Map of Sanguine Springs

  Sanguine Springs

  Brad crept through the trees without hesitation. Even without his NODs, he knew the location of each tree, rock, and moss-covered log. He used to train here often—moonless nights, four-tubed helmet, rehearsing movement through the woods of Sanguine Springs. It had been a long time, before his life blew up in an alcohol-fueled flame.

  But he still had the woods mapped in his head.

  Gunfire echoed through the trees. He heard it obliquely through his tinnitus-plagued right ear. Brad inched forward, continuing his circular flank of the town, just past Jael's backyard.

  Two options: slip between her house and Matthias's, or skip the last house entirely and assault the hill overlooking town. Pray his long-range shooting hadn't rusted.

  Either way, a coin toss. Yet his mind dragged like a wet bag of laundry hauled across dry bricks. Out of practice. Tired. He'd feel tonight come morning—if he survived.

  A twig snapped nearby, cutting through the gunfire. Brad melted against a fallen pine, MK-18 ready.

  A shadow stumbled through the underbrush ahead—limping but moving with purpose. Short sleeves, arms and legs visible in the filtered moonlight. In their hands: a weapon. Long. Double-barreled. A shotgun. Familiar, though the steak knife embedded in its stock was a new addition.

  Brad lowered his rifle and closed the distance, boots silent on pine needles. "Matthias."

  The figure spun, shotgun rising. Brad stepped into a shaft of moonlight, hands visible. "Easy."

  The younger man's eyes tracked over Brad, taking in his kit and weaponry. Matthias relaxed, lowering the borrowed shotgun.

  "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

  "Both." Brad scanned the treeline. "And you?"

  "I served."

  "Ah. The knee."

  Matthias paused before nodding. "You expected this?" He gestured from Brad to the town's remaining spotlights.

  "Let's just say I went overseas and developed a healthy mistrust of my own government. That, and the history of the ATF didn't fill me with—" He trailed off, listening. A voice hollered in the woods. A new gun entered the fight.

  Matthias cocked his head. "Backup?"

  "Not mine." Brad moved forward, passing the gap between houses, heading for the southwesternmost one. Matthias's house. "That sounded like Tony."

  Matthias followed. "And a Thompson. These men aren't from the US government."

  "No." Brad reached his checkpoint and pressed his back to the log siding. He edged along the building, then risked a peek around the corner. Crouched behind a thick oak, he assessed the gunfight. "Gear's too good. Too coordinated. Two teams, classic pincer move."

  "Always worked for me in similar terrain," Matthias replied. He crouched back-to-back with Brad, covering their six with the shotgun.

  The town fell silent. Assault rifles and Thompson, all quiet.

  Brad turned and gave Matthias a look. "Where did you say you served?"

  "I didn't."

  The two men stared at each other. Brad started to ask a follow-up when the shooting started again—different this time. Further out. Louder. Longer. Fire raining from on high.

  Judgment day.

  "That's a Ma Deuce," Matthias said.

  "Sure sounds like it." Brad turned to Matthias. "Can I trust you?"

  Matthias didn't hesitate. "Yes."

  No elaboration. No justification. Just the answer. The only one that mattered.

  Brad drew his pistol—an all-black striker-fired double-stack—flipped it, and extended it grip-first. "Allison. Get to her."

  Matthias took the weapon. He press-checked the Sig Sauer P226, noted it was loaded, ejected the extended 18-round magazine, and reseated it. "You're giving me your sidearm?"

  "Faster to transition than reload that scattergun. You know that."

  Their eyes met. A moment of calculation—trust earned in seconds, the way it only happens in combat.

  "What do you need?" Matthias asked.

  "Wait for a break, then get to the house. Anyone inside with two arms, you drop them."

  "I cannot run."

  "Then limp your ass off, soldier. That's an order."

  Matthias stood straighter. His eyes grew harder, flashing—not with anger, but wounded pride, ready to prove someone wrong.

  "Alright. And you?"

  "I'm going uphill."

  "Are you mad? That's where the heavy gunner is."

  "Which means that's where I need to be." Brad reached out and squeezed Matthias's shoulder. "Afterwards, we should talk. Soldier to soldier."

  Matthias nodded. "If we survive."

  But Brad was already gone, moving like a ghost through the woods—ducking trees, dodging moonlight, wending his way through the forest with fear in his chest and fury in his heart.

  Not like this. Not my town. Not my niece.

