As if to illustrate the point, Jake fired his weapon. Flashes spit out the barrel of the gun. The echo of each gunshot rattled off the walls loud enough to sting the eardrums. Rat-tat-tat.
Jake was down to his last five bullets.
“Think about what you want to have happen, not what might happen. What do you want to have happen, Solomon?” Jake fired off another shot and the Kevlar came free from his body.
“I want to get out,” Solomon said, his voice shaky and on the verge of tears.
“What else? When those men come, what else do you want to have happen? Remember, you make it happen.”
“I want you to knock ’em down like pins,” Solomon said.
“Yeah. I want to do that, too. But what I need is for you to stay quiet as can be,” Jake said as he fired off two more shots.
Two bullets left.
“Are you a fighter?” Jake asked.
“They called me a pig,” Solomon said, sobbing. Jake could hear him sniffling. The tears were flowing again. “They pretended to cut me like I was a pig.”
Jake propped his Kevlar vest in front of Solomon, positioning it in such a way as to completely cover the boy’s face and head. He took the headlamp from Solomon’s hand. It wouldn’t do him any good now.
“This Kevlar is like a shield,” Jake said as he slipped his shirt back on. “It’ll hide you from them and protect you if a bullet comes. You can hold on to it with your hands if you like, but don’t let it fall down. Keep it in front of your head and face at all times. Understand?”
“Okay,” Solomon said.
“Are you a fighter?” Jake asked again in a voice that commanded attention and respect.
“I’m a fighter,” Solomon said. His voice came out softened behind the bullet-resistant fabric, but that wasn’t why his words lacked conviction. “I am a fighter,” he repeated.
That time, Jake believed him.
Jake cut the light from the headlamp, casting them both into an impenetrable darkness.
“I thought so,” Jake said. He fired a bullet from the rifle.
His last one.
CHAPTER 47
Navigating the darkness like an experienced spelunker, Jake returned to the intersection where the tunnel’s distinct sections converged. From his ankle holster, he removed the Glock and pulled the tang of the firing pin toward the rear of the slide to make sure the gun was ready to shoot. He holstered the Glock. The gun would come out later. Above his head, Jake was aware of the sturdy, insulated electrical and communication cables that ran along the ceiling.
The ceiling here was about eight feet high, and Jake’s outstretched arms acted as an antenna of sorts that helped him to feel where to grab. His fingers were soon wrapped around a bundle of thick, industrial-strength cables from which he now dangled.
He gave a solid tug, testing to see if it could hold his body weight. Satisfied, Jake engaged his upper-body strength to hoist himself up. He swung his legs behind him, so he was facing the floor, and wrapped his ankles around the cables to secure him in place. If Solomon could see him, Jake would look like a fly caught in a monster spider’s web.
To his credit, Solomon was quiet as a church mouse. Everything was perfectly still down here. The silence would eventually lure these men toward his ambush. Sure enough, Jake’s ears picked up the sound of feet scuffing across the concrete floor. The pace of footsteps quickened, less cautious, more brazen. They were coming, and coming fast.
Jake retrieved the Glock from its holster. That fraction of movement was enough to cause the cables supporting his weight to go slack. He dropped maybe half a foot. He heard a groaning sound, an indication the fasteners holding the cables were starting to give.
Ahead of him, not too far away, Jake saw the first flash of light bounce off the tunnel walls. Without warning, Jake felt a second sensation of falling before the slack cables became taut again. Jake’s body jolted violently at the end of his free fall.
Though he had dropped another several inches, Jake was still high off the ground and would be able to take his pursuers by surprise. But the fasteners that held him suspended in midair were one big breath away from becoming completely dislodged. The sound of footsteps rumbled in Jake’s ears. For the first time, he heard a man speak.
“¡Ven! ¡Ven! ¡Por aquí!”
Two men emerged directly in front of Jake, no more than ten feet away. In one hand, they held flashlights; in the other, they carried large-caliber handguns-Glocks as well, 37s, super-advanced, big-bore technology, power-packed firearms in a compact frame. They slung rifles over their shoulders.
These men were clearly prepared to take over the school by force, so it was no surprise to Jake they came equipped and carried flashlights. Those lights illuminated a thin and muscular man, with a horribly scarred face, in the lead, followed by a tank of a man in the rear. As they approached the intersection where the tunnel angles changed, they moved with caution-the way a marine might cut through a jungle stitched with trip wire. Something had put them on guard. Those flashlights canvassed the tunnel area, the walls, but not the ceiling, and soon settled on the Kevlar some sixty feet away.
Jake took aim with his Glock, when the cables sagged again. The groan of those fasteners coming loose sent his nerves crackling. He couldn’t move, certainly couldn’t shoot without dislodging the cables supporting him.
“¿Qué es eso, Efren?” the scar-faced man said.
Efren.
Jake had heard the name before.
Scar Face fired an indiscriminate shot down the tunnel at the Kevlar. The blast was earsplitting at such close range. Gunpowder scented the air.
Oh, God! Jake thought. Was Solomon hit? Did the Kevlar protect him? Impossible to say. But Jake couldn’t let them shoot again, so he fired off a single shot, which entered Scar Face’s skull and never came out. The now-dead man’s eyes rolled back into his head as his knees gave out. At the same instant, the already-brittle concrete holding those fasteners in place broke loose from the ceiling with a sharp crack. Entangled in cables, Jake plummeted straight to the ground and landed with a loud sound. It was the sound that flesh makes when it smacks concrete. The gun dislodged from Jake’s hand upon impact.
Efren froze. Shock. Surprise. Both. Jake fought to get air into his lungs. The flashlight that had been in Scar Face’s hand was now on the ground and lit the tunnel enough for Jake to see his remaining opponent.
Efren’s white tank top had collected so much grime it looked like something dragged out of a fireplace, but it showed off arms with muscles that protruded like baseballs sewn under the skin. The big man had a head like an anvil, and Jake figured he’d shatter the bones of his hand if he hit him wrong. But Jake wasn’t about to punch his face. This monster sweated aggression and his expression was that of a rabid dog’s.
Jake’s Glock had skirted out of reach; so without fully recovering, he unsheathed his knife and sprung from the ground. His swipe was aimed for Efren’s gun hand. Had he got there a split second sooner, it would have found flesh. Instead, Efren yanked his hand away, and twisted at the waist as if executing some advanced dance move.
A fraction of a second later, Efren unleashed two quick strikes, which rattled Jake’s kidneys and produced the kind of lightning pain that turned vision white. Close-quarters combat was not ideal for gunplay, but the butt of the Glock worked fine as a club, and Efren brought the weapon down hard against the side of Jake’s head.
Jake could do little but hit the ground face-first; and thanks to the stunning blow, his arms didn’t get the message from his brain to brace for impact. Jake’s chin smacked against the concrete floor and snapped his jaws together with enough force to crack several teeth. At least he managed to keep hold of the knife. A heavy boot came down against Jake’s ribs and something went haywire inside. The boot found his side again, and it was a repeat of the earlier earthquake to his body.