released his hold on the rifle. The weapon clattered against the brick opening of the alley as the frag arced toward the street.
Holding the trigger down, one of the men sprayed Mason’s position, forcing him to duck back into the alley as the frag exploded, followed by a cry of pain. Mason picked up his rifle and shifted his angle as he moved out into the street and snapped off four quick shots. A body lay motionless in the street, but another burst of rifle fire sent him ducking back to cover. From his knees he prepped his last frag. Even though he didn’t have a target, he tossed it out and hoped the shrapnel would find some meat.
The metal body clinked against the ground and bounced before exploding. Mason had to commit to the fight or risk losing contact with his target. Coming up from his crouch, he moved out of cover and hammered through the magazine as he twisted toward the doorway. Through the optic he caught a dark figure silhouetted in the shadows, and he squeezed the trigger as the reticle centered over the man’s chest. Mason knew he had the kill shot but felt the trigger go slack as the empty bolt locked open.
He kept moving, all too aware that he was hung out in the open. He let the rifle swing free and rushed to pull the Glock from its chest holster. The man in the doorway moved to fire as Mason raced to get the pistol on target. The rifle’s muzzle blast lit up the shadowed doorway. He felt the rounds hit his thighs and run up the front of his plate carrier.
Keeping the pistol on target as he pulled the trigger, Mason focused on the front sight, but he was falling as his legs crumpled underneath him. He landed hard behind a pile of rocks as bullets whistled over his head. Tossing the empty pistol away, he felt the blood soaking through his pants as he snatched a fresh mag for his rifle from his rig. Using his thumb to depress the magazine release, he ejected the empty mag with a flip of his wrist before inserting a fresh one. Slapping the bolt release with the palm of his hand, he rolled out and returned fire.