could improve his odds. He shoved the pistol in his belt and went back to the shelves he’d seen.
Just as he’d hoped, they were loaded down with small boxes, so heavy the shelves bowed under their weight. He grabbed a couple of boxes and sat down hard behind a row of crates, even as bullets stitched holes in the wall over his head.
Training was everything, Chapel thought. A civilian in this situation would not be able to concentrate. The noise and the stink of expended gunpowder and the shouts of the guards and the fear of death—all these things could destroy focus. Chapel had a relatively intricate procedure to complete, and if he’d had to fight down his own panic he never could have done it.
The guards were coming closer. Some of them would be braver than others. Some would be more observant. At least one of them, he knew, would notice what he was doing and what it meant. At least one of them would have the brains to stop him. Assuming they got to him before he finished.
He worked as quickly as he could. One of the boxes held empty clips, plastic reinforced with steel in the iconic curved shape of the AK magazine. The clips were empty, of course. The other box Chapel had grabbed contained the rounds that went into the clips. He had to feed them in one at a time, pressing them down hard against the spring inside. One after another, each one resisting a little more as the spring compressed . . .
“Just get in there,” Michael shouted, urging his men on. One of them told him to go fuck himself. That made Chapel grin. But he could hear footsteps pounding on the cement floor of the cellar, he could hear men climbing up on top of the maze of crates to get to him. He had maybe a few seconds, maybe less, before they were on him.
One more round. He pressed it down hard. Another. There were thirty total bullets in a standard AK-47 clip. He had to count to make sure he got them all in. One more. Push down. Another. He reached in the box and grabbed a bullet, brought it toward the clip. Pushed it down.
Done.
He slid the clip into the receiver. Felt it click into place. Now all he had to do was—
“Freeze, asshole,” someone said, off to his left.
Chapel didn’t even look up. Instead he grabbed the charging handle and yanked it back, then let it go.
“I said—”
Chapel turned to face the man. He saw a middle-aged guy in a suit, a pistol clutched in both his hands. He saw the barrel pointing at his face. The guards would have orders not to kill Chapel if it could be avoided, he knew. He had no idea how this guard would interpret those orders.
There are rare times in life when you just have to act, and not consider the consequences. Chapel grabbed the pistol grip of his rifle and fired three rounds at the guard, pulling the trigger three times. One, two, three.
19.
R ed spots appeared on the guard’s forearm, shoulder, and waist. He dropped his gun and spun around, clutching at his arm as he tumbled to the floor. “Oh God!” he screamed. “Oh God, I’m going to die!”
None of those wounds was fatal, by the look of it, but Chapel didn’t disillusion the man. If he was scared enough to make him stay down, good. He scuttled sideways, never quite standing up, and grabbed the guard’s pistol. He was getting a decent collection of weapons, now.
He moved over toward the crates again, because they would give him better cover. Edged around the sides of them so that he was almost, but not quite, exposed. “Hold your fire,” he shouted over the noise of the guns.
Surprisingly, it worked. The guards stopped shooting, though Chapel could still hear them moving around, their shoes squeaking on the floor.
He didn’t want to have to kill or even injure these men. Maybe they could be reasoned with, he thought. “Michael!” he called out. “Michael, I know it’s you leading this bunch.”
“How the hell do you know my name?” Michael replied. Chapel couldn’t see the man’s face. He
Just as he’d hoped, they were loaded down with small boxes, so heavy the shelves bowed under their weight. He grabbed a couple of boxes and sat down hard behind a row of crates, even as bullets stitched holes in the wall over his head.
Training was everything, Chapel thought. A civilian in this situation would not be able to concentrate. The noise and the stink of expended gunpowder and the shouts of the guards and the fear of death—all these things could destroy focus. Chapel had a relatively intricate procedure to complete, and if he’d had to fight down his own panic he never could have done it.
The guards were coming closer. Some of them would be braver than others. Some would be more observant. At least one of them, he knew, would notice what he was doing and what it meant. At least one of them would have the brains to stop him. Assuming they got to him before he finished.
He worked as quickly as he could. One of the boxes held empty clips, plastic reinforced with steel in the iconic curved shape of the AK magazine. The clips were empty, of course. The other box Chapel had grabbed contained the rounds that went into the clips. He had to feed them in one at a time, pressing them down hard against the spring inside. One after another, each one resisting a little more as the spring compressed . . .
“Just get in there,” Michael shouted, urging his men on. One of them told him to go fuck himself. That made Chapel grin. But he could hear footsteps pounding on the cement floor of the cellar, he could hear men climbing up on top of the maze of crates to get to him. He had maybe a few seconds, maybe less, before they were on him.
One more round. He pressed it down hard. Another. There were thirty total bullets in a standard AK-47 clip. He had to count to make sure he got them all in. One more. Push down. Another. He reached in the box and grabbed a bullet, brought it toward the clip. Pushed it down.
Done.
He slid the clip into the receiver. Felt it click into place. Now all he had to do was—
“Freeze, asshole,” someone said, off to his left.
Chapel didn’t even look up. Instead he grabbed the charging handle and yanked it back, then let it go.
“I said—”
Chapel turned to face the man. He saw a middle-aged guy in a suit, a pistol clutched in both his hands. He saw the barrel pointing at his face. The guards would have orders not to kill Chapel if it could be avoided, he knew. He had no idea how this guard would interpret those orders.
There are rare times in life when you just have to act, and not consider the consequences. Chapel grabbed the pistol grip of his rifle and fired three rounds at the guard, pulling the trigger three times. One, two, three.
19.
R ed spots appeared on the guard’s forearm, shoulder, and waist. He dropped his gun and spun around, clutching at his arm as he tumbled to the floor. “Oh God!” he screamed. “Oh God, I’m going to die!”
None of those wounds was fatal, by the look of it, but Chapel didn’t disillusion the man. If he was scared enough to make him stay down, good. He scuttled sideways, never quite standing up, and grabbed the guard’s pistol. He was getting a decent collection of weapons, now.
He moved over toward the crates again, because they would give him better cover. Edged around the sides of them so that he was almost, but not quite, exposed. “Hold your fire,” he shouted over the noise of the guns.
Surprisingly, it worked. The guards stopped shooting, though Chapel could still hear them moving around, their shoes squeaking on the floor.
He didn’t want to have to kill or even injure these men. Maybe they could be reasoned with, he thought. “Michael!” he called out. “Michael, I know it’s you leading this bunch.”
“How the hell do you know my name?” Michael replied. Chapel couldn’t see the man’s face. He
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