Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

The other three men moved steadily through the property’s periphery, one behind Evan, the others to either side of him. Beneath the sharp ridge of the masks’ nose lines, their breath puffed through the thermal fabric.

Evan timed Diaz’s pace as Diaz vanished around the corner of the kiosk. Counted to three. Then emerged from the cover of the damaged vehicles, bearing down on Diaz as he came back into sight.

Approaching swiftly, Evan shot him three times in rapid succession—thigh, hip, and right shoulder. Diaz managed to depress the trigger, but given his destroyed shooting arm it was nothing more than a spray-and-pray to the side, the rounds sparking off the nearby cars before the MP5 kicked from his hand of its own volition. The bullet that had shattered his hip had also knocked the still-holstered Hi-Power clean off his belt, the Silverback round doing what it did best.

With his left hand, Diaz ripped a KA-BAR straight-edge from a thigh sheath and swiped at Evan’s face, but Evan trapped the wrist against the wall, caught the falling knife, and slammed it through Diaz’s palm, pinning his hand to the wood.

They were eye to eye, Diaz shoved up against the kiosk, his good leg taking his weight. He made a stuttering sound, a series of “t”s that couldn’t find a vowel.

“Wait here,” Evan said.

Gunfire strafed the top of the kiosk, and Evan sprinted back to cover amid the damaged cars, returning fire to hold them off. He caught a glimpse of the operators closing in, their monocular night-vision headgear turning them to cyclopes.

The three men were hustling toward him from different vectors. A round chipped the asphalt behind him, and then his leg blew to the side, the ricochet catching his heel.

34Taste of Copper in the Air

The force of the bullet spun Evan around, dumping him onto a throw of pebbled glass between two reasonably intact Town Cars. He grabbed for his leg to assess the damage. The round hadn’t in fact struck his foot but had bitten a chunk of rubber from the heel of his boot, leaving the steel shank in the sole exposed.

Quick exhale of relief.

The slide of his 1911 was locked to the rear, the nine rounds spent. As he hit the slide release and reached for a new magazine, bursts of gunfire from both directions riddled the Town Cars on either side of him, degrading them to the condition of the surrounding vehicles. Evan flattened to the ground, caging his head, glass raining down.

When the barrage ceased, he shouted, “Wait!”—graveling his voice to disguise it. “We’re shooting at each other.”

He took advantage of the momentary pause to scramble on all fours up the lane. He was still gripping the empty ARES, bits of glass sticking to his knuckles and the palm of his other hand.

Behind him the Town Cars lit up again, rocking on their chassis. He hit a streak of oil, his arm flying out, his chest slapping the ground. The tactical flashlight rolled free from his cargo pocket but thankfully did not illuminate and give away his position.

Rolling to his side, he reached again for the spare mag in his left inner cargo pocket, but then he made out the sound of labored breathing just beyond the neighboring row of vehicles. The sounds grew nearer, and he froze.

Silence.

With an MP5 in the immediate vicinity, Evan didn’t dare move, let alone wrestle out the magazine and click it home.

A voice shouted over. “You okay, Keller?”

“Good!” The answer came from the far side of the Mustang that Evan was sprawled behind. Six feet away, maybe less.

The sound of heavy breathing resumed, the same anxious cadence Evan had observed from afar. The light crackle of a boot setting down. Then Keller edged into sight, his image fragmented through the Mustang’s cracked side windows. He led with the MP5, hunched over the stock. The black mask wrapped the bottom of his face, his forehead seeming to float, the night-vision lens—which looked to be a cheap Russian knockoff—lowered over one eye. Severely shadowed, he looked like an apparition of steam and iron.

Another step brought him to the hood of the Mustang. The next would carry him into the aisle where Evan lay unfurled in plain view. The backup magazines shoved into his skin, beckoning. But by the time he ripped one free, seated it in the gun, and raised the barrel, he’d be on the receiving end of six hundred rounds per minute.

The tactical flashlight rested three feet from his head.

The Unofficial Eleventh Commandment: Don’t fall in love with Plan A .

Evan strained for the flashlight. Plucked it silently from the ground.

As Keller stepped around the car, Evan’s fist pulsed around the flashlight, the beam shooting directly up into the man’s face.

Keller yelped and reeled back, swatting at the night-vision lens that compounded the glare into a spike of light through his eyes. Evan swept himself up off the ground, a spin kick connecting with the MP5 and knocking it free. As Keller drew his handgun, Evan laced his fist around his empty ARES and brass-knuckled it into his face. Keller’s nose cracked beneath the mask, but he didn’t drop his own pistol. Rather than back off, Evan skipped inside the hefty man’s arm span, his head parallel to the Hi-Power as it fired. Inches away, the gunshot was deafening, but he was safely inside its range. Evan ducked and swung behind Keller, slipping one arm around his neck in a rear naked choke and clamping his gun with his other hand.

Keller’s head was bent forward painfully, his torso curled, leaving him bellowing into his own chest. Holding pressure on the head, Evan goosenecked Keller’s wrist, locked the elbow, and torqued his arm so the pistol was aimed sideways. Evan laced his forefinger through the trigger guard on top of Keller’s.

The remaining operators were sprinting toward them from two offset trajectories, each about thirty yards away. Evan cranked Keller’s hefty arm upward, captured the lead man in the off-kilter sights, and fired three times. One of the rounds caught him in the face, clotheslining him, his body landing flat on the asphalt with a deadweight thud.

Evan swung Keller’s arm thirty degrees to the right. Before he could aim at the second operator, the man opened fire, one of the rounds striking Keller in the shoulder. Spray of warmth across Evan’s cheek, taste of copper in the air, the impact sending a thunderclap through Keller’s flesh and bone. The domino effect nearly knocked Evan onto his ass, but he managed to hold on, keeping Keller’s arm captured and maintaining the choke.

Steering Keller from behind, Evan kicked his Achilles tendon. Keller jerked his foot forward with a zombie step and grunted, lips fluttering wetly beneath the mask. Then Evan kneed the back of Keller’s other leg, manipulating the big man like a doll, force-walking him around the front of the Mustang for cover. Keller tried to rear up, but Evan slammed his forehead down onto the hood, denting the metal and cracking the Tiffany-blue paint job. He kept his grip on Keller’s arm, fighting their shared gun hand up and over to aim.

The operator was still coming, rounds sparking off the body of the Mustang, one of the tires going with a pop, air hissing angrily through the puncture. Keller was screaming into the hood. Evan wrenched the Hi-Power over another inch and fired, fired, fired, finally clipping the operator’s cheek.

The guy halted at last, the MP5 tumbling from his hands. Evan took a moment to sight carefully and shot him through the forehead.

There was a single instant of quiet, powder smoke stratified in the air.

Then, somewhere behind the kiosk, the Tesla hummed to life, headlights sweeping the perimeter fence as the team leader whipped the car around to charge into the fray.

Keller was sobbing, his words muted given Evan’s ringing ears. “—my friends, made me shoot my friends—”