it.’
Coleman heard the gunmen knocking glass fragments from the door with their weapon barrels. Leaning forward slightly, he looked down the bay of lockers to catch a view of the gunmen taking position.
Shit. This isn’t good.
At least six gunmen took offensive positions against Third Unit. The gunmen’s grey body armor incorporated six horizontal magazine pockets arranged like shark gills. All their equipment matched the color of the facility walls. No standard military unit, not even Special Forces, issued mission-specific camouflaged uniforms. To Coleman, this suggested the hostile force outfitted with this exact location in mind. It indicated Third Unit faced a well-prepared force.
Coleman jerked his head back barely in time.
Bullets tore down the lockers. The locker doors buckled and caved-in. Glancing down with alarm, he saw the locker’s edge twisting right beside his knee-cap. Some of the bullets came too damn close to punching through and hitting him.
‘Now!’ he called.
He hung his rifle around the locker and let rip back at the gunmen. King was lying flat, belly down. He lifted his rifle and sprayed a burst of unaimed bullets towards the doorway. Forest swung his weapon around the corner and fired.
The gunmen fired back at exactly the same time.
For six seconds, everyone was shooting at once.
The pool room became a metal hailstorm. Arcs of bullets swam across the room, trailing lines of exploding tiles. Sparks flew off the maintenance vent.
The wall near Forest disintegrated as bullets smashed the tiles like a thousand heavy hammer blows focused into six seconds. With all the tiles gone, the wall began eroding in explosive bursts of masonry dust.
Beside Coleman the lockers buckled and jerked, and then they started sliding towards him under the force of the sustained fire. Jamming his boot against the base of the locker, he prayed the metal could withstand the damage. Bullets destroyed the wall just a hand span from his right shoulder.
King’s cover became a steel snare-drum, amplifying the sound of every round that buried into its surface. In seconds, every inch of King’s cover was puckered with fist-sized dents like someone had gone crazy with a pick-axe.
The sound was deafening.
Absolutely deafening.
Then all the shooting stopped.
A single wall-tile dropped to the floor. A locker door fell free and clanked down.
Then it grew quiet again.
‘Fuuuck me,’ King called out when the firing stopped, lifting his head to survey the devastated room.
Coleman shook his head to dislodge the chips of tiles that had stung his face.
The pool room was shredded. The only patch of undamaged floor lay under King. The only patch of undamaged wall stood behind Coleman. No one’s cover could last long under this kind of punishment.
Coleman knew his weapons, and only one breed of firearm could do so much damage so quickly. The hostile force carried submachine guns. More specifically, the FN P190 Mark 2’s. The ‘Mark 2’s’ represented the latest breed of personal defense weapons. Based on the success of the FN P90, the Mark 2 had a short effective range, less than 250 meters, a larger magazine capacity, and an astonishing 2000 rounds per minute rate of fire. The weapon’s designer, Fabrique National, had sacrificed everything for maximum firepower. The short, boxy weapon proved devastating in the close range of the pool room.
Third Unit was seriously outgunned.
Coleman
Coleman heard the gunmen knocking glass fragments from the door with their weapon barrels. Leaning forward slightly, he looked down the bay of lockers to catch a view of the gunmen taking position.
Shit. This isn’t good.
At least six gunmen took offensive positions against Third Unit. The gunmen’s grey body armor incorporated six horizontal magazine pockets arranged like shark gills. All their equipment matched the color of the facility walls. No standard military unit, not even Special Forces, issued mission-specific camouflaged uniforms. To Coleman, this suggested the hostile force outfitted with this exact location in mind. It indicated Third Unit faced a well-prepared force.
Coleman jerked his head back barely in time.
Bullets tore down the lockers. The locker doors buckled and caved-in. Glancing down with alarm, he saw the locker’s edge twisting right beside his knee-cap. Some of the bullets came too damn close to punching through and hitting him.
‘Now!’ he called.
He hung his rifle around the locker and let rip back at the gunmen. King was lying flat, belly down. He lifted his rifle and sprayed a burst of unaimed bullets towards the doorway. Forest swung his weapon around the corner and fired.
The gunmen fired back at exactly the same time.
For six seconds, everyone was shooting at once.
The pool room became a metal hailstorm. Arcs of bullets swam across the room, trailing lines of exploding tiles. Sparks flew off the maintenance vent.
The wall near Forest disintegrated as bullets smashed the tiles like a thousand heavy hammer blows focused into six seconds. With all the tiles gone, the wall began eroding in explosive bursts of masonry dust.
Beside Coleman the lockers buckled and jerked, and then they started sliding towards him under the force of the sustained fire. Jamming his boot against the base of the locker, he prayed the metal could withstand the damage. Bullets destroyed the wall just a hand span from his right shoulder.
King’s cover became a steel snare-drum, amplifying the sound of every round that buried into its surface. In seconds, every inch of King’s cover was puckered with fist-sized dents like someone had gone crazy with a pick-axe.
The sound was deafening.
Absolutely deafening.
Then all the shooting stopped.
A single wall-tile dropped to the floor. A locker door fell free and clanked down.
Then it grew quiet again.
‘Fuuuck me,’ King called out when the firing stopped, lifting his head to survey the devastated room.
Coleman shook his head to dislodge the chips of tiles that had stung his face.
The pool room was shredded. The only patch of undamaged floor lay under King. The only patch of undamaged wall stood behind Coleman. No one’s cover could last long under this kind of punishment.
Coleman knew his weapons, and only one breed of firearm could do so much damage so quickly. The hostile force carried submachine guns. More specifically, the FN P190 Mark 2’s. The ‘Mark 2’s’ represented the latest breed of personal defense weapons. Based on the success of the FN P90, the Mark 2 had a short effective range, less than 250 meters, a larger magazine capacity, and an astonishing 2000 rounds per minute rate of fire. The weapon’s designer, Fabrique National, had sacrificed everything for maximum firepower. The short, boxy weapon proved devastating in the close range of the pool room.
Third Unit was seriously outgunned.
Coleman
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