The Darkest Day

SIXTY-FOUR

Victor heard boots ascending stairs. They had cleared the ground floor faster than he had estimated, maybe because the fourth man had joined them and helped speed up the process, or because they were not as thorough as they should be, or they were even better than he thought.

When the boots had left the stairs, he crept through the darkness, but the floor was covered in hard tiles. His enemies were making enough noise to disguise his footfalls; if his enemies heard him it would be because he was right next to them.

They were close. He could hear the men moving around on the floor above him — even less concerned about making noise than he was — but the echoing effect of the quiet, empty building made it difficult to pinpoint their positions.

He kept his boots on, despite the additional noise they made on the hard floor. In bare feet — because socks lacked traction on tiled flooring — he would be able to move in near silence, but in the confines of the first-floor rooms he might not be able to take them all out without a physical confrontation. For that, he needed shoes. He wanted the extra power a solid heel added to his kicks and stomps, and likewise wanted the protection of tough leather covering his feet from similar attacks and from broken glass scattered by the explosion in rooms with windows.

He emptied his pockets of anything that might rattle or fall out and give away his position. Triumphing against the odds often came down to such small details often overlooked by those whose life did not rely on considering everything.

He climbed the stairs, stopping midway to listen, hearing noise from both his left and right, originating from opposite sides of the building. The four men had split up to search for him.

Perfect.

He headed to the left. It was an arbitrary decision.

He approached an open doorway at the end of the hallway, hearing the rustle of nylon, and knew the man inside the room was the white guy with the shaved head. Victor stopped a metre from the doorway and kept his gaze directed at the floorboards ahead of it, because the first part of his enemy he would see would be the man’s foot as it crossed the threshold.

When that foot appeared, Victor stamped on it with his heel, then stepped in front of the man and snapped one palm over his mouth as the other hand struck him in the throat.

The man stumbled backwards, shocked and injured and overwhelmed and unable to fight back as Victor disarmed him and twisted him one hundred and eighty degrees and into a rear naked choke.

He locked the guy’s head against his chest as he applied pressure with his biceps and forearm on the carotid arteries either side of the man’s neck, and increased that pressure by tilting the head forward into the choke. The blood supply to the man’s brain was cut off.

Within five seconds the man stopped struggling. He was unconscious after another three.

With other enemies nearby Victor didn’t have time to keep the choke on long enough to ensure the man never woke up, so he adjusted his arm until the blade of his forearm was against the guy’s trachea. One of Victor’s old instructors had told him: If you can crush a soda can, you can crush a windpipe. He squeezed, feeling the momentary resistance of cartilage before the trachea collapsed inwards.

Victor lowered the unconscious, and soon-to-be dead, man to the floor.

Four enemies remaining.

Three of whom appeared as Victor turned round.

He snapped up the UMP and opened fire, seeing Halleck among the three but aiming for the closest threat. The sound of the UMP’s gunfire was a loud, dull bark that echoed in the confined space. The muzzle spat out bright bursts of exploded gases. Expended brass shell cases, hot and smoking, arced out of the breech, clinking off the walls and floor and crunching underfoot. The recoil thumped against his shoulder and reverberated through his body.

The closest man took a burst to the torso, shielding Halleck and the other man, who both backed off in surprise, seeking cover as Victor stalked forward, shooting in short, controlled bursts of two or three rounds. He moved in a crouch, half-squatting for stability and to reduce his height and silhouette.

He was reaching to change the magazine before he had squeezed the trigger for the last time, having counted bursts. Within four seconds he was shooting again.

They returned fire from doorways, but without accuracy because they were on the defensive. He squeezed off shots at each target, not expecting to hit any of them while they were buried in hard cover, but aiming to buy himself time to move while his enemies ducked and flinched and kept their heads down.

The response to fire went against every instinct evolution had instilled into Victor. He approached the danger, increasing the risk of death or dismemberment with each step, but in doing so he fought his enemies’ will as he fought their physicality. They outnumbered him. They were in the position of strength. For Victor to attack instead of retreating disrupted their psychological narrative. He thought of Sun Tzu: When strong, appear weak; when weak, appear strong.

It worked.

The continuous fire and advancement made his enemies doubt their strength. They backed off and retreated. The wrong thing to do. The gunman fell amid the storm of gunfire. Halleck managed to scramble away, losing his gun in the process, but kicking open a doorway and charging into safety as Victor’s last round buried itself in the doorframe.

He released the empty magazine and went to reload but a door burst open behind him and the fourth gunman appeared.