  A corner lurched out of the darkness. Allison turned, then stopped, her face inches from a concrete wall. Despite the 90-degree turn, this was it. End of the hall.

  Her lungs burned, her head pounded—even her toes ached, worn raw from their barefooted sprint.

  The light flickered, casting shadows on the scabs of industrial paint that flaked from the neglected surface. The passageway echoed with the sound of her pursuers. They hammered, prying the door from its frame. It wouldn't hold for long.

  The bulb overhead burnt out, sending Allison into twilight. But in its darkness, a light still shone on the floor. She looked at the narrow beam spilling onto her shoes, shining in from the right. Another riddle in a night of deadly mysteries.

  Metal screeched as the door in her father's basement gave way. Allison shrank to the side of the corridor, heart thumping. She laid her hands, palms out, against the dead-end alcove, and laid her forehead against its surface.

  It felt…warm. No, not warm, but warmer than the corridor's chill air. Her eyes flicked downward to the glow still illuminating her bare feet. There was another room beyond the wall.

  The hall rattled with gunfire. Bullets smashed into brick yards from her alcove, showering her back with fragments of concrete and lead. Allison winced at the shrapnel and the sound. She pressed hard against the anomalous wall. Its surface flexed beneath her hands. She stepped back, slamming the wall with her shoulder. Something clattered to the ground on the other side. Still, it remained intact.

  Voices shouted as the pursuers came her way.

  Frustration. This was not how her life was supposed to end. Knuckles cracked as she curled her hands into fists. The footsteps were closer now, the flashlight beams bobbing from the floor to the wall.

  Allison screamed. Not from fear.

  Rage.

  She lashed out, hammering the wall with a tight right hook. It gave.

  She broke through, her prosthesis tearing a chunk of the painted wood.

  Dazed, she pulled free. Warm light fell on her face. The footsteps halted, voices calling.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Allison wasted no time. She lashed at the wall, again and again, using the hardened, enhanced surface of her artificial hand to widen the hole from softball to window-sized. After a few choice blows, the fractured material crumbled away enough to slide through.

  The hunters closed in, rifles firing as they approached the blind corner.

  Now or never.

  Allison leapt headfirst through the ragged opening, belly-flopping on the debris-strewn floor beyond.

  Her ribs ached, lungs frozen from the shock of having the air knocked out of them. Allison clambered to her knees, left palm bleeding from a dozen wooden splinters. It shone crimson in the regular beam of LED overhead.

  She squinted at her prosthesis, checking for damage. Spotless. Knuckles clean, surface intact. The red light blinked, like an old familiar friend. What did they build into this thing?

  More importantly, where am I?

  The room could have been a walk-in closet. Except for two things. One was the door. Massive. Imposing. A barrier of solid steel. Like something from a bank vault, or bomb shelter.

  It barely registered in her mind. Instead, Allison gawked at a floor covered with guns.

  Rifles, wooden stock and dark polymer, from scoped deer guns to black tactical weapons from a Terminator's fever dream. Handguns, too. Dark matte pistols—Glocks, or something like them—along with polished steel revolvers, fit to be carried by Sam Spade, Wyatt Earp, or both.

  She turned, noting the fallen hooks, the weapons still hanging from the wall. This was someone's personal armory. The tunnel said "Air Force". Did anyone know this collection was here?

  Allison scanned the arsenal, searching for something she could actually use. There, among the scattered weapons. Something familiar, old-fashioned design but newly made. A revolver, in the same pattern as her father's .22—but beefier. She picked it up.

  The sidearm drooped, heavy in her left hand. Its barrel wobbled. She shifted it to the right. The weight dissipated, supported by the prosthesis's augmented strength. Allison found the revolver's cylinder release button. She pressed it forward, letting the gun's cylinder droop into her left palm. A chunky brass casing filled all six of the revolver's holes. She hoped they weren't empty.

  She remembered her dad's instructions. "Never swing it shut. They do that in movies because those jackasses don't really own them. A gun is a tool, and an investment. Treat it nice and you can pass it on to your kids someday."

  The sound of her pursuers broke her reminiscences. Shaking, Allison pressed the cylinder back into place with a click.

  Something round and green caught her eye among the debris near her foot. A grenade—she thought. It looked like one from movies, anyway. Apple-sized, with a textured body and a metal spoon held down by a pin. There was another one partially buried under a canvas strap a few feet away.

