William Weber - Zero Day

“I’m gonna remove my hand in a second and you’re not gonna scream, are you?”

His eyes, already wide, darted from left to right as he shook his head vigorously.

“Good. Now, how many of Jakes’ men are inside?” Nate eased his hand off the guy’s mouth.

“I can’t breathe.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“A lot,” he replied, panting. “More than usual.”

“And the girl, where is she?”

“Girl? We got lots of girls.”

“White. Fifteen years old. Five foot three or so. Suffers from a bit of an attitude problem. Ring any bells?”

A light went on. “Oh, her. Yeah, I heard Jakes killed that one. She was mouthing off and…” The thug’s voice trailed off, understanding in that moment he might have said too much.

“Killed?” Nate repeated, his voice icy cool, his heart suddenly devoid of mercy. He shoved the barrel deeper into the man’s flesh and pulled the trigger. The Glock made a muffled, but audible sound.

“Oh, man, someone heard that for sure,” Sanchez scolded him. “We gotta move before this place is swarming.”

Nate sprang to his feet, holstered the Glock and swung the G36 assault rifle around. Sanchez pushed past him and pulled open the door. In Nate went, his anger no longer seething. It had already morphed into a mushroom cloud of white-hot wrath. In a matter of seconds, the mission had transitioned from find and rescue to search and destroy.

Now inside, Sanchez grabbed him by the arm. “Hey, man, if it’s true the girl’s dead, going in there won’t bring her back. I say we get out of here while we still can.” He paused. “Think of your family.”

“What good will I be to them if I tuck tail like a coward and run? You wanna go, I won’t hold it against you. This is my fight.”

“I shoulda known when I saw that crazed look in your eye there’d be no reasoning with you.”

Nate leveled his weapon down the corridor, switched on the tac light at the end of his rifle and pressed on. They hurried down the narrow hallway, passing through a set of doors and into an expansive lobby. Had Nate not been so consumed with revenge, he might have stopped to gawk. It was an art deco lover’s wet dream—black limestone floors opposite a high glass ceiling with Ohio sandstone walls. At either end were giant murals depicting the city founders dressed in nineteenth-century garb and wielding pickaxes.

Suddenly, the frantic sound of shouting along with the clatter of heavy boot treads echoed back at them. Nate and Sanchez were out in the open. The area was bare except for a series of leather couches and seats to their right.

A half-second later, three men in thick coats staggered into the lobby. For a moment, it appeared they might be heading toward the front entrance. Then one of them skidded to a stop and shouted at his companions. “They’re over he―”

His full warning was interrupted by two quick rounds from Nate’s rifle, the sound of gunfire nearly ear-popping. The rounds rippled the fabric of the man’s jacket, cutting power to his legs. He dropped. Sanchez bagged the one behind him as Nate cut right, firing from the hip as he headed for the couches. His weapon kicked like a mule in heat.

Seeing his two buddies torn to shreds, the third and farthest gunman should have done the smart thing and run away, but he didn’t. Instead, he went for Nate, riddling the soft leather couch with bullets. In response, Nate dropped and hugged the ground. Staring out from beneath the sofa, he had a clear view from the man’s feet to his knees. The moment he swiveled his rifle in position, that was where he aimed, his rounds firing out from beneath the couch. One shot struck the guy’s kneecap while another from Sanchez slammed into his chest, collapsing his lung. He fell over, gasping for air.

When the shooting was done, Nate got up and approached the dead and dying. Only the last guy was still breathing.

“Where’s Jakes?” Nate asked.

Blood ran from the corner of the man’s mouth. He began to speak but it was little more than a whisper. Nate drew closer.

“Top floor. He’s waiting for you,” the man said, between deep, labored breaths.

A mercy shot from Sanchez finished him. “What’d he say?”

“Jakes is waiting for us.”

The corners of Sanchez’s mouth turned down. “The hell do you suppose that means?”

“I’m not sure,” Nate said, swallowing down his growing concern. He then quickly searched the bodies and noticed they were using AR-15s. He threw Sanchez a few extra magazines before they carried on.

No power meant no elevators. It also meant at least eight flights of stairs.

They entered the stairwell. “I hope you kept up that gym membership.”

A guilty, worried look spread over Sanchez’s face. Together, they glanced up the center of the u-shaped stairwell.

Sweat was already pouring down Sanchez’s face. “Oh, man.”

Both of them peeled off their white camo and heavy jackets. From here on, mobility and maintaining stamina would be key.

They began to ascend and had barely made it past the first floor when they heard a metal door slam somewhere above them. That was quickly followed by boots clomping down two risers at a time.

Nate and Sanchez crept up slowly, keeping their angles clean. The element of surprise could very well be the difference between life and death. Nate’s pulse ratcheted up as they drew closer.

A noise from behind startled them. Someone was coming out onto the second-floor landing. Nate swung around and saw one of Jakes’ thugs brandishing a shotgun and a bright shock of bleach-blond hair. For a moment, Blondie looked just as startled as they did. He recovered quickly and up came his shotgun right as Nate pulled the trigger God only knew how many times. Blondie took one to the gut and two to the chest. He staggered back, peppering the riser just below them with double-aught buck.

No two ways about it, this was a terrible position to be in. Threats coming from multiple directions meant they were unable to focus their fire. It also increased the chances one or more of Jakes’ men could pop out above or below them at any time.

Now the shouting from above got louder. Unfortunately, the element of surprise had gone out the window the second Blondie made his grand entrance. Nate switched to a fresh magazine and made sure to keep a tight angle. They also made sure to hug the outer wall so no one could shoot them from above.

Then shots rang out, ricocheting around the stairwell. It seemed these guys weren’t as dumb as they looked. They knew well enough charging into another man’s firing line was a damn good way to make yourself dead. Nate also realized moving forward would be a hard slog, a kind of chess game where each side sought to outmaneuver the other. The smart play was to press on, slowly, methodically.

If they were the two-bit drug dealers and hoodlums he thought they were, that was precisely what they would be expecting. And that was precisely why Nate broke into a run, scaling two risers at a time, keeping his weapon always trained on the next stairway and landing beyond. Shadows thrown from their tac lights helped to confuse and disorient the enemy.

Behind him, Sanchez struggled to keep up, huffing and puffing like a man on the verge of cardiac arrest.

The charge seemed to have the desired effect. The first two thugs were in the midst of running away when Nate gunned them down. Two others slammed into each other after deciding to tear off in opposite directions. Sanchez got a piece of them. Another couple escaped onto the seventh floor, the door slamming shut behind them. But giving chase wasn’t in the cards, not yet. This was not the time for rabbit holes. Nate’s primary objective remained the same: place a tight grouping of bullets between Jakes’ eyes. Only when that was done—God willing—would he allow himself the gratuitous luxury of finishing off the rest of the man’s crew.