Dead Eye

FIFTEEN

Court followed Russ from the attic down a staircase and into a private flat. The occupant, a middle-aged woman, had hidden herself in her bathtub when the shooting began next door, but she did not peek out into the living room when the two came bursting into her flat from the attic.

Russ ran toward the front door of the room, but Gentry caught up with him. Shouting over the ringing in his ears, he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Staircase to street level.”

“They’re going to be waiting for us!”

“Unavoidable. We’ll have to engage them.”

Court shouted, “Let’s take the roof!”

Russell shook his head. “Pitched slate, covered in snow and ice. We wouldn’t make it fifty feet before we fell off.”

Court looked around the apartment, still cocking his head to see past his scorched pupils. “We need twenty feet of cording. More if we can get it quick. Lamp cables, extensions, phone wire, whatever.” As he talked he yanked a banker’s lamp off a desk and ripped the wire from the wall and from the lamp itself.

Whitlock started to protest, but he saw that Court seemed certain of his plan, so he grabbed a telephone and pulled the cord out of the back, then traced it back to where it attached to the wall. He removed the cord from the wall and turned his attention to a thick extension cord on the floor.

Court said, “We each get on one side of the peak of the roof. We support each other and move laterally. You get it?”

Russ got it. He nodded approvingly. “We act as each other’s counterweight. Let’s do it!”

In seconds they had a bundle of wires, strong enough to hold them both, some twenty feet in length. Court then ran to the window, opened it, and climbed out into the snowstorm. He held the wiring at one end, and Russ took hold at the other end. They each wrapped it around one of their wrists, and Court climbed out onto the snow-covered roof carefully. Snow and ice slid down on him as he grabbed on to the outside of the window to pull himself up, his fingers and knees stinging in the cold. He took hold of a satellite dish to get him to the peak of the roof, and behind him Russ slipped out the window and followed him up. Court slid down on the other side of the peak a few feet, and stood tentatively, leaning out, using the tension in the cord for balance. He shouted to Russ. “East or west?”

“East!” Russ shouted over the whipping wind.

Court did not respond; he only began moving eastward along the south side of the peaked roof. Russ felt the tugging, and he, on the north side of the roof, began moving along as well.

After a couple of tentative steps the two men began moving faster along opposite sides of the roof, their boots slipping on the snow and slick tile, but the cords between them gave them something to hold on to so they could remain upright while their bodies hung out away from the roof. The wires themselves dragged in the center along the peak as they moved, giving them stability. A chimney jutted from the peak, but Court and Russ closed the distance between each other by moving up, creating slack in the cords, and then together they flipped the wires up high and over the chimney. The wires dropped down on the other side and they returned the tension to the cabling to help them balance as they ran on.

Court slipped and fell to his knees suddenly and violently; he still had not completely regained his equilibrium after suffering the effects of the nine-banger. The cables lashed to his left arm kept him from sliding off the building. He quickly pushed himself back to his feet and continued on, squinting in the blowing snow.

Trestle Actual had just made it into the apartment building entrance at Nine Kooli Street; Seven and Five remained directly behind him and Six was still staggering out of the hotel, wounded but alive, and heading for their van.

A door opened near the stairwell, just a few feet in front of the two Townsend operators. Trestle Actual flashed his weapon’s tactical light on the movement, illuminating a man leaning out the doorway.

The man raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light. Nick fired at the quick movement, shooting the Estonian civilian through the chest with a three-round burst. The Estonian fell backward into his apartment, and even before he hit the floor all three Townsend men knew the victim was not their target. They heard noise inside the apartment, a woman’s scream, and Five fired a burst at the noise, shutting up the wailing woman.

A voice came through their headsets. “Someone’s on the roof!” It was Trestle Six, the injured man he’d sent to the van. “Moving east. I can’t see shit in the storm, but he’s knocking snow off the building.”

“Use your damn light!” Nick shouted.

“The taclight is just reflecting off the snowfall!”

“Then fucking shoot! ID the body when he falls off the building!” Nick was already on his way back out through the lobby of the apartment building; Trestle Seven remained on his heels.

“Engaging!” Six shouted, and Actual heard the cyclic metallic thumping of a suppressed weapon outside.

Sparks exploded below and in front of Court on the slate tiles of the roof; he was under fire from a man at ground level.

Gentry looked back over his right shoulder; through the snow and ink-dark night he saw only muzzle flashes, back down in the parking lot in front of the hotel. He drew his pistol, reached, and, while running, fired twice at the flashes.

Another flicker of light from the same location told Court he’d missed. He stopped now, and with his left hand cinched to the wiring he reached back again with his right hand and fired three more carefully aimed shots.

As soon as he finished firing he felt an intense tug at his left shoulder. At first he thought he’d been hit, but as he tumbled forward onto the snow-covered roof he realized his abrupt stop had surprised Russ on the other side, and he’d obviously yanked the wires and fallen back ass first, his own shoulder no doubt wrenched by Gentry’s sudden stop.

Court used the barrel of his Glock to help him back up to his feet, pushing off with it in the snow and struggling with the acute angle of the rooftop.

The flashes of gunfire from the parking lot stopped, and he felt confident he’d hit the man targeting him.

Court started to run forward again, glad to feel the tension leave his shoulder as Russ did the same on the far side of the rooftop.

