Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Go. Go! Dammit!” she yelled to herself.

Ten yards out from the front doors, Amanda critically assessed the area behind the big glass windows, seeing at least four big men with guns hustling inside the building complex to settle in at the top of the escalators. These men were taking up position to defend the main front doors using overturned furniture, metal desks or cabinets on the second level. Uneasy at her present exposure, Amanda hoped they were tracking or would discover her approach.

“Oww!” Amanda yelped in sudden pain.

A serious sting sliced the outside of her left thigh; she nearly stumbled to the ground. Glancing back, she refocused when several men tumbled down hard from a furious flurry of sniper rounds. Intuitively, Amanda held her 30.06 high up in the air above her head, as she scrambled toward the doors. Hands nowhere near the trigger, she slowed and slammed into the main doors.

“Help! Help!”

Quickly scrabbling for the door handle, she found it unlocked. Unbelievably, she dragged the door open with an adrenaline-charge pull, slamming it into its stop with a brutal echo, heard above the increasing gunfire. Time measured in milliseconds, she expected to take a vicious hit from one of the four visible guards atop the escalators. Calmly, she yelled.

“Get the president to safety! You’re under attack!”

Another medium caliber bullet from behind her slipped hard into her left side, just below the shoulder blade. A third bullet snapped her head forward as the bullet creased the left side of her head, traveling above her ear. Amanda collapsed in a heap, but not before stumbling a few more steps toward the escalators. Quickly losing consciousness, she yelled a few more words.

“Connor Mac… leave…”

The world turned black for Amanda.

“We’re under attack! From the warehouse behind us!” yelled Boris, captain of Phoenix’s Fourth Pride Brigade, “Fall back! Find the source in that warehouse! Move! Move!”

“Dammit, Franky’s down!” yelled the man next to him.

“Bobby’s hit! Shit, he’s dead!” said another man fifty feet further down the line. Men crouched, hidden near the left front walls. The snipers hidden in the warehouse certainly were productive. And pretty damn selective.

“Find those snipers! I thought Ghost and Simpson were over there!”

Men clamored behind what little cover was available. A well-armed team of sixteen men burst from their position near the right side of the building to cross the open area in an attempt to enter the warehouse. In the process, three men of the infamous Fourth Brigade dropped in brutal, rubbery fashion. Another man went down headfirst into the concrete near the doors, but the remaining twelve men slipped into position, bursting through the ground floor doors.

“Upstairs!”

At the same time, several other twenty-man half brigades from the Third and Second moved smoothly toward the front doors of the Hall of Fame across the way, intent on achieving their mission objective, trying to maintain at least some last vestiges of surprise.

“In the doors! Move!”

From his vantage point on the east side of the target building, Commander Larry Reed took calm measure of the situation. Clearly, he accepted surprise was no longer an option for the Pride brigades. But, despite this, he was determined to move fast and with full force. Snatching his radio, he instructed all Pride brigades to attack without mercy, forcefully reminding them to preserve the ’copter, Starkes and the woman, as well as the pilot and child, if in fact there was a child. His radio was ablaze with chatter, but eventually each brigade confirmed position and instructions.

“Take down is now! Repeat. Takedown is now! Use all force necessary.”

With satisfaction, he studied their sharp response. The front entrance of the Hall of Fame swarmed with a blistering rampage of shooting men. Some, Larry noticed, dropped hard from bullets coming from inside, but, it was inevitable with such a surging mass that a breach would be successful. Instinctively, Larry ducked when a sniper round hit the bricks near his ear, way too close for comfort. Barely escaping death, he smiled at the impending devastation his men were unleashing.

“We got shit going down,” said Mickey. He crouched behind the overturned desk near the up escalators. Edgars beside him, Mickey tracked Rice and Burroughs setting up at the down escalators positioned in similar fashion. Surprised to hear gunfire right when they settled into position, their casual conversation ceased and they responded as experienced professionals. In fact, at the sound of the second sniper round hitting a target near the door, Mickey smiled, glancing toward the other three men.

“It’s ’bout fuckin’ time for some action, don’t you think?”

“Hoorah!”

“Shamus and the major were dead-ass right. A takedown attempt is comin’,” yelled Edgars.

“Hey man, check it out!” Burroughs pointed toward the front doors.

A young, raven-haired woman burst through at speed with her weapon held high above her head, night vision goggles bouncing at her neck. She yelled something that had yet to take hold while each man took aim ready to shoot. That is, until the young woman took a hit from behind and nearly slammed onto the marble floor. Granted, this slowed their trigger fingers. But, hearing her last words prompted Mickey and each man to spring into decisive action.

“Burroughs, call it in! Edgars, Rice, cover me. There’s a swarm of men comin’ around from each side, full assault! Take it to im! Burroughs! Let’s grab this woman, now!”

The men responded without delay. They were an experienced and combat hardened team who only came alive in situations such as these.

“Captain, full scale attack! Front entrance. Happening now. Confirm! Over.” yelled Burroughs into the radio.

Burroughs ran to assist Mickey, providing a blaze of cover fire.

“Understood. Report.”

“In excess of fifty men visible, well-armed. Efforts are coordinated, repeat, coordinated. East and west approaches. Full front entrance breach. Repeat. Front entrance breach. Hostiles are operating under orders and with purpose. Over.”

“Roger that. Squad dispatched to your position. Over.”

“Roger. Might need the help.”

Edgars and Rice took easy aim at the first batch of men approaching the entrance. With extensive combat experience guiding each round, they carefully selected targets as fast as the sights lined up; ammo was expended at a prodigious rate. Glass broke around them as all front windows shattered from bullets coming from everywhere.

“Take ’em. Take ’em all,” yelled Mickey.

He ignored the blood dripping from his left arm. Into the firefight, Mickey was first to reach Amanda, grabbing her roughly by the collar. At the grasp, his fingers recognized a bulletproof vest beneath and he held out some slim hope for the woman’s survival. Pulling hard, he dragged her lithe frame toward the escalators, the only way up to the second floor. His blood dripped into her hair to mingle with her blood oozing from a bullet wound that might’ve simply grazed her skull. One could hope, but based on the copious blood, Mickey was not so sure. Keeping cover fire, Rice sprayed the front entrance, taking down several men every few seconds. Burroughs stopped to snatch up the woman’s dropped rifle, though not sure why.

“C’mon! Go!”

In short fashion, Mickey carried Amanda to the top of the escalators, tossing her behind the desk. Leaving her there in a heap untouched, he joined the firefight more directly, killing at least ten men as they sought entrance through shattered windows. Immediately, Burroughs relayed current sit-rep to command, relating what the young woman had spoken. Mickey tossed a grenade at the front doors while Rice and Edgars did the same in a delayed dispersal pattern that only seasoned team members working as one knew how to unleash.