Page 90 of Theta

I reach the first line of parked cars without incident, crouch next to a dust-caked green Lancia sedan, and slow my breathing. I only let myself pause for a handful of seconds and then push myself back into a crouched jog down the aisle between rows of cars. The chatter and rattle and crackle of automatic weapons fire grows louder and louder once more; Killy is out of ammunition for the MP-5, I assume, since the return fire comes in semiautomatic rhythm, single shots fired in fast succession, single shots and the occasional pair or trio.

I pause and peek up over the trunk of a battered blue compact pickup with a tangle of fishing netting in the bed; I'm a couple hundred yards away from the mercenaries' position; I need to get closer. I jog forward, pausing every so many steps to assess my surroundings. Panting and shaking with nerves, I take another peek—I’m even with them now. Less than a hundred yards of open concrete separates me from the mercenaries. Easy pickings.

I check the load on the pistol in my hand—it's a battered old Glock, one that looks like it's been thrown out of a car, maybe sat at the bottom of a pond for a few years next to The One Ring, and then got run over by a bulldozer. Knowing a Glock, it'll probably fire, but I feel like since I have options…

I rummage in the bag and find a nearly new Colt M1911. Not my personal favorite handgun, but better than that thug special. It takes another paw-through to find the spare mags that go with it, since there's both 9mm and .45cal in there.

As long as I hear Killian's steady, rhythmic crack…crack…crack…crack of his pistol, I know he's okay. I crouch with my back against the front passenger-side tire of the pickup and take three slow breaths to steady my nerves. Don't rush—I hear Dad's voice in my head almost as if he’s crouched beside me, a hand on my shoulder as I lay on a hill, scope targeting an elk: "Never rush your shot, liebchen. Nerves make misses. Control your breathing. Steady your hand. Remember, slow is smooth and smooth is fast. I have learned this from your American soldiers, many years ago. Now. Breathe, aim, squeeze."

I pivot around to a knee, brace the elbow of my supporting hand on my upraised knee, take aim at the human-shaped blob of shadows that is a body at this distance in this light; I wait until my target is faintly illuminated by the staccato flashes of muzzleburst. Inhale. Curl my finger around the trigger, gently take up the slack.

CRACK!

My pistol bucks; the blob drops. I move away from the truck in a low crouch, jogging up the line of cars and taking up a position against the front quarter panel of a rusted red hatchback; the windows are cracked open to let out the heat, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke wafts out, turning my already-queasy stomach. I wait a few beats and then drop to my belly and take aim from under the front bumper.

A muzzle flashes yellow in the darkness, and I aim just above it. Inhale, take up slack, exhale…CRACK!

I roll to my back and curl upright to my feet, doing the crouched shuffle-run back the other way, down the row to a new position a good ten yards further down than my first.

I hear Killian firing, firing—a pause to reload. During that reload pause, I settle on a knee and take up my firing stance, waiting until Killian has reloaded and starts shooting again—the idea is that they won’t realize too quickly that there’s another shooter if I synch my shots with Killy’s and keep changing my position. Eventually, they'll cotton on, I assume, but I hope to reduce the odds a bit until then.

The brief silence as everyone reloads at the same time is one of those weird idiosyncrasies of a firefight. I see the flash of Killian's muzzle—contrary to Hollywood convention, the muzzle flash of a 9mm handgun is not a big fireball in the darkness but rather a brief, bright spark. The unsuppressed barrels of the assault rifles being fired by the mercs, on the other hand, are a much brighter and much larger flare of orange-yellow starburst light. Killian's muzzle flash is just bright enough to give away his position, but he's smart and savvy enough to crack off a shot or two and duck back behind cover as fast as possible.

All at once, the mercenaries open fire in a sustained barrage. At first, I'm confused by the change in tactics—until now, they've seemed content to try and keep him pinned down. In the hopes that he'll run out of ammo before they do, I would assume. Which, to be honest, is a solid strategy. They just haven’t factored in my little gambit.

I see the plan, now though—in the quick flashes of illumination, I see a patch of shadows peel away from the group and slink around to try and flank him again.

The sound of sirens has ceased, I realized. And yet, no cops.

I think someone made a phone call and now the local law enforcement has seen fit to let this play out. Pugli's influence, I would assume. Although, if I'm honest, it suits Killian and me, too. Having a small army of cops muddling up things would just complicate matters. I have no quarrel with them and no desire to harm them—as a first responder and ER nurse, I work closely with law enforcement and have a lot of respect for anyone who chooses that job, as long as they're doing the job to serve their community and not just for the excuse to use the tiny bit of authority for self-aggrandizing purposes.

I have to handle that flanking party.

Breaking into a flat-out run, the heavy backpack slamming painfully into the small of my back, I race down the row of cars until I'm well past the mercs' position and then risk crossing the open space at a sprint—I’m hoping I’ll go unnoticed, now that it's fully dark.

I almost make it.

The impact comes first, the sound of the report second, and the pain third.

The brutal hand of an angry god punches me square in the middle of my back; the breath is slammed out of me, and white stars flash across my vision, and then I hear the CRACK! of the report—the two occur barely a heartbeat apart. I'm sent crashing to the hard, unforgiving concrete in a helpless tumble. My head cracks off the ground, and more stars burst behind my eyes, and a jumble of pains hit me all at once—my back and ribs, my head, my elbows, wrists, and knees.

For a beat, and then two, the world spins around me, dizziness from the lack of oxygen. My mouth flaps open and closed as I try to suck in a breath, and my entire body pulses with agony.

A flash of light winks in my peripheral vision, and I roll toward it—a hornet buzzes around my nose; someone snaps their fingers a centimeter from my ear. I realize I still have my pistol in a deathgrip, and I level it one-handed where I'd seen the flash. CRACK! I fire a shot, but have no way of knowing if I hit anything. For good measure, I pop off a second and third shots in that general direction and then, still rasping and gagging and seeing winking white spots, I scramble backward across the concrete toward the rows of trailers, trying to blink away the breathless dizziness. The muzzle flash of an assault rifle illuminates the form of a shooter approaching my position; he doesn't see me, though, judging by the fact that his shots stitch the ground several feet away from not just where I was but even further from where I am. Makes me wonder whether he or whoever shot me just saw a moving shadow and took a potshot, or someone just got lucky.

I freeze in place, gripping my pistol in a classic isosceles hold, both arms fully extended down the length of my body, one hand cupped around the other.

The merc is a patch of moving black in the darkness, heading my way in a slow, silent creep. From this angle, he's skylined against the star-spackled backdrop of the night sky. I wait until he's looming over me, barrel scanning in a side-to-side sweep.

I can't help myself. I should, but I can’t:

"Hey, ugly,” I say. "Down here."

CRACK!

I see him rock backward and topple to the ground in a heavy heap. Dropping my handgun, I snatch up his rifle, patting it in the darkness to see if I can discern what it is by feel—a carbine, I think. An M4, maybe. I search the man's body and find four spare magazines. I shove my handgun into the back of my jeans as I find my feet, finally breathing somewhat normally again.

It feels like an eternity has elapsed since that shot sent me to the ground, but in reality, it's been less than thirty seconds.