Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

Discipline, Hamad thought, discipline. There were videos out there of brave fellow warriors, standing and holding their rifles like they were fire hoses, proudly spewing dozens of rounds at a target. Oh, how mighty they looked — and how stupid! For it took whole seconds to empty a clip, and for a disciplined force facing you — like the British SAS or American SEALs or the Israeli Shin Bet — all it would take would be one or two well-placed shots in response to send you to Paradise. Which was why he had only fired three times. There was neither time nor ammunition to waste.

A quick check to make sure that the whore was dead -she certainly was — and Hamad started towards the hallway behind the desk. There were office doors on either side, both of them unlocked — such bad security! — and he opened each one and tossed into each small office a hand grenade. Women and men were there, at their desks, looking up at him with surprise, with fear, with concern, but none of them reached for a weapon, none of them did a damn thing. He felt this sudden rush of exultation, knowing that the Sudanese had been right, it had been right to fight them in their home, for here, they were not brave, they were like children, and like children in his village they died where they stood or sat.

After tossing in the hand grenades, he slammed the doors shut, ducked down and placed his hands against his ears and opened his mouth as the explosions ripped through each office. Perfect, it was going perfectly. He got up and kicked open each door again, and this time he let the fire discipline slip just a bit as he hosed down each room, but making sure that his shots were well aimed at the slumped bodies sprawled on the floor, over the desks, and against the walls.

There. Done on this floor. Hamad popped out the spent magazine and punched in a fresh one, worked the action, got to the entrance of the elevator, and slid open the keypad. The number sequence from the e-mail message that he had memorized over and over again came into his mind and he punched in the numbers. Waited. Managed to hear the whine of the elevator coming up to this level. Stepped back and held the Chinese assault rifle up to his shoulder. The doors popped open and his finger was tight on the trigger.

Empty.

The elevator car was empty.

Praise God.

Hamad stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the lower level so hard that he hurt his thumb. Moved to one side. The elevator went down and the anxiety and pain in his gut were now gone. Gone, gone, gone. This was what it must have been like to be under arms with Saladin, defeating the Crusaders outside Jerusalem, watching their banners with their Christian symbols tumble to the dust. To be at the outskirts of Constantinople, moving in through the walls, seeing the Christians cover their faces in fear. To be in the cockpit of that American Airlines aircraft, flying towards Babylon, seeing the tower of Babel, the hated one, grow and grow in one’s view.

The sweet feeling of the Holy Warrior.

The elevator came to a halt. The door slid open.

He went forward, to continue the fight.

Brian Doyle looked over at Monty, surprised at how quickly the man had gotten his weapon out, not even knowing that the military guy carried. Damn, he was good.

Monty said, ‘Elevator?’

‘Only place in and out,’ Brian said. ‘Adrianna, get to the farthest office. Mine, I guess. Lock and barricade the door, start working the phones.’

‘Brian, I—’

‘Lady, shut the fuck up and move. We don’t have time to talk.’

Monty said, ‘We’ve wasted enough time already. C’mon!’

They went out of the conference room. Darren at least was moving right, he shut and locked the conference-room door behind them. He and Monty raced down the hallway. Brian’s weapon felt heavy in his hands. He looked around, thought about dragging some furniture out for cover, but there was the sound of the elevator motor working as the elevator car came down. Monty was kneeling down, flat against the far wall, his own pistol held out in a two-handed grip.

Brian instantly knew what Monty was doing. Holding the weapon out, flattening himself, narrowing his silhouette for whatever offensive fire might be coming from the elevator car. Brian imitated the serviceman’s stance. He held his own pistol out, wished for a hand-held radio right at this moment — wouldn’t it be fucking excellent to call in a 10-13 and get some serious backup here? Like the muscle boys from Emergency Services. That would be—

Monty said, ‘Care for some advice ?’

‘Would love some advice.’

‘That door opens up, we see anybody we don’t recognize, anybody not showing proper ID, anybody threatening in any way, we blow their asses into next Tuesday. Got it?’

‘Yeah, got it.’

‘Another thing. If Stacy’s there, if she’s being held as a human shield, if she’s being held hostage—’

‘No time for that. It begins and ends right here.’

‘Yeah.’

It seemed like the elevator motor was louder. Brian thought of something and said, ‘Monty?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How come you won’t tell anybody what branch of the service you’re in?’

‘No time for that, pal.’

The elevator doors slid open.

Hamad stepped out, SKS-12 ready. He thought he saw movement. He wasn’t sure. He moved forward and—

Brian felt his finger squeeze the trigger as he noticed the barrel of a weapon sticking out through the open elevator door and—

Hamad came forward, seeing nothing, moving and—

A blow to the head.

And it was done.

Brian caught his breath. Coming out of the elevator, a 9mm Uzi in her manicured hands and a protective vest over her lovely torso, was Stacy Ruiz. She was alone. Brian and Monty stood up and she said in a measured, even voice: ‘We’re in lockdown for a while.’

‘What’s up?’ Monty said.

Stacy kept her voice even, though Brian sensed there was trembling going on somewhere back there. ‘Just got word. Tiger Team Four got hit, outside of Hartford.’

‘How bad?’ Brian asked.

‘Bad enough. We’re at Threat Condition Delta for a while. We’ve shut down the upstairs.’

Monty nodded, put his weapon away. ‘The noise we heard down here — shutters?’

Stacy slung the Uzi over her left shoulder. ‘Yeah. Doors locked automatically, the metal shutters slid down over the ground-floor windows. And I switched us over to auxiliary power, just in case. You probably saw a power flicker down here. We’re now on recycled air. Pretty much nothing can get in here and hurt us except for a suitcase nuke, and I don’t think one will be wasted on us at the moment.’

Brian said, ‘Good move,’ as he returned his own 9mm to his shoulder holster.

Stacy’s eyes flashed at him. ‘just doing my job, that’s all.’

Monty said, ‘Thank the Christ somebody is. Come on, let’s spread the news.’

They went back to the conference room door, still locked, and their pounding and shouts didn’t produce any response. Monty said, ‘Guys back there are too good. Phone?’

‘Inside the elevator,’ Stacy said.

Back to the elevator and Monty handed the phone over to Brian, pulling the receiver free from a receptacle under the panel. ‘Hope you can remember your own extension.’

‘I believe I can.’

He dialed the four digits and it was picked up after the first ring. ‘Scott.’

‘Adrianna, it’s all right. Stacy’s with us. We’re in lock-down. Threat Condition Delta.’

He could hear her breathing on the other line. ‘Brian?’

‘Yes?’