Tom Barber - One Way

‘Get down!’ Archer shouted, the group throwing themselves to the floor, Vargas covering Jennifer as they all stared in shock at Foster’s body.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Vargas said. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

Eighty yards away in the office building downtown, the man in the t-shirt and jeans watched through the scope of his rifle, snuggled in close to the stock. He’d taken out the grey-haired Marshal and could see the back of his head blown across the wall. The others had hit the deck and were out of sight. He was sitting at a desk, tucked in behind a VSS Vintorez, a gas-operated silenced Russian weapon which had a ten round magazine and was the shooter the Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces, used on their operations. The weapon consisted of three main parts and could be transported easily in the special briefcase, making it easy to conceal and carry. His prints were all over both the weapon and the case, but he would be taking them with him and would take the necessary disposal precautions later. He’d fired through an open window and with both sub-sonic ammunition and a fat black suppressor on the rifle no-one on the street would have heard the shot.

The window of the apartment he’d fired into was still intact, just a small bullet hole in the pane. Keeping the scope on the tenement block window, the sniper pushed a pressel switch laid on the desk beside his left hand. It was connected to an earpiece tucked in place over his left ear and a small Velcro tactical microphone around his neck.

‘5th floor, south east side,’ he said. ‘Move!’

Releasing the switch, he kept the scope on the window. He focused the crosshairs on a guy lying on the couch, looking dazed, bloodied towels on his torso. He must have been the asshole tagged on the street in the gunfight.

The sniper hated Feds.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Against the wall, the window above him, Archer stared at Foster. He was slumped against the wall, his eyes blank and lifeless, half his head on the wall behind him, the rivulets of blood sliding down. The bullet had hit him between the eyes and killed him instantly.

Then he suddenly realised Carson would be in the firing line. He dove forward and dragged the doped-up injured Marshal off the couch to the ground by his feet.

A split-second later, there was another smash of glass and a whump of feathers and fabric from the couch as a round hit where his head had just been lying.

Jennifer screamed again as the group kept as low as they could.

The two men who’d just left the lobby sprinted up the south stairwell, responding to the radio call from Joker, their sniper. Their handles tonight were Queen and Clubs. Using their real names would be more than foolish considering anyone nearby who had the skill could pick up their radio chatter, so the ten-man team had each been assigned call signs. Considering most of them were prolific gamblers, chess pieces and card suits had seemed apt.

They ran up the stairs to the 5th floor and turned out of the stairwell, coming to a halt outside 5B. Queen aimed his M4A1 at the lock and gave it a quick trigger pull, the metal and wood blowing apart and splintering, totally destroyed from the burst of assault rifle fire. Looking through the foresights of their weapons, the two men tried to kick back the door but there was something blocking the way. Clubs stepped back and rammed his shoulder into it. It wouldn’t give. He tried twice more, Queen aiming down his M4A1, ready to shoot anyone inside.

The third time Clubs rammed into the door, it suddenly gave way, followed by a smash as something fell over the other side.

Forcing the door back, the two men moved into the apartment cautiously, looking through the sights of their assault rifles.

They entered straight into a kitchen with a table and two chairs ahead beside a set of windows, the curtains drawn back. The weight blocking the door from the other side had been a refrigerator; tipping it over had knocked out some of the contents, and milk was seeping onto the floor in a widening pool.

There was some blood there too, a faint but definite smear on the wooden floor.

Both a clue and confirmation.

The two men worked their way into the apartment quietly, tracing the apartment with their weapons, the underside of their boots leaving prints in the widening puddle of milk.

To the left was a bathroom. The door was open.

To the right was what had to be the sitting room.

The door was closed.

Clubs looked at Queen and nodded.

Both men aimed their weapons at the doorframe and stepped towards it.

Inside the bathroom, Archer had Carson’s USP in his hand, his back against the wall. He’d heard the lock being blown off the door and had scrambled through the kitchen, diving into the bathroom as whoever was the other side smashed the refrigerator out of the way.

Risking a look from the slightest of angles, he saw two men in combat fatigues and balaclavas with black assault rifles moving quietly towards the sitting room door, their backs to him.

They sure as hell weren’t US Marshals or ESU.

He stepped out from behind the door, raising his weapon, ready to drop them both.

Then a floorboard creaked under his foot.

The other two men’s senses were on a hair trigger. They wheeled round but Archer had already ducked back into the bathroom, taking cover behind the wall.

The space where he’d been standing a second earlier was torn apart by assault rifle fire. The bullets ripped into the wall above the bathtub, shredding and fragmenting the tiling into pieces, showering Archer with dust and debris as he stayed low behind the wall.

Queen and Clubs continued to fire down on the bathroom, their barrage ripping it to pieces as they advanced.

Behind them, the door to the sitting room suddenly opened and a dark-haired woman rolled out low, a pistol in her hands. Clubs saw her first but she had the drop and shot him twice in the chest, the force knocking him back and killing him instantly as he landed in the puddle of milk beside the refrigerator.

Queen spun around with his M4A1 as the woman rolled back behind the door for cover.

He fired, but his mag clicked dry.

‘Shit!’

In that split-second, Archer was already moving in on the guy. He couldn’t have fired from the bathroom in case he hit Vargas, so he ran out and launched himself at the man. Tying up, Archer nailed him with a head butt which crunched into the man’s nose, causing him to drop his assault rifle, the weapon clattering to the deck. They hit the wall and then the floor, rolling over the dead gunman’s limp legs. The man was powerful and was going for Archer’s groin and eyes.

Freeing one of his hands, he pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt. Archer caught his wrist but the man was stronger, the knife moving towards his neck. Archer forced the man’s hand to one side, the blade slicing into his arm, hot white pain shooting through him.

Vargas was aiming at the two men but couldn’t get a clear shot without risking hitting Archer, so she ran over and smashed her Glock into the back of the gunmen’s head, pistol-whipping him as hard as she could. The guy rode the impact but it stunned him momentarily, allowing Archer to push him up and up kick him in the jaw. Vargas quickly stepped back, aiming her weapon, but then there was another smash at the window. A bullet skimmed her and hit the gunman in the back of his head, killing him instantly, spraying a small amount of blood and whatever else into the air. As she dropped down, the dead man slumped onto the floor beside Archer. The sniper sure as hell wasn’t protecting them; he’d killed his own guy trying to hit Vargas.

Neither of them waited an extra second. Staying as low as possible and out of sight of the sniper, Archer grabbed the man’s assault rifle from the floor as Vargas crawled over to the man she’d shot and did the same. The gunfire would have reverberated around the building. They didn’t know who the hell these guys were or how many there were, and they didn’t want to hang around to find out.