Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

We're crouched against the wall that surrounds the back of the estate. It's a privacy wall, about six feet high. We're not scaling it in any dramatic fashion. We each have a four-foot-high stepladder. We'd both been offered MP5 machine guns, and we'd both declined. "Stick with what you know" is an old adage of the tactical situation. I know my handgun, my sleek black Beretta, as well as I know the color of my own eyes. Kirby had wisecracked about the MP5 clashing with her outfit, but I knew her reasons were the same: Travel light with the weapon of your choosing. Hers was a handgun as well.

"Ready to kick ass, over," Kirby subvocalizes into her throat mike.

"Roger that," Brady replies after a moment. "Armageddon will commence in two minutes from my mark. One, two, three--mark."

"Ooohh, synchronized watches," Kirby whispers.

"Countdown's commenced, Kirby," Brady says. "You get that?"

"Yes, boss." She looks at me and grins. "Hey, Boone. Still think I'm not dangerous?"

"Negative on that, BB." Boone's voice comes through, amused. BB stood for "Beach Bunny." "You're bad news in a pretty package, that's the truth."

Kirby checks her weapon as she continues the banter. I'm not interested in joining in. My stomach is fluttering and I'm so charged up I feel like I should be throwing off sparks.

At least your hands are dry, I think.

This has always been the case. No matter what the stakes, no matter how dangerous the scene, my hands never sweat in a gunfight, and they are always steady.

"Forty-five seconds until the nasty," Brady says, sounding bored. I think about Gustavo Cabrera, inside that house. I wonder if he's clutching a weapon as he stares through his windows. Are his hands steady or shaking? What's he thinking of ?

"Thirty seconds," Brady says.

"How are you over there?" Kirby asks me. Her voice is light, but her eyes are assessing me. Taking stock. Asset or liability? they ask. I hold out a hand for her. Show her its rock-steadiness. She nods. "Coolness."

"Fifteen seconds to D-day."

Kirby checks her own handgun again, humming. It takes me a moment to place the tune. "Yankee Doodle Dandy." She catches me staring at her.

"I like the classics." She shrugs.

"Ten seconds. Get ready."

We position ourselves at the base of our respective ladders. My endorphin buddies are back and they've brought their friends. (Fear and euphoria, euphoria and fear)

"Five seconds. Get ready to open the gates of hell."

"Bring it on, daddy-o," Kirby says, full of good cheer even as her killer's eyes blaze.

The machine-gun fire, when it starts, is incredibly loud, even at this distance.

"That's our cue!" Kirby yells.

We clamber up the ladders, reach the top of the wall, and lift ourselves over. We turn around and go into a hanging position, like someone doing a chin-up, before dropping to the ground on the other side. No jumps and rolls in the real world; it's too easy to twist an ankle. The gunfire continues, and I see flashes as well, over the top of the house. I can hear the helicopter rotors and a series of loud noises that I assume to be flash-bangs going off. As I run, I hear another noise as well. It takes me a moment to place it. Return fire, from an automatic weapon.

Kirby and I race toward the back of the house at a dead run. She's moving faster than I am by a body-length or two, unencumbered by a flak vest or my extra years.

The house is smaller than I would have expected for the land its on. Per blueprints, it's just under 3200 square feet, all of which is laid out in a single story. There's a back door that leads through a small hall into the kitchen. We arrive at the door. I'm breathing hard and deep. Kirby appears unruffled.

"We're in place, Mr. Boss-man sir," she says to Brady.

"Roger that. Cutting loose."

"Cutting loose" means that they're going to start chewing up the front lawn with machine-gun fire like there's no tomorrow, followed by tossing out flash-bang grenades as they fire tear gas canisters in through the front windows.

"Time for some hat-hair," Kirby says, giving me a wink. We slip on the masks. They're SWAT issue, with a wide line-ofsight and plenty of peripheral vision, but they're still gas masks. My forehead starts to sweat right away.

"Commencing," Brady says.

I thought it had been noisy before. That was nothing compared to the sound assault that signals Brady's team is indeed "cutting loose."

The sound of two fifty-caliber machine guns fills the air with thunder. Not long after that, the flash-bangs begin to roar, one after the other, not stopping. We hear the crash of shattering glass. Kirby kicks the door open and we're inside. I can't smell anything but the rubber of my mask, but the house is full of smoke and vapor. Cabrera is firing away with an automatic weapon and the roar of it is immense inside the home. There's no way he could hear anything above that.

Kirby moves forward, her gun out now. I follow, weapon ready as well. We creep toward the sound of his gunfire. The flash-bangs continue to explode. We move through the kitchen and reach the doorway that leads to the living room and the front of the house. We each take a side of the doorway and peer around.

Will you look at that? I think. Pure carnage.

Cabrera is outlined in light. He's crouched and firing up at an angle, toward the chopper, I know. His back is to us and his body shakes every now and then when he fires his weapon--an M16, I now see. He's surrounded by broken glass from the windows.

The plan at this point had been unelegant but simple. As Kirby had put it: "Try and tackle that sucker."

I look at Kirby, and she looks back at me. I see her eyes squint in a smile and I nod.

We don't have much time. It won't take long for Cabrera to wonder why Brady's team are such bad shots. He'll smell a trap. Kirby bolts out, running toward Cabrera. I breathe deep, once, inside my mask, and follow. Cabrera's instincts kick in and he whips around with the M16, eyes wide, mouth grim. Kirby doesn't slow, moving into him rather than away, forcing the weapon up as it discharges, tracing bulletholes in the ceiling. I have my gun up and am moving back and forth, looking for a shot as the two of them struggle with each other.

"Goddammit, Kirby," I shout, "get out of my line of fire!"

My voice is muffled by the mask, drowned out by all the manmade thunder. Kirby's other hand brings up her gun. Cabrera abandons the M16

and chops one hand down on her wrist, while the other goes for her throat. She blocks the throat blow, but loses her weapon. Cabrera's eyes are red-rimmed by the tear gas, and he's coughing, but he continues to fight.

"Fuck," I mutter, then "Fuck!" I shout, bobbing and weaving, my heart pounding, my head pounding, my hands still dry. Kirby goes for his balls with a swift kick. He turns his leg in, taking it on the thigh, and manages to slam the butt of his palm into her cheek. She stumbles backward as her face whips to the side. Time freezes.

Finally!

The stumble has given me a clear shot, so I shoot him in the shoulder.

He grunts and drops to a knee. Kirby moves in and slams him in the face with her fist once, twice, three times, and then she's behind him as he struggles to stay on his feet, and she's got him in a choke hold.

He scrabbles at her arms. It's too late. His eyes roll up in his head. She lets go, pushing him forward so that he falls onto his stomach. She whips out a set of zip-ties and secures his wrists. And just like that, it's over.

"Ceasefire, boys," Kirby says, the mask giving her voice an echoey sound. "He's down."

My hands begin to sweat.

58

GUSTAVO CABRERA IS SITTING ON A CHAIR, GAZING AT US. HISshoulder has been tended to. His hands are secured in his lap now, rather than behind him. He should be more worried. Instead, he looks like a man at peace. His eyes have been treated for the gas and they're staring at Alan. Assessing.