James Rouch - Blind Fire

‘He’s got this contract, to clean up the battlefields. At the moment he’s in Hamburg, building the biggest mountain of junk you’ve ever seen, only he can’t get any of it out because of the siege.’

‘So what?’ Suspicion was stirring in York’s befuddled brain. ‘So I’m his agent for the rest of the Zone. For twenty bucks apiece, I can have him tow away your wrecks. Before the engineers arrive.’

‘You said he was in Hamburg…’ The suspicion strengthened. Having stretched York’s credulity as far as it was likely to go, Cohen couldn’t resist it, he went for bust. ‘He is, see he’s got this big winch, and a special long towing hawser…’

‘Piss off.’

‘You blew it money bags.’ Having sidled closer to listen, Dooley suffered a conflict of emotion as he enjoyed Cohen’s failure and simultaneously heard him throw away forty dollars of the inheritance he looked upon as his by right. Well, there was nothing he could do about the money, so he might as well get what satisfaction he could out of the little runt’s defeat. ‘You had him, and you blew it.’

Cohen affected indifference. ‘It’s nothing. It was worth it to find out that somewhere in this great big world there is someone even thicker than you.’

‘You calling me thick?’ York bridled. ‘Maybe you’ve got a better word?’

Planting a huge paw in the centre of York’s chest, Dooley restrained him. ‘Oh no you don’t. You spill a drop of his money and I’ll tear your eyes out and use them as suppositories.’

‘I’m going to twist that lump of shrapnel in Kurt’s gut. Anyone going to join me?’ Cohen strolled back towards the group of wounded. ‘Does he mean it?’ Now York was uncertain which of the radio-man’s utterances to believe.

‘Not in a physical sense.’

There could be enormous potential for creating aggravation between the little corporal and York, and Dooley’s brain was already working overtime, outlining the first few ideas. Given a bit of time, he could arrange it so that York would never believe a word Cohen said. Hell, there was a lot of fun to be had out of this situation.

He was about to put the first into action when Cohen burst into flames. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ Catching up with the corporal among the wounded, he threw him down and dragged him clear of the phosphorus-spitting grenade.

Another landed among the wounded as York helped scuff the globules of fiercely burning chemical from the deeply burnt flak-jacket.

Clarence and Andrea were both pumping shots at the upper windows of the coffee shop, then they had to jump back as several more of the incendiary bombs landed among the Russians. Others joined in, and, at irregular intervals, still more of the horrific cylinders would tumble out to add their fuel to the smoke-wreathed fires raging among the wounded.

There was no chance of pulling the casualties clear, and those who tried to make it by themselves managed to crawl only a yard or two before the white flames engulfed them. Kurt was briefly visible, sitting up and waving fiery arms, before a long burst from Andrea’s M16 pushed him back down.

‘Get them, get them.’ Revell hurdled two charred bodies and plunged into the smoke.

Andrea and Dooley followed, Hyde holding the others back. ‘Three’s enough. York, Libby, round the back. The rest of you fan out and cover the front. Make sure of positive identification before you fire.’ Hyde dragged Cohen to his feet, smoke still wreathed from his flak-jacket, his eyelashes and eyebrows gone.

‘I’d make a fucking good fireman. Look at the practice I’m getting.’ Hands shaking, Cohen slowly unfastened the body armour and slipped it off to check none of the pockets had been burnt away. ‘That’s the second time I’ve been roasted today.’

There was a long rattle of automatic fire from the coffee shop and the stabbing flame of a muzzle flash showed in an upstairs room.

Through the partially open doorway Revell could see the legs of the Russian infantry officer he’d fired at. The man’s calf-length black boots were slashed and punctured by the storm of shot that had torn into him as the 12-gauge assault rifle had blasted him with five fast rounds.

‘Keep down.’ The major had to shove back against Andrea who was standing close .behind him. Even here, even now, the close contact with her body felt good. He took a deep breath, another, then jumped to his feet and crashed into the door. The weight of the body behind it increased its resistance to the charge and Revell felt his shoulder jar at the heavy impact. There was no one else in the room. Two more phosphorus grenades lay on a table, a third near the body, its pin unpulled.

Dooley watched the stairs leading up, while Andrea came in and turned the body on to its back. The powerful cartridges had done immense damage to the Russian’s face and torso, and every drop of his blood was draining from the huge rents. ‘One less.’

‘Let’s check the rest of the building.’ Stowing the unused bombs in his belt, Revell followed Andrea and Dooley.

Two more rooms on .that floor were quickly checked. The method Dooley used was simple, and classic. His hefty boot would batter a door open, and then the blast grenade he’d held with the pin withdrawn for three seconds would be tossed in and the door pulled shut again. Even as the concussion pounded on the wall beside them, he’d leap in and spray sharp bursts into every corner.

Up another flight and three more grenades failed to flush any Russians from hiding.

‘This one’s mine.’ Revell stopped beside the strongly locked door that led to an owner’s apartment. There were recently made footprints in the dust before it. ‘Fire the house.’ Andrea tapped the head of a grenade protruding from Revell’s waistband. ‘Let them taste the flames.’

‘You don’t give a fuck about revenging Kurt.’ Dooley fingered the keyhole of the mortise lock. ‘I suppose you want us to think your bumping him off was done out of mercy, well screw that. You just got mad because you thought someone else had got to him first.’

‘Stand back.’ Pushing the others aside with a sweep of his arm, Revell blasted the lock with a single shot.

It swung open, revealing a flight of stairs immediately behind it, with another door at the top.

‘You stick your head through that one, Major, and they’ll ventilate it for you. That’s just what they’re waiting for.’ Taking out another grenade Dooley tossed it nonchalantly. ‘How about you blast out the bottom panel and I let them have this, just to even the odds?’

‘No…’ Revell kept looking at the bottom door, the lock had been completely shot away, no wonder it had flown open…‘No, I’ve got a better idea. You wait here.’

Slowly, ultra-cautiously, the major climbed the stairs one at a time, expecting that at any moment a tread would squeak and the door above would open, to emit a tumbling wood-handled metal cylinder.

He stopped several steps from the top so that his head was level with the bottom of the door, then brought the 12-gauge up to his shoulder.

Suddenly the door smashed open and a hail of fire swept out of the room and over his head. Revell’s answering single shot caught a Russian in the act of reloading his AKM and sent him crashing backwards over a low table, dead before he landed.

Worming to the top of the stairs, Revell tentatively opened the door, to reveal a fussily furnished sitting room. There had been two weapons fired at him, of that he was sure, but there was only one body. Where was the other Russian? It could be another trap, an invitation to them all to gather in the room, and present a better target. He signalled the others to wait where they were. Andrea had already mounted a couple of steps, and didn’t stop until Dooley caught up with her and held her back.