Stiletto dropped to one knee beside an obviously empty building, the door padlocked. He caught his breath and looked around. Another building sat about twenty yards ahead but that looked empty too. He pushed on, clearing the open distance quickly, reaching a corner and trying to peer through a window. An office of some sort. Spotless desks. Obvious signs of everyday use, but nothing in use now. Stiletto moved along the length of the building to the far corner, and spotted the portable.
Well, duh. This one had two guards out front. There were other gunmen racing from another nearby building to the center of the refinery, all armed with Kalashnikovs. But the two gunmen by the potable building did not move, though they sure looked antsy enough and ready to do so.
Stiletto needed to get past those two guards. Vlad was inside. Obviously alive, otherwise why bother with the shooters? But he also couldn’t engage them just yet. The walls of the portable wouldn’t stop any stray .223 rounds from the MK18. Accidently killing Vlad wasn’t an option. He’d have to explain what happened to Xenia. She wouldn’t understand.
He looked around for another way to approach the building without attacking head-on.
RAVKIN WEAVED through the mass of pipes and pumps, ducking the low ones, stopping when he came to the metal cabinet he was looking for.
He took out the full-auto Glock-17C and smashed the padlock holding the protective doors closed, opened them, and examined briefly the switches and dials within. The dials all showed green, the humming pumps around him a low drone. He breathed hard from running, but he knew what to press, and started hitting the cooling fan switches. The fans spinning on the exterior of the larger tanks slowed to a stop, the pumps still going, oil in various stages of refinement flowing, but the needles showing the temperature of said fluid rising rapidly. The needle moved from green, to yellow, and into the red. Red cherry lights began flashing. More alarms joined the original Klaxon. Ravkin looked up to see a swarm of armed men closing in on him. He jerked out the Glock and steadied his arm against the side of the cabinet.
He wanted to keep them occupied and away from Anastasia and especially Stiletto. A line of flame spit from the Glock, a controlled three-round burst. The gunners scattered, bullets ricocheting off pipes, creating a danger as they continued to bounce from pipe to pipe, the whine of the slugs almost audible over the new alarm. Ravkin fired another burst.
Return fire came his way, blasting the cabinet, sparks flying, black smoke coming from the back. Now the cooling fans audibly stopped. The alarm continued. Ravkin ran.
ANASTASIA SQUATTED behind a cooling cylinder about five inches off the ground and twelve feet in length. The outside of the cylinder was very hot. A thin pipe went in one end and out the other.
She braced the Dakota Tactical over the top, aiming for the troops chasing after Ravkin. Her first burst brought down a rear straggler; her second clipped the shoulder of a man up front. Others turned her way and opened fire, Anastasia ducking. She fired from underneath the cylinder, but none of her shots connected as the gunners sought cover among the myriad of pipes.
She moved right, staying low, her submachine gun held high, trailing in Ravkin’s wake.
She saw him fire at the gunners as he moved; she sprayed rounds their way too, return fire erratic and none of the rounds coming particularly closer to her.
The alarm continued, pounding her eardrums. The red cherry lights continued flashing. She wasn’t sure what Ravkin had done or how long till the problem reached critical mass, but she wanted to be out of there before it happened.
Ravkin dropped behind cover, spraying rounds, while Anastasia broke off from his trail and advanced toward the shooters, ducking and dodging pipes. As she went by one, a valve snapped, the break sounding like a gunshot, and a jet of steam blasted at the back of her head. She lunged forward, hitting the ground hard. Gunners looked her way and fired, the ricochets pounding around her, one smacking into the ground inches from her face. She raised her SMG and fired back, knocking down one gunner, his buddies advancing toward Ravkin.
She looked. The little Glock auto pistol kept firing. Anastasia took a shot. Another gunner dropped. She counted three still on their feet.
The three shooters poured fire at Ravkin. She moved closer. Her SMG spat flame. One shooter down. Two left. One turned her way. She dropped as more ricochets pelted the pipes, letting out a scream when one of the stray rounds smashed the action of her Dakota Tactical. The broken SMG fell from her stung fingers, and she hit the ground. If they thought she was out for good, they didn’t bother to come check. Their fire intensified.
She had no handgun. Staying flat, she scrambled along the ground, breaking into a run for one of the dead gunners about ten yards away. She scooped up his Kalashnikov and a spare magazine and charged back to her last position.
She slammed to a stop against a vertical pipe, shouldering the AK, aiming at the backs of the gunmen. As she squeezed the trigger, one of them got Ravkin. Ravkin rose just a little too high, the salvo from his Glock cut off as AK rounds stitched through him. He let out a clipped yell, the slugs opening small red holes across his chest and exploding out the back. Ravkin’s body dropped. Anastasia screamed. He first blast split open the back of one shooter, but the other took off running. She fired. The burst clipped at his heels but didn’t bring him down.
Anastasia pounded after him, leaping over the other gunners’ bodies and making a sharp left turn down a narrow walkway. More pipes and tanks surrounded her. She shifted slightly and powered up a flight of steps, sprinting along a long catwalk, the last gunner right ahead and checking over his shoulder. He stopped, a confused look on his face. Then Anastasia yelled out a curse. The man looked up. Anastasia’s burst took off the top of his head.
She collapsed to her knees, breathless, the alarm still blaring. But more gunfire crackled far behind her.
She reloaded and ran back down the steps.
They couldn’t get Scott too.
STILETTO BROKE left, staying close to the empty buildings, using the shadows for cover. He gripped the MK18 in both hands.
His boots scuffed on the concrete as he moved, and then he tripped on a raised section of the concrete. He fell headlong, landing hard with a grunt, MK18 flying out of his hands. It slid across the ground.
One of the guards at the portable shined a flashlight that might as well have been a spotlight. The beam landed right on him. Somebody shouted. Two shots popped but Scott was already moving, rolling left, deeper into the shadows. The long coat became tangled around him but he managed to get to his feet and toss the coat away. The light beam danced as the guard converged, alone, his mate remaining by the portable.
Stiletto grabbed for the .45 under his arm but his hand closed on an empty holster. He scanned the ground frantically as the guard closed the distance. He saw no sign of his Colt. It must have slipped out while he was rolling.
Stiletto retreated deeper into the dark, back against the building wall. The sawed-off under his right arm remained in place, and he grabbed it with his left hand. Breaking the action, he took out the one shell he’d fired at the shack and replaced it. He closed the action as the guard shined the light again and brought up his AK. Stiletto raised the shotgun at the same time. He fired first, both barrels, the blast almost louder than the alarm, and the guard’s chest split open. Stiletto moved low, spotting the .45 and grabbing it. He scooped up the guard’s flashlight and started for the portable. When he was close enough and the remaining guard called out a name, Scott blinded him with the flash and fired a .45 slug through his head. Blood and bits of bone created a kaleidoscope-like pattern on the wall. His body thudded on the ground.