Andrew Peterson - Forced to Kill

Trying to take them now, while they were all together, wouldn’t work because of their ballistic vests. If he didn’t score four head shots, it would be over. Be patient. Wait for a better opportunity.

One, three, and four disappeared down the hall again.

Number two advanced toward their position. When he lost sight of the gunman, he aimed his Sig at the cabinet’s door. A rustle of clothing announced two’s pivot around the corner. Nathan imagined the mercenary taking in the empty kitchen.

Go on. Leave. Nobody home.

It didn’t happen.

Through a peephole in the cabinet’s door, Nathan watched the merc crouch beside the base cabinet on the opposite side of the kitchen and begin opening doors.

They had less than twenty seconds.

He studied the man’s movements and watched a pattern emerge. At each cabinet, the gunman pulled the door open while pointing his gun into the space, then closed the door. Pull. Point. Close.

His enemy was halfway through the kitchen now.

Ten seconds.

Pull. Point. Close.

Nathan took slow, deep breaths. All tension gone. Them or us. Definitely them .

Three seconds.

One cabinet remaining ahead of theirs.

Pull. Point. Close.

The vertical crack of light between their hiding place and the outside world expanded.

Like a slow-motion python, the black silencer of an MP5 eased toward his face.

Nathan shoved the cabinet door, knocking the man onto his haunches.

He centered his laser on two’s throat and pulled the trigger.

The man jerked twice and lay still. The subsonic round wasn’t completely silent and knocking the intruder down also caused noise. It was a good bet this man’s friends heard the disturbance.

He sprang out, pulling Holly with him. “Stay behind me,” he whispered.

The next thirty seconds stretched into a nightmarish melee of violence.

One, three, and four eased down the hall, hugging the wall.

Nathan flashed his own laser three times, hoping to lure them into the open.

It worked.

Three and four entered the living room in a crouch. Visible in the dust and smoke, their lasers swept back and forth in quick motions. Using the bulletproof cabinet for cover, Nathan painted his beam on the bridge of number three’s nose and squeezed off a shot. The man spun and crumpled to the floor.

Two down, two to go.

Thirteen shots remaining.

Surprising Nathan with his speed, number four emptied an entire magazine in the general direction of the shot that killed his partner. He yanked Holly down with half a second to spare.

Even suppressed, the staccato sound of the high-speed discharge ripped the air. Splinters flew. Dishes shattered. Glass flew from shelves. Pot and pans jumped and clanged. The microwave, range, and dishwasher exploded, showering Nathan and Holly with glass fragments. The countertop erupted, sending shards of granite in every direction.

Number four disappeared behind the couch.

Nathan heard him eject the empty magazine and jam another home. He had less than two seconds before a second barrage of bullets slammed into the kitchen.

He straightened up and opened fire, walking his shots along the length of the couch. From behind and above, Holly’s Glock boomed, mirroring his pattern. Her non-suppressed weapon flashed like a strobe light, the reports hammering his eardrums. They were both rewarded with a loud string of Spanish obscenities, followed by another discharge of an MP5. The bullets went high, pulverizing the ceiling.

Nathan yelled, “Holly, cover fire.”

She fired her Glock into the hallway to keep the fourth man from coming out. Staying in a low crouch, Nathan rushed the sofa and dived to its base. He jammed his gun underneath and fired four more shots. At the right edge of the sofa, he peered around the corner.

Number four lay on his back, shuddering, the left side of his face gone.

Three down, one to go.

Five shots left.

A sudden barrage of bullets tore down the hallway. Slugs careened off the slate floor and splintered the door leading to the garage.

A black blur dashed into the den.

Two seconds later, the wall erupted toward Nathan in a horizontal maelstrom as the remaining merc fired blindly through the wall. Something struck his head. Hard.

His vision grayed for an instant. Damn it. Through the haze, Nathan returned fire, emptying his magazine through the wall along the same pattern the merc had fired.

From behind, Holly’s Glock boomed again. Nathan watched chest-high holes appear along the entire length of the wall.

He ejected the spent magazine, jammed a second home, and thumbed the slide release lever. The first of fifteen more rounds slammed into the breech. Feeling light-headed, he crawled across the debris field toward the den. Gun first, he peered around the corner.

The merc was gone.

Cracked pieces of glass still clung to the corners of the sliding door.

The floor was trashed with drywall dust and tempered glass fragments. He saw it then, a small, dark object several feet distant. Fighting to stay conscious, Nathan recognized its form.

A severed finger.

Holly felt a severe stinging in her left forearm. In the dim light, she saw an area of torn flesh the size of a silver dollar. What started as a bee sting quickly turned ugly. Within seconds, the fire in her arm had doubled. By the time she stood up, it had multiplied by a factor of ten. Damn, this thing’s really bleeding . She was pretty sure she hadn’t been shot, so what had nailed her? Then she recalled the granite countertop exploding. She must’ve been clipped by a sharp piece. Although her arm hurt like hell, she was more concerned for Nathan.

“Nathan, are you okay?”

“It’s… not too bad. Just a glancing…” He didn’t finish.

“Nathan?”

Holly looked around. The kitchen was trashed. What had Nathan said? It’s not too bad ? Bad? What wasn’t too bad? She ran into the den, ignoring the pain in her arm and the debris under her bare feet. She found Nathan on his back with a dark stain spreading into the carpet under his head.

“Nathan. Nathan! ”

His eyes opened and blinked a few times. “How long?”

She parted his hair and felt a deep cut along his scalp.

“How long?” he repeated.

“Have you been out?”

He closed his eyes.

“Ten seconds. You need a hospital.”

“No hospital. No police.”

“Nathan-”

“Cleaner could be coming. You can’t stay.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“In the den… a severed finger.”

“Severed finger?”

“Take it with you.”

She felt numb. Everything had happened so fast. Tranquility had turned into chaos. Blood splatter covered everything. The walls. Carpets. Ceiling. The room smelled of burned gunpowder, plaster dust, and the coppery salt of gore. The man she loved- loved? — was lying in a growing pool of his own blood.

“Nathan, I can’t leave you here.”

His head slumped to the carpet.

Part of her wanted to run. Her instinct for self preservation was strong. She looked at the garage door. Beyond it, certain escape. She could be gone within ten seconds, fifteen at the most. She looked at the wound on her forearm. It could have been a lot worse if it weren’t for this man. She could never face herself again if she abandoned him, even if it meant her life.

Fueled by a desire to save herself and Nathan, she groped her way into his bedroom and noticed the bottom of her feet stung. She must’ve stepped on some broken glass. She found a necktie in his closet and a washcloth in his bathroom. She set her Glock on the bathroom counter, folded the washcloth into a small square, and covered her forearm wound. Using her other hand and her teeth, she cinched the necktie to secure the washcloth in place, careful not to make it too tight. Back in the den, she tried to rouse Nathan, but got no response.