Read Online The Third Target by Joel C Rosenberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joel C Rosenberg
Tags: Retail
Ads: Link
and saw a flash of moonlight pour through the doorway at the other end of a long hallway, though only for a moment. Someone had opened and closedthe door. Someone had entered the building. The hair on the back of my neck stood erect. My heart started racing again. Who was it? Was it one of my men? Or someone about to kill me?
I closed the door behind me all the way, careful not to make a sound. I didn’t want even the slightest ray of light to fall upon me or make me a target.
Now, however, the hallway was completely black. I was stuck. There was no way forward, and I didn’t dare go back.
And now shards of glass were crackling under someone else’s feet. Whoever it was, he was moving toward me. Slowly. Step by step. Inching his way forward.
Trying not to panic, I slowly lowered myself to my knees. Whoever was coming, if they were armed and started firing, I was determined to present as small a target as possible. Then I remembered the AK-47. It was just a few yards away, in the hands of the young boy who likely had been killed merely a few hours earlier at most. I had noticed that the magazine was still in the weapon. I had no idea if there was any ammunition left, but what choice did I have? I did not want to die. Not here. Not yet. On my hands and knees now, I felt around in the dark until I found the cold, stiff corpse. I kept feeling around until my hands came upon the gun.
The crunching of boots on broken glass was getting louder. Whoever was out there, they were getting closer. I was running out of time. Desperate, I pried the boy’s stiff fingers from the weapon and pulled it to my side.
Feeling every part of the machine gun in the dark, I tried to make sense of it. I’d never held a Kalashnikov. It wasn’t like the shotguns or rifles my grandfather had taught me to use back in Maine. Then again, how different could it really be? The key, I decided, was the safety. It was clear the weapon had one. I could feel the switch. I toggled it up and down. But in the dark I couldn’t be sure whether the safety was engaged when the lever was up, or whether it had to bedown. There was only one way to find out, of course —aim, squeeze the trigger, and see what happened.
But I hesitated. I’m a reporter, not a combatant, I told myself. I’m not here to kill, but to cover. This had been my mantra in every conflict I’d ever reported on. Now, however, everything seemed different. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure of my ethics. But this was it. I had only a moment. If I didn’t shoot now, I might never have the chance. The closer he got, the more likely he was to shoot if I didn’t. I crouched down and aimed. I knew if I pulled the trigger and the gun didn’t fire, I’d still have time to flick the safety the other direction and pull the trigger again. With the element of surprise, I had the chance to live. But should I take it? What if I was wrong? What if he wasn’t alone? What if other armed men were prepared to rush into this hallway and gun me down the moment I fired? If I set down the gun, yes, I might be caught. But in that case, as a journalist, I still might be able to talk my way out. I might be able to persuade this person I was there to help them, to give them a voice to the outside world, and wasn’t that my job? If I was caught with a smoking gun in my hand, there would be no mercy. I was sure to be butchered like an animal, whether the footage wound up on YouTube or not.
I heard a rattling behind me, and the door to the street swung open. Instantly the hallway was flooded with moonlight. I pivoted hard, gun in hand, and found myself staring at two silhouettes. I was about to pull the trigger but could barely see. My eyes were desperately trying to adjust, and as they did, I found myself wondering if this was Omar and Abdel. Were they alive? Had they found me? My whole perspective started shifting. But before I could react, a burst of gunfire erupted from over my left shoulder. Stunned, I yelled
I closed the door behind me all the way, careful not to make a sound. I didn’t want even the slightest ray of light to fall upon me or make me a target.
Now, however, the hallway was completely black. I was stuck. There was no way forward, and I didn’t dare go back.
And now shards of glass were crackling under someone else’s feet. Whoever it was, he was moving toward me. Slowly. Step by step. Inching his way forward.
Trying not to panic, I slowly lowered myself to my knees. Whoever was coming, if they were armed and started firing, I was determined to present as small a target as possible. Then I remembered the AK-47. It was just a few yards away, in the hands of the young boy who likely had been killed merely a few hours earlier at most. I had noticed that the magazine was still in the weapon. I had no idea if there was any ammunition left, but what choice did I have? I did not want to die. Not here. Not yet. On my hands and knees now, I felt around in the dark until I found the cold, stiff corpse. I kept feeling around until my hands came upon the gun.
The crunching of boots on broken glass was getting louder. Whoever was out there, they were getting closer. I was running out of time. Desperate, I pried the boy’s stiff fingers from the weapon and pulled it to my side.
Feeling every part of the machine gun in the dark, I tried to make sense of it. I’d never held a Kalashnikov. It wasn’t like the shotguns or rifles my grandfather had taught me to use back in Maine. Then again, how different could it really be? The key, I decided, was the safety. It was clear the weapon had one. I could feel the switch. I toggled it up and down. But in the dark I couldn’t be sure whether the safety was engaged when the lever was up, or whether it had to bedown. There was only one way to find out, of course —aim, squeeze the trigger, and see what happened.
But I hesitated. I’m a reporter, not a combatant, I told myself. I’m not here to kill, but to cover. This had been my mantra in every conflict I’d ever reported on. Now, however, everything seemed different. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure of my ethics. But this was it. I had only a moment. If I didn’t shoot now, I might never have the chance. The closer he got, the more likely he was to shoot if I didn’t. I crouched down and aimed. I knew if I pulled the trigger and the gun didn’t fire, I’d still have time to flick the safety the other direction and pull the trigger again. With the element of surprise, I had the chance to live. But should I take it? What if I was wrong? What if he wasn’t alone? What if other armed men were prepared to rush into this hallway and gun me down the moment I fired? If I set down the gun, yes, I might be caught. But in that case, as a journalist, I still might be able to talk my way out. I might be able to persuade this person I was there to help them, to give them a voice to the outside world, and wasn’t that my job? If I was caught with a smoking gun in my hand, there would be no mercy. I was sure to be butchered like an animal, whether the footage wound up on YouTube or not.
I heard a rattling behind me, and the door to the street swung open. Instantly the hallway was flooded with moonlight. I pivoted hard, gun in hand, and found myself staring at two silhouettes. I was about to pull the trigger but could barely see. My eyes were desperately trying to adjust, and as they did, I found myself wondering if this was Omar and Abdel. Were they alive? Had they found me? My whole perspective started shifting. But before I could react, a burst of gunfire erupted from over my left shoulder. Stunned, I yelled
Similar Books