  Her stomach dropped. Were those live? Could they go off if she stepped on them?

  She carefully sidestepped both, giving them a wide berth as she moved toward the door.

  "Halte!" A commanding voice. A stern face in the wall's cavity, raising his rifle to fire.

  Allison did not halt. She ran from the room, crashing into the stout steel door. The heavy door barely moved. The thing was bomb-proof. It would make a good shield. She gripped the door's edge with both hands and heaved it closed, positioning herself behind its massive steel bulk as it swung. Scuffling in the gun room told her that the killers were coming through.

  Ponderously, the absolute unit of a door turned on its hinges till it closed with a crash.

  Allison grabbed a likely-looking lever and pushed it downward. The door rocked, then began to open.

  The gunmen were trying to exit the room.

  Terrified, Allison pushed. Feet planted, hamstrings straining, she gave it her all. The vault door closed again, shutting out the cries inside. She grabbed the lever with her prosthesis and threw it hard. The bolts slid home, sealing her pursuers inside.

  Dull thumps echoed off the vault's surface. The men inside, pounding with angry fists, sounded like nothing so much as distant thunder. Allison paused, wondering at the silence. Even the gunfire outside was gone.

  She knew it wouldn't last. Time to move.

  Nearby, a normal door of solid oak hung open. She looked inside a small room, its walls heavy with books. Against the far wall, a combat helmet covered with strange lenses sat on a computer desk, its matte surface standing out against the flashing images on a pair of computer monitors. The dual monitors flicked from scene to scene, scrolling through a bee's-eye view of camera feeds.

  Trees toppled. Houses pockmarked with bullet holes, their windows blown away. Figures sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Every single image a note in the discordant song of the night. Each camera view, another angle of a town in chaos.

  What is this place? Allison reeled. The computer showed a new image: a pair of figures sprawled on the ground, lit by moonlight, wrestling to the side of some tripod-mounted machine gun. Silver flashed as the dominant combatant knocked something from the defender's grasp.

  The scene changed. A log home's doorway. Between the bullet holes and broken glass, she barely recognized it. Her father's house. Shadows fell across the deck. A trio of men, armed with rifles, approaching. Reinforcements. I'm not safe here, either. Allison turned to leave, then on a moment's indecision chose to grab the helmet from the desk. Too large for comfort, but maybe it was bulletproof. Any port in a storm.

  She fled the surveillance room, finding a narrow staircase that led upward to a six-panel oak door. The steps creaked beneath her weight as she climbed, left hand trailing along the wall for balance, her steady prosthetic clutching the revolver. At the top, she pushed through the door and stepped tentatively into an open room. Moonlight filtered through the skylight, illuminating a familiar rough-hewn table, its cane-back chairs still ajar from two nights ago. Uncle Brad's kitchen. She stared through shattered windows and walls perforated like Swiss cheese. Allison sucked air. Her temples pounded in time with her chest.

  Outside, the thunder of guns fell away. Silence hit like a slap to the ear. In its place, the wooden protest of a tree nearby, moaning like a ship stuck in the ice. Then a smaller sound. Smaller, but closer. Deadly familiar. Footsteps. Slow, creaking on a deck.

  A silhouette appeared outside, crossing past the window. A big guy with a rifle. Allison squatted low, her back to the basement door. She held the revolver in both hands, barrel pointed to heaven like a prayer, and waited.

  Rigel rose from the ground. His knees cracked. The Browning sat in silence, a Acurl of smoke rising from the machine gun's barrel. Almost Freudian. A post-coital drag of death.

  Rigel was not finished. Neither was Ma Deuce. The silence was only the product of the gun running dry. He walked across a clinking pile of spent brass and empty links. He'd strung eight hundred rounds together in a continuous belt—four 200-count strings linked end to end. It hadn't lasted long. From here on out all he had was 100-count cans. A fraction of the firing time.

  He liked the gun. Liked to fight. A brawler, from his youth. Years of it—hands, feet, teeth, broken bottles. Guns just made it easier.

  At least the lodgepole was down. The tree sagged, its boughs slanted perpendicularly as the mighty trunk gave in to its fight with gravity. The remaining foliage, inconsequential and threadbare, posed no barrier to fire. The Thompson gunner, and his home, were about ready to be turned into pulp.

  But first, the reload. He hustled around the side of the van and peered into its open back.

