Read Online Task Force Desperate by Peter Nealen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Nealen
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other quietly, but I couldn’t pick anything out. There was none of the friendly welcome that could be heard inside.
The sun was below the horizon, and the sky was quickly going from orange to purple and black. The shadows were getting deeper, though one of the squatters was smoking, so I could see the two of them well enough. The heat was starting to recede. It was probably down to a hundred already, and felt comfortably cool. The air smelled of dust, shit, and smoke.
Voices from inside started to get more animated. Imad was getting insistent about something. It sounded like he was pressing his questions, and they weren’t being answered. The other man was making placating noises. My paranoia was starting to make itself felt, especially as one of the loitering young men in the yard walked around back of the house. Soon enough, the one who had been standing by the gate followed him. The other two stayed squatting by the fence, next to a pile of straw.
Imad was getting loud. Whatever the other man was saying, Imad didn’t like it. I carefully flexed the fingers of my gun hand. I could feel the situation going to hell already.
There was a crash from inside, and Imad let out a particularly vile curse in Arabic. It wasn’t just indignation; that was our gone-to-shit signal.
I came off the porch, one hand going for my gun while I pressed the push-to-talk with the other. “Wildfire, wildfire,” I sent, as my Springfield cleared holster and shirt. My off hand met the grip on the way up and out, and the tritium sights settled on the squatting man pulling an AKS out of the straw. My finger was already taking up the slack on the trigger as the gun came to full extension, and I fired, the .45 roaring in the evening quiet. The first round took him high in the chest, the second in the throat, and he crumpled back against the fence, his hand held uselessly to his throat to try to stem the spray of arterial blood.
His buddy was going for the Kalashnikov, but I lined him up as I went for the far side of the yard, and fired twice more. He collapsed on top of his buddy, half of the top of his skull blasted away. I needed to calm down. I was shooting high.
The other two came running around the side they’d disappeared around before, even as gunfire erupted inside the house. I cranked off the last five rounds in the gun at them, and they ducked back behind the cinderblock, as I jumped behind a pile of trash and rubble, dropping the mag out and grabbing a fresh one from my belt. The pile wouldn’t provide much cover, but I didn’t intend to stay there that long.
Even as I bunched my muscles to move again, one of them stuck the barrel of an AK-47 around the corner and opened fire, spraying the corner of the yard on full auto. The rounds cracked overhead and smacked into and through fence and trees, as I dropped to my belly, and tried to get a shot. In the background I could hear an engine roaring, and hunkered back away from the gate.
There was more gunfire from the far side of the house. It sounded like a .45, and was answered by a scream. The gomer shooting at me ran out of ammunition, and I took the opportunity to fire a couple of covering shots, then scrambled to my feet and ran for the back corner of the house. If I could circle around behind him while he reloaded…
The engine roar got louder, along with the sound of flying gravel, and then the Range Rover was smashing through the gate, and skidding to a stop. The windows were open, and two battle rifles were stuck out and began to spit flame. Heavy 7.62 rounds started pulverizing the corner where the shooter had been.
“Hillbilly, going around the southeast corner,” I sent. “Watch your fire.”
“Affirm,” Larry’s voice came back.
I heard footsteps pounding on the porch in front as I went around back, gliding along in a slight crouch, my pistol at the low ready. There was the familiar rattle of the gomer’s AK as he tried to blindly return fire, but as I
The sun was below the horizon, and the sky was quickly going from orange to purple and black. The shadows were getting deeper, though one of the squatters was smoking, so I could see the two of them well enough. The heat was starting to recede. It was probably down to a hundred already, and felt comfortably cool. The air smelled of dust, shit, and smoke.
Voices from inside started to get more animated. Imad was getting insistent about something. It sounded like he was pressing his questions, and they weren’t being answered. The other man was making placating noises. My paranoia was starting to make itself felt, especially as one of the loitering young men in the yard walked around back of the house. Soon enough, the one who had been standing by the gate followed him. The other two stayed squatting by the fence, next to a pile of straw.
Imad was getting loud. Whatever the other man was saying, Imad didn’t like it. I carefully flexed the fingers of my gun hand. I could feel the situation going to hell already.
There was a crash from inside, and Imad let out a particularly vile curse in Arabic. It wasn’t just indignation; that was our gone-to-shit signal.
I came off the porch, one hand going for my gun while I pressed the push-to-talk with the other. “Wildfire, wildfire,” I sent, as my Springfield cleared holster and shirt. My off hand met the grip on the way up and out, and the tritium sights settled on the squatting man pulling an AKS out of the straw. My finger was already taking up the slack on the trigger as the gun came to full extension, and I fired, the .45 roaring in the evening quiet. The first round took him high in the chest, the second in the throat, and he crumpled back against the fence, his hand held uselessly to his throat to try to stem the spray of arterial blood.
His buddy was going for the Kalashnikov, but I lined him up as I went for the far side of the yard, and fired twice more. He collapsed on top of his buddy, half of the top of his skull blasted away. I needed to calm down. I was shooting high.
The other two came running around the side they’d disappeared around before, even as gunfire erupted inside the house. I cranked off the last five rounds in the gun at them, and they ducked back behind the cinderblock, as I jumped behind a pile of trash and rubble, dropping the mag out and grabbing a fresh one from my belt. The pile wouldn’t provide much cover, but I didn’t intend to stay there that long.
Even as I bunched my muscles to move again, one of them stuck the barrel of an AK-47 around the corner and opened fire, spraying the corner of the yard on full auto. The rounds cracked overhead and smacked into and through fence and trees, as I dropped to my belly, and tried to get a shot. In the background I could hear an engine roaring, and hunkered back away from the gate.
There was more gunfire from the far side of the house. It sounded like a .45, and was answered by a scream. The gomer shooting at me ran out of ammunition, and I took the opportunity to fire a couple of covering shots, then scrambled to my feet and ran for the back corner of the house. If I could circle around behind him while he reloaded…
The engine roar got louder, along with the sound of flying gravel, and then the Range Rover was smashing through the gate, and skidding to a stop. The windows were open, and two battle rifles were stuck out and began to spit flame. Heavy 7.62 rounds started pulverizing the corner where the shooter had been.
“Hillbilly, going around the southeast corner,” I sent. “Watch your fire.”
“Affirm,” Larry’s voice came back.
I heard footsteps pounding on the porch in front as I went around back, gliding along in a slight crouch, my pistol at the low ready. There was the familiar rattle of the gomer’s AK as he tried to blindly return fire, but as I
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