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Authors: David Wellington
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couldn’t read his body language, and his voice wasn’t giving away anything. He didn’t know if he was scared or resolute or who knew what. “Whatever. Are you giving up, now?”
“Nope,” Chapel said. “Not tonight. I hope your boss won’t be offended that I borrowed some of his arsenal.”
“I’m sure he’s got other things on his mind,” Michael said. “Listen, we aren’t going to hurt you if you just drop your weapons and come out. I promise. Maybe I owe you an ass-kicking for what you did back in the billiards room. But that would be worth my job, so you get a free pass.”
Chapel smiled to himself. “I was about to make you the same offer.”
“Ha ha. Listen, guy. I talked to Stephen. I know you’re hurt bad. You’ve probably lost some blood, you’re probably not thinking straight—”
“One of the first things,” Chapel interrupted, “that they taught me in the Rangers was that a wounded man with a gun is still a man with a gun.”
“Okay. I hear you. Maybe you get one or two of us before we take you down. But in that case you’re going to die, buddy. We’re supposed to bring you in alive but none of us here is stupid. If you come out of there guns blazing, we’re going to shoot back. And there’s a lot more of us.”
Chapel leaned his head back against a crate. He suddenly felt very tired. He didn’t like how this was shaping up, not at all. But he would do what he had to do. “You know you’re already out of a job, right? If your boss gets out of here alive, he’s never coming back. And I doubt there’s room for all of you on his yacht.”
“Have you seen it, man? It’s pretty big.”
So much for reason. “Okay. This is how you want to play it, I guess. A big showdown. Last man standing walks out of here. Your guys all agree with you?”
“I’m afraid so. This is on you, Ranger.”
“I kind of had a feeling,” Chapel said.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle. Checked the fire selector, moved it into the middle position for full auto. Shifted the pistols in his belt around where he could grab them easily.
And then he stepped around the side of the crate, already firing.
20.
C hapel had no idea what kind of training Michael had, or whether he’d ever led men into combat. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten a few basics down.
As Chapel came around the corner, rifle blaring and jumping in his hand, he saw immediately that the guards were all behind cover, keeping their heads down. He had expected as much—mostly he was just laying down suppressing fire as he sprayed bullets over their heads. But now he knew where they were. Two were hiding behind a shelf over by the stairs. One was crouching behind the side of the workbench. A fourth had his back up against the maze of crates, facing away from Chapel.
That one nearly killed him. The guard had been creeping up on his position, probably intending to get the drop on him while he was still talking to Michael. When Chapel came out from behind the crates he was nearly behind Chapel, flanking him, and he didn’t waste time on being surprised. He lifted his pistol and fired even before Chapel had taken his finger off his own trigger.
The bullet tore through the silicone flesh of Chapel’s artificial bicep. He felt it tug him around, to the side, but he threw himself the other direction and rolled onto his back on the floor. The flanking guard shifted his aim, lowering his arm to hit Chapel where he lay. Chapel didn’t give him the chance. He lit up the guard with a quick burst from his rifle and saw the man dance like a marionette on strings.
He didn’t wait to see the man go down. Instead he rolled over on his side and dashed back behind the crates.
Back in the relative safety of his previous position, he listened to the man moan and try to scream. He was pretty sure the flanking guard wasn’t going to survive.
He closed his eyes and tried to think.
You couldn’t think of them as human beings in a
“Nope,” Chapel said. “Not tonight. I hope your boss won’t be offended that I borrowed some of his arsenal.”
“I’m sure he’s got other things on his mind,” Michael said. “Listen, we aren’t going to hurt you if you just drop your weapons and come out. I promise. Maybe I owe you an ass-kicking for what you did back in the billiards room. But that would be worth my job, so you get a free pass.”
Chapel smiled to himself. “I was about to make you the same offer.”
“Ha ha. Listen, guy. I talked to Stephen. I know you’re hurt bad. You’ve probably lost some blood, you’re probably not thinking straight—”
“One of the first things,” Chapel interrupted, “that they taught me in the Rangers was that a wounded man with a gun is still a man with a gun.”
“Okay. I hear you. Maybe you get one or two of us before we take you down. But in that case you’re going to die, buddy. We’re supposed to bring you in alive but none of us here is stupid. If you come out of there guns blazing, we’re going to shoot back. And there’s a lot more of us.”
Chapel leaned his head back against a crate. He suddenly felt very tired. He didn’t like how this was shaping up, not at all. But he would do what he had to do. “You know you’re already out of a job, right? If your boss gets out of here alive, he’s never coming back. And I doubt there’s room for all of you on his yacht.”
“Have you seen it, man? It’s pretty big.”
So much for reason. “Okay. This is how you want to play it, I guess. A big showdown. Last man standing walks out of here. Your guys all agree with you?”
“I’m afraid so. This is on you, Ranger.”
“I kind of had a feeling,” Chapel said.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle. Checked the fire selector, moved it into the middle position for full auto. Shifted the pistols in his belt around where he could grab them easily.
And then he stepped around the side of the crate, already firing.
20.
C hapel had no idea what kind of training Michael had, or whether he’d ever led men into combat. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten a few basics down.
As Chapel came around the corner, rifle blaring and jumping in his hand, he saw immediately that the guards were all behind cover, keeping their heads down. He had expected as much—mostly he was just laying down suppressing fire as he sprayed bullets over their heads. But now he knew where they were. Two were hiding behind a shelf over by the stairs. One was crouching behind the side of the workbench. A fourth had his back up against the maze of crates, facing away from Chapel.
That one nearly killed him. The guard had been creeping up on his position, probably intending to get the drop on him while he was still talking to Michael. When Chapel came out from behind the crates he was nearly behind Chapel, flanking him, and he didn’t waste time on being surprised. He lifted his pistol and fired even before Chapel had taken his finger off his own trigger.
The bullet tore through the silicone flesh of Chapel’s artificial bicep. He felt it tug him around, to the side, but he threw himself the other direction and rolled onto his back on the floor. The flanking guard shifted his aim, lowering his arm to hit Chapel where he lay. Chapel didn’t give him the chance. He lit up the guard with a quick burst from his rifle and saw the man dance like a marionette on strings.
He didn’t wait to see the man go down. Instead he rolled over on his side and dashed back behind the crates.
Back in the relative safety of his previous position, he listened to the man moan and try to scream. He was pretty sure the flanking guard wasn’t going to survive.
He closed his eyes and tried to think.
You couldn’t think of them as human beings in a
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