Minotaur

18

“Jesus, he’s armed!” someone screamed. The guards in the cellar dashed for cover, opening fire even as they scurried. Bullets whizzed around the cellar, striking chips of concrete off the walls, tearing through the wood of the crates. Chapel dove back into the maze of crates as bullets spun past his head and arms. The noise and the confusion were enough of a distraction. He hoped.

Working fast he kicked one of the crates over and then slammed the heel of his shoe against its lid until it popped open. Rifles packed in shredded newsprint spilled out onto the floor, their wooden stocks shiny with oil, their barrels dull with grease. He scooped one up and ducked low—the guards were still firing—as he headed for a row of shelves at the far end of the crate maze.

His luck ran out before he could get there. One of the guards, braver than the others, came skidding around the side of the crate maze, gun in hand. The man looked terrified but resolute as he started to raise his weapon.

Without thinking, Chapel lifted his AK-47 and pointed it at him. There was no clip in the gun. No bullets. The trigger wouldn’t even pull, but still he pointed the rifle as if he was going to spray the guard with lead.

He hadn’t even planned on bluffing like that. It had just been an instinctual motion, to raise one’s weapon in the face of an enemy. The Army had drilled that into him until it was a basic reflex.

The guard did what any smart person would do in that situation. He dropped his guns and held up his hands.

Chapel squinted at him, forcing eye contact. If the guard even glanced at Chapel’s weapon he would see it wasn’t loaded. Chapel couldn’t let that happen. He twitched the barrel of his rifle to the side, indicating that the guard should move away, out of the firing line. And the guard, mercifully, did, running back around the side of the crate maze and out of Chapel’s vision.

Chapel would have laughed if a half dozen people weren’t currently trying to kill him. He bent forward, straining against the improvised bandage on his midriff, and grabbed up the guard’s pistol. He checked the magazine and found it still had two rounds left. Better than what Chapel had had before. Still, he could improve his odds. He shoved the pistol in his belt and went back to the shelves he’d seen.

Just as he’d hoped, they were loaded down with small boxes, so heavy the shelves bowed under their weight. He grabbed a couple of boxes and sat down hard behind a row of crates, even as bullets stitched holes in the wall over his head.

Training was everything, Chapel thought. A civilian in this situation would not be able to concentrate. The noise and the stink of expended gunpowder and the shouts of the guards and the fear of death—all these things could destroy focus. Chapel had a relatively intricate procedure to complete, and if he’d had to fight down his own panic he never could have done it.

The guards were coming closer. Some of them would be braver than others. Some would be more observant. At least one of them, he knew, would notice what he was doing and what it meant. At least one of them would have the brains to stop him. Assuming they got to him before he finished.

He worked as quickly as he could. One of the boxes held empty clips, plastic reinforced with steel in the iconic curved shape of the AK magazine. The clips were empty, of course. The other box Chapel had grabbed contained the rounds that went into the clips. He had to feed them in one at a time, pressing them down hard against the spring inside. One after another, each one resisting a little more as the spring compressed…

“Just get in there,” Michael shouted, urging his men on. One of them told him to go fuck himself. That made Chapel grin. But he could hear footsteps pounding on the cement floor of the cellar, he could hear men climbing up on top of the maze of crates to get to him. He had maybe a few seconds, maybe less, before they were on him.

One more round. He pressed it down hard. Another. There were thirty total bullets in a standard AK-47 clip. He had to count to make sure he got them all in. One more. Push down. Another. He reached in the box and grabbed a bullet, brought it toward the clip. Pushed it down.

Done.

He slid the clip into the receiver. Felt it click into place. Now all he had to do was—

“Freeze, asshole,” someone said, off to his left.

Chapel didn’t even look up. Instead he grabbed the charging handle and yanked it back, then let it go.

“I said—”

Chapel turned to face the man. He saw a middle-aged guy in a suit, a pistol clutched in both his hands. He saw the barrel pointing at his face. The guards would have orders not to kill Chapel if it could be avoided, he knew. He had no idea how this guard would interpret those orders.

There are rare times in life when you just have to act, and not consider the consequences. Chapel grabbed the pistol grip of his rifle and fired three rounds at the guard, pulling the trigger three times. One, two, three.