Page 10 of One Minute Out

It’s dirty, but people who offer quarter in a gunfight typically don’t make good gunfighters.

I holster the pistol but sense new movement on the staircase now, which is why I’ve kept my machine pistol aimed there. As soon as I see a rifle and a man holding it, I fire a long burst. The sentry falls forward and rolls down the stairs, and I leap over his sliding body to begin my ascent.

Angling my B&T high and leaning out to cut the corners quicker than if I just kept running up the middle of the stairs, I catch the side of a descending man’s head in my sights before he sees me. I fire four rounds at him, and down he goes, ass over teakettle, his weapon clanking along with the thuds and slaps of his body as he tumbles down the stairs. I round the landing below the ground floor and vault this guy like I did the one below.

Keep coming, assholes. I can do this all day.

I hear a volley of impossibly loud gunfire above me, and the plaster on the wall inches to my right is chewed into dust by pistol rounds, and this tells me I probably can’t do this all day. I dive flat on the steps and return fire, almost blindly, nearly emptying my magazine, and then I roll tight against the wall, my head facing up as I reload.

Two men look over the side one story up, whipping short-barreled rifles down at me as they do so.

I slam the magazine in and rake them with outgoing fire, dumping two dozen rounds onto their position above. One man gets a single shot off before he flies back out of the view, and the second sentry spins away and falls onto the stairs above an instant later.

I’m up and moving again, bursting through the door on the ground floor, where I catch one man kneeling down, getting into a fighting position. He obviously heard the battle in the stairwell and wanted to be prepared in case I made it out of there.

I made it out of there, and he’s not prepared, so I fire the last six rounds from the B&T at him, killing him where he lies, and then I drop the empty gun on its sling and pull my Glock again.

The house is dark, but I see a door open slowly on my right. I spin my weapon towards the movement, take up the give in the trigger safety on my weapon, then see the face of a middle-aged woman looking out at me. She isn’t holding a weapon, so I keep going, but as I near her position, I shout, “Close your door!”

My ears are ringing from the gunfight in the stairwell, so if she says anything to me, I don’t hear it. But at least she shuts the door.

I attempt a mental head count while I run. There were twelve security on the property when I came in; I knifed the dude upstairs, took down four in the stairwell, and another here.

Six left. Shit.

I open a door to find a bathroom with no window large enough to escape from. As I turn out of the space, I realize that I have not accounted for all the threats.

It’s not just six sentries. It’s also the dogs. Can’t forget about the two—

I face the room again and see a massive black form flying through the air in the darkness right at me. One of the Belgian Malinois slams my pistol against my chest as he knocks me against the wall. We both fall to the floor, and his crazed teeth snatch my right hand. The hand is wearing a Kevlar-lined glove with the trigger finger cut out, so he doesn’t rip it off immediately. Still, I know that with a simple shake or two he can snap my wrist.

With my left hand I punch the dog hard in the snout, and he lets go and recoils an instant, but I’d broken this hand a couple months back, and the pain from the punch prevents me from driving it harder into the canine’s face.

The dog recovers quickly, then charges at me again.

He leaps, I duck, the eighty-pound animal flies into the bathroom, and I spin around and grab the door latch, yanking it closed in his snarling face.

Hefting my pistol, I stagger a few feet; the damn dog knocked the wind out of me, but soon I’m heading off again.

I don’t shoot dogs. Ever. Still, my Glock is up, and I’m muttering to myself as if I’m talking to the barking dog in the bathroom. “Where’s your buddy? Where’s your buddy?”

I hear continuous voices in the earpiece, and I really wish I spoke Serbo-Croatian, because I could use some clarity on where the other halfdozen assholes are right now. I make my way into the kitchen, scanning for threats as I advance, then pass a stairway on my right. Looking up with my pistol trained, I see two men rush past up there, but neither looks down in my direction, probably because they don’t have night vision.

I don’t fire; I continue through the kitchen towards a door, and then, through my ringing ears, I hear a sound behind me in the large living area I’ve just passed.

Paws beating on hardwood, getting louder and louder.

The other dog is running me down from behind.

“Shit!” Fresh panic wells in me, and I know I have to make it outside, because I don’t shoot dogs.

I run as fast as I can, desperate to get out before the black monster rips me apart, but when I put my hand on the latch and pull, nothing happens.

I see two deadbolt locks, and both are engaged.

Behind me the beast keeps running; it snarls frantically as it races across the kitchen tile.

I’m in trouble, serious trouble, but I don’t shoot dogs.

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