William Weber - System Failure

Dakota exited the break room, charging down the hallway toward the mezzanine. Hot on her heels was Holly, hoping to get her hands on a weapon of her own. They flung open the outer door only to see a darkened space. Frightened figures ran through a patchwork of dead and wounded, fleeing for safety. Dakota spotted something outside just to the left of the doorway and ran to grab it, returning a moment later with a rifle.

They closed the door to the mezzanine in order to figure out what to do next.

“You get this off a dead guard?”

Dakota shook her head. “No, just some regular guy. He must have picked it up and charged in at the wrong time.”

“Could you see where Sergei or any of his guards are hiding?”

“Not really,” Dakota said, biting her lip. “Although I did see one of them crouched behind a turnstile.”

That made sense since the mezzanine was mostly an open area. Except it also meant Sergei and his boys were blocking the main exits.

Dakota handed Holly the pistol while she kept the rifle. Releasing and reseating the mag, Holly saw it was nearly fully loaded.

A flurry of shots rang out on the other side of the door. Dakota had Holly pull the door handle while she took aim.

Outside, a small group of regular folks must have grabbed some weapons and were charging the mobster’s position. Dakota slid out on her stomach, firing at anything near the turnstiles that moved. Flashes from the weapons on both sides lit the room.

A refugee not five feet away took a bullet to the chest and collapsed. Firing with her pistol, Holly worked her way over to the rifle he’d been firing. She scooped it up, seated the pistol in her belt and continued firing.

The civilians who had joined the battle were likely enraged by the Russian mafia’s senseless massacre of their friends and family. Things seemed to be going well until one refugee after another was cut down. Soon, Holly and Dakota found themselves all alone.

Now the enemy’s rounds were drawing closer and closer. A searing burst of pain in Holly’s thigh brought her to one knee. She looked down and saw blood running down her leg.

But she kept firing, and so did Dakota, until both their weapons ran dry. Out came the pistol and within seconds that too was empty. There was only one other option. Retreat back to the breakroom and hope they didn’t get gunned down on the way.

Gripping her wounded leg, Holly prepared to move when four figures emerged from the mezzanine stairway, peppering the guards hunched behind the turnstiles with accurate and deadly fire.

Holly didn’t recognize any of them. But Dakota did and called out, “Give ’em hell, Nate.”

Blood oozing from between her fingers, Holly watched Nate move across the floor with the others, laying waste to the inhumane scum blocking the exits. With his smooth scalp, muscular jawline and blazing eyes, she was happy he wasn’t coming after her.

The four men were working together in perfect harmony, killing the enemy and pushing them back, when Colt went down. Nate knew he couldn’t stop shooting in order to help, but the way Colt dropped so suddenly, it didn’t look good. Dakota and a woman next to her moved into the hail of bullets to drag him to safety.

This only made them push harder. Hot with rage, Walker shouted a litany of curse words as he dropped one guard after another.

Unable to withstand the withering punishment, the enemy’s line broke. Two fled up one exit while a man in a dark suit tossed aside his empty weapon and fled up the other.

“There goes Sergei,” Nate shouted. “Don’t let him get away.”

Hopping over the turnstile, Nate ran up the stairs after him with Brooks close behind. Walker ran after the other two.

A frigid wind slapped at Nate’s face as he worked his way up the stairs, the lactic acid making his muscles scream. Near the top riser, Nate saw two figures wrestling in the snow. Someone had already brought him down.

They reached the top and Nate was stunned.

Sergei screamed in pain as Shadow tore at his outstretched arm, trying for the man’s neck. Nate used the butt of his rifle to knock him out. Shadow continued chomping away until he saw his plaything had gone limp.

“Good work, buddy,” Nate said, ruffling the wolf’s ashy fur.

Shadow turned to Brooks and let out a low growl.

“It’s okay. He’s on our side.”

Nate and Brooks grabbed the semi-conscious Sergei by the collar of his Armani suit and dragged him back underground. Here he would be judged and given a full measure of righteous justice.

Sergei was stripped of any weapons and unceremoniously duct-taped to a pillar in the mezzanine. The survivors wouldn’t be ready to deliberate on the mob boss’ punishment before they’d made a complete accounting of his many crimes. Besides, Nate had far more important things on his mind than retribution.

Following the battle, the entire subway station smelled of gunpowder and death. Bodies lay scattered in every direction. But for every death, there were at least two more who were wounded. Nate found Dakota tending to one of them. It was Colt, the other members of the Citadel team doing what they could to help.

She was about to start chest compressions when Walker nudged her out of the way. “Lemme do this,” he barked, lacing his fingers as he attempted to berate his friend back to life. Brooks cupped his own forehead, struggling to look.

Dakota stood and wiped her hands on her pants.

“Was she hurt?” Nate asked. He was terrified of saying Amy’s name.

The girl hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “She’s through that door. Might wanna go quickly before you miss anything.”

He paused and gave her a hug. “Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me. People you loved were killed and it’s all my fault.”

“If it wasn’t for you, they might all have died.”

It seemed cold comfort given the carnage around them.

Nate rushed through the open doorway and down the corridor to the breakroom. He was nearly there when he heard the sound of a child crying.

Amy was lying on the table, a jacket draped over her. A blonde woman was holding his newborn baby.

“It’s a girl,” the woman said proudly, handing it to Amy. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Takes after her mother,” Nate said, leaning down to kiss Amy’s clammy forehead and marvel at his daughter. He was bursting with so much joy he hoped this moment would never end.

“Born during a shootout,” Amy said, her voice weak. “Makes her a real Bauer, don’t you think?”

“Little baby Roxy,” he said, covering the child with a towel someone brought.

“My daughter’s no Roxy,” Amy snapped before her face eased into a smile. “Nice try though.”

He grinned. It was good to see the old fire was still there.

“What do you think of Clementine?” Amy asked.

It had a nineteenth-century flair that seemed somehow appropriate these days. He nodded. Clementine it was.

When the initial onslaught of euphoria had worn off, Nate took Hunter and Emmitt aside to console them over the loss of their mother. “I know nothing can bring her back, but I want you boys to know I will always be there for you.” He pulled them in tight, meaning every word.

“What about my dad?” Emmitt said, his cheeks as red as the disheveled mop of hair atop his head.

“Your dad’s a fighter,” Nate said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. But there was no way he intended to tell his nephews the real likelihood they’d ever see their dad again.

He was heading back to Amy when he saw the blonde woman who had helped deliver Clementine. Standing next to her was a young, expressionless boy.