  Inside the double doors, beneath a bench, he found the ammo—a stack of olive drab metal cans, each loaded with 100 rounds of linked .50 caliber ammunition. He leaned in, grasping the loose metal handle atop the nearest can and pulled it to the edge of the van's floor. Once close, Rigel grabbed the ammo with his left hand, then leaned in and stretched farther for a second green box.

  This is taking too long. Every second spent fishing for a reload was another that the Thompson gunner could use to get away.

  The can came free. Two boxes now, one in each hand. Ready to do some damage, Rigel turned—and felt the breeze of moonlight flying past.

  Steel flashed past his head. Rigel jerked away. The blade missed throat and collarbone by inches. It thunked into the polystyrene panel of the van's open door, black handle quivering.

  A steak knife.

  Perplexed, Rigel stared into the dark woods beside the van.

  Trees. Branches. And a shadow. Human, running his way, left arm raised.

  The approaching figure broke from woods into open moonlight. Slender, short, ponytail bobbing. A woman. Her arm came down, hurling a second blade in his direction.

  Knives. Rigel remembered knives. The muscle memory kicked in before conscious thought: turn sideways, minimize your profile, make yourself narrow. His body obeyed. His arms, weighed down by forty pounds of ammunition cans, did not. They flopped uselessly, too heavy to bring up, too committed to their loads.

  Too late, he realized his mistake.

  Body armor. It changed the equation. His level IV plates could take the blade, no problem—but only if he'd squared up, letting the projectile hit the ceramic plate straight-on. The steak knife would have bounced off harmlessly. Instead, it pierced through his right arm, serrated steel embedding itself in his tricep. His hand went slack.

  The ammo can dropped, lid popping on impact. The hundred linked rounds spilled across the ground in a brass-and-steel coil, like a dead but deadly snake.

  The woman hollered. She'd closed the distance, fresh blade in hand. Rigel could tell by her grip that his attacker had changed tactics. No more tossing. Solid grip, held to stab, slash, or cut. Not an amateur—as if that was a possibility after the two nearly fatal throws. Then she was on him, left hand driving to slash Rigel's throat. He swung the remaining ammo can, raising the impromptu shield with the weakened right arm's assistance, blocking his neck. The blade scraped off the can's surface like a dry marker on a whiteboard. Momentum carried her past. Rigel followed up with a wild swing of his own, trying to brain his attacker with the heavy can. He missed, overcorrected, and stumbled, foot slipping on the loose belt of ammo.

  His leg went out from under him. The second can went flying, tumbling off into the darkness.

  Rigel landed—hard—on his right side. His freshly pierced arm exploded in a world of unimaginable pain. He could feel the embedded blade's tip scraping against his bruised ribs.

  The woman seized the advantage. She pinned him, legs wrapping his torso, chest heaving, knife raised to finish him off.

  Rigel's left hand scrabbled the ground for a last-ditch defense. It found the lid from the broken ammo can. Knuckles wrapped around the edge, he swung, meeting the descending blade. The blade skittered across the metal lid with a shriek. His street fighting instincts came back—unnamed grapples and locks practiced only on those you hate. He bucked his hips, rolled a knee, and drove an elbow into her solar plexus. Rigel forced a roll, ending up on top of his lithe would-be assassin. He smashed her fingers against the ground with the ammo can lid. The steak knife fell from her hand.

  Rigel pressed the can lid against the woman's chin and neck, holding her head to the ground. With his other hand he reached for the fallen knife. Victory would be sweet.

  Then her other hand came up. A fist bristling with steel—One jutting up, the other downwards.

  How many knives does this crazy chick have, he wondered, bringing his forearm back as a shield and keeping the metal lid in place against her chin.

  He heard more than felt the slash as the blades tore at his forearm. Not tonight, Satan, he thought, grabbing her by the wrist and forcing it to the ground. She reached up and clawed.

  He pressed the lid into her neck. She reached up, clawing deep into the tendons of his wrist. His grip slackened and she loosed his hold.

  The two rolled over and over in the gravel road toward the machine gun. Ammo completely forgotten. Scrapping like two wolves.

  Rigel fought, his blood pounding.

  The fear thrilled him.

  Forget Ma Deuce. Forget the trophy Tommy gun.

  Knife. Blood. Dirt. A hilltop bathed in moonlight, in the sight of whatever gods may be.

  This would be a good way to die. A gift.

  A gift he would give this unexpected and unexpectedly skilled assailant.