Mitchell looked over at Corrine, her deep brown eyes full of concern. “Don’t worry, Mrs. March. We can do this,” he said before leading her towards a set of stairs that led up to the second floor of the warehouse.
Sam silently stood there staring towards the hangar while she angrily stewed over the last order. Her friend and teammate was trapped inside and she’d been told to do nothing about it. White-hot anger built up inside her small frame. “Screw this,” muttered Sam under her breath. She turned to face Yuri with a determined look in her eyes and said, “Yuri, I’m changing the plan. Get this thing ready to take off.” Sam opened the passenger door and grabbed her AK74. Quickly, she slapped home a magazine and loaded the weapon. She locked eyes with Yuri; both knew what was going to happen next.
Sam keyed her mic. “Cardinal, my love, clear a path for me,” she said as she sprinted away from the helicopter towards a line of heavy construction vehicles parked a couple of hundred meters away.
Cardinal acknowledged Sam, pulled his sniper rifle tight into his shoulder, and followed her through his scope as she ran towards the parked vehicles. When she was almost there, a soldier stepped out from behind a truck after taking a leak, still fumbling with his fly. Seeing Sam running towards him, he panicked and tried to pull his slung rifle off his shoulder. Taking up the slack on the trigger, Cardinal fired one round, striking the man in the side of his head, killing him instantly. His lifeless body crumpled onto the ground at Sam’s feet as she leapt from the ground onto the ladder on the side of a monstrously large yellow two-story service truck.
“What’s happening?” asked Jackson from the base of the tower.
“Looks like Sam’s found herself a truck,” said Cardinal. “But I’m fairly certain that she’s never driven anything like it before in her life.”
Jackson shook his head and said, “What was that?”
Cardinal watched through the rifle’s scope as Sam climbed up into the cab of the enormous truck. “Nate, the truck Sam just stole is larger than my house.”
“Good Lord. Can she drive it?”
“We’ll soon find out,” said Cardinal.
Mitchell stopped at the top of the stairs, quickly looking left and right down the hall, making sure they were alone. His earpiece buzzed.
Corrine could see a smirk on Mitchell’s face. “What’s that look for?” she asked, not seeing the humor in their predicament.
“My people aren’t the best at following orders,” said Mitchell, knowing that he would have done exactly the same thing had he been in their shoes. “Come on, we need to find an exit.”
The sound of voices and running feet on the stairs below them caught Mitchell’s attention. They weren’t alone anymore. Opening a pouch on his dirt-encrusted vest, Mitchell retrieved a small old-fashioned Russian F-1 hand grenade. Swiftly pulling the safety pin, Mitchell tossed it over the side of the railing on the stairs. He heard it bounce once or twice on its way down. A second later, the grenade came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. With a loud bang, it exploded, sending lethal shards of razor-sharp shrapnel tearing through the bodies of the half-dozen hapless soldiers closest to the blast.
The sound of the explosion echoed through the cavernous hanger.
Romanov turned his head towards the sound of the blast. Smoke was already beginning to pour from the open doors at the far end of the building. His face knotted in anger. He didn’t have to be told that their security measures had been compromised once again.
“You have to leave now, sir,” said an authoritative voice from behind him.
Romanov stood fixed in place, staring at the debacle unfolding before him.
“Sir, now,” said the hard-edged voice.
Romanov turned to see Chang standing there with a futuristic-looking black plastic FN-2000 assault rifle cradled in his arms.
“I thought I told you to leave earlier,” said Romanov, staring at into the eyes of the mercenary team leader. The tough, cold killer’s eyes stared back.
Chang never replied. Stepping forward, he grabbed Romanov by the arm and then pulled him away from the vulnerable glass windows towards the stairs leading down to the waiting Hummer. At the bottom of the stairs, two of Romanov’s men moved to protect their boss. Seconds later, Romanov was inside the armored vehicle and driven away.
Chang turned towards the open hangar. The sound of automatic gunfire echoed through the air. More Mauritanian soldiers ran past him to join the battle. With the bombs gone and Romanov safe, this was not his fight anymore. A smile emerged on his narrow face. Whoever it was, he was really messing things up for Romanov. For once, Chang did not mind that at all. Kolikov’s death in the desert and Romanov’s indifference to it had pissed him off. Deep down, Chang was starting to respect their opponent; he was tough and resourceful. It would be a shame to have to kill him.
Teplov took a deep breath to fill his aching lungs as a couple of soldiers hauled the body of the dead guard off him. Struggling to his feet, Teplov looked down the corridor at the smoke coming down it like a dense dark fog. Pulling his pistol out, Teplov fell in line with a squad of Mauritanian soldiers, his mind fixated on one goal and one goal only — killing Ryan Mitchell.
Sam climbed inside the cab of the enormous truck. Taking a quick look around, she happily saw that it was configured like any normal pick-up truck, only considerably larger. Quickly adjusting the seat so she could reach the gas pedal and the brakes, Sam searched the dash for the starter. She couldn’t believe her luck: someone had left the keys in the ignition. Sam turned the keys over, instantly, the powerful diesel engines roared to life. Thick black clouds of smoke burst from the exhaust as Sam revved the monstrous engine. Dropping it into drive, she gently pushed down on the gas. Sam felt the huge vehicle slowly edge forward and then pick up speed by the second. Turning the steering wheel hard, Sam aimed the two-story vehicle towards the hangar, where she knew Mitchell was fighting for his life.
Bullets ripped into the roof at the top off the stairs. Pieces of debris rained down on Mitchell and Corrine. Their opponents at the bottom of the stairs had not given up yet. Firing wildly, the Mauritanian soldiers, badgered on by Teplov, were preparing themselves for another rush up the stairs. Mitchell had already used up his three grenades, but that did not seem to stop them at all. The soldiers’ courage was never in doubt; like lions, they clawed their way ever upwards. The stairs were soon painted deep red with blood from the dead and dying soldiers littering the narrow staircase.
Mitchell crawled forward until he was near the lip of the stairs. Extending his arms fully, Mitchell pointed his AK down the flight of stairs and pulled the trigger. With a loud burst of automatic gunfire, Mitchell held the trigger down until the entire thirty-round magazine was empty. Rolling back towards Corrine, Mitchell pulled out a fresh magazine. It was his last one; they were running out of time.
“We appear to be trapped,” said Corrine.
“It only looks that way,” replied Mitchell, trying to sound confident as he looked back towards the stairs. He had probably killed a few more soldiers with his last burst, but that only bought them a few more seconds; the Mauritanians seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of men willing to risk their lives. Mitchell suddenly noticed that it was oddly quiet below. He knew that could only mean they were once again clearing the dead and wounded off the stairs. They had less than a minute’s reprieve before the soldiers tried again. With only one full magazine remaining, Mitchell knew he could not hold them back for very much longer.