This roof ended just feet from where they ran; they could barely see through the darkness and heavy snowfall, otherwise they would have had time to decide what to do. Instead the four-story drop just appeared and there was no time to stop on the icy surface; there was only time to rush forward, pick up speed, and then launch off the roof into the air.

Both men, lashed together at the wrists, kicked out over open ground; fifty feet below them was a cobblestone alley bathed in gaslights. Across the alley was a three-story wooden building; the pitched roof above it was as steep as the one they’d just leapt from.

They crashed onto the sheer three-story roof as one, Gentry on the right of the peak, Whitlock on the left. Both men splayed out flat, landing on the steeply angled surface, but again, the fact they were connected saved them and they did not slide off to the ground below.

The men were up again and moving in seconds.

Trestle Actual ran along narrow Kooli Street, trying to get line of sight on the roof high above. Just behind him was Trestle Seven.

Five had headed back to the parking lot in front of the hotel to bring the van to pick up the team up the street. They all stayed in contact with Trestles Two and Four, who were now racing through the park on the opposite side of the buildings that ran along the old town wall. It was difficult for the Townsend operators to see anything high on the rooftop in the whipping blizzard, and the tactical lights hanging from the rails of their HK rifles were less than useless, as they only illuminated the whiteout conditions between themselves and any potential target.

As they neared the end of the block Trestle Seven shouted, “Got him!” and Nick looked back over his shoulder to see what his colleague was focusing on. Seven’s eyes and the barrel of his MP7 pointed across the alleyway that separated the row of buildings next to them with another block of lower structures. Nick could not believe Gentry had managed to move that quickly along a sixty-degree roofline that must have been as slick as glass, but he, too, saw a figure ahead.

He and Seven both fired at the same time.

Court and Russ had just dropped down off the peaked town wall and onto a roof that was not as steeply angled as the others; it had more packed snowfall frozen to it, several inches high and hanging over the street below, terminating in long icicles. When another burst of fire from the street blew out a window just below where he ran along the roof, Court looked down again and saw that two men had gained on him, and they were running in the narrow cobblestoned alleyway just below his position.

Court looked ahead through the blizzard at the next connected roof. It was less steeply angled than the others, and the snowfall here was a foot deep. He shouted over the storm, “Give me ten feet of slack!” Within a second he felt the wiring wrapped around his left hand lose tension, and he shouted, “Belay!”

Court leapt high in the air and came crashing down on the next roof on his back, and a massive block of white broke off and cascaded down the side like an avalanche. Court was held up by the cables connecting him to Russ on the other side of the apex, so he did not slide off the roof with the snow.

Trestles Actual and Seven had been running below their target, and both men had just reloaded their MP7s and trained them back up above them when they heard Gentry yell something. They looked for their target in the heavy snowstorm, but instead they saw a huge foot-thick sheet of white falling from the roof, some twenty-five feet above their heads. The avalanche of packed precipitation was the size of an automobile, weighing several hundred pounds, and it dropped through the air, picking up velocity and power. Trestle Seven took the brunt of the avalanche, and Nick only caught a glimpse of the man before he was buried alive. Trestle Actual himself dove out of the way of the brunt of the mass of frozen precipitation, but his legs were momentarily buried under the pile.

Russ Whitlock didn’t have a clue what was going on on the other side of the building, but he had heard gunfire and Court’s call for slack. He’d run up toward the crown of the roof, giving Court the freedom he’d asked for, and then he’d dropped to his knees to support him when Court called for the belay. Now Russ was back down where he’d started, racing along again as fast as possible on the slick roof. He and Gentry had to climb up to the next building, but within moments they were hustling again, still heading east, getting closer and closer to the end of the block.

While he struggled along the pitched rooftop Russ tapped his earpiece and placed a call to a number he had programmed into it.

“Yes?”

He spoke loud enough to sound agitated, but softly enough so that Gentry would not hear him through the storm. “This is Dead Eye. It’s turning to shit over here!”

“Say iden, Dead Eye.”

“Metronome, it’s me. Trestle is getting slaughtered! You’ve got to pull them out of—”

“Say iden key.”

“They are outside! There is a running gun battle in the streets! Pull them back!”

“If you can’t establish your identity—”

“Fuck you, Parks! I’m going in!” Whitlock shouted this, and then disconnected the call.

“What?” yelled Gentry.

Russ shouted over the roof. He’d expected Gentry to hear something and was ready. “I said, the roof ends up ahead. We can jump it again!”

“Roger that!”

Another narrow small street marked the end of the block. On the far side was a lower brick storage building behind an art studio. It had a lean-to roof, a single slope that started high on Dead Eye’s side of the building and ran to only ten feet above ground on Gentry’s side.

Both men launched out over the cobblestones, as they had done at the last alleyway.

Russ kicked through the air, his eyes locked to a landing zone near the top of the lean-to roof, barely visible in the storm. But when he was only halfway over the alley he heard gunfire behind him. He knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He crashed onto the snow-covered roof next to Gentry, hitting awkwardly on his left side, and he grunted with the impact. Both he and Gentry skidded and rolled off the roof, creating an avalanche that cascaded to the ground with them.

Both men and hundreds of pounds of fresh snow crashed in a heap in the forecourt of the art studio building along the little street. They fought to uncoil themselves from all the cabling, dig out of the mini avalanche, and get themselves back in the fight.

“Two targets! Repeat, two targets!” Trestle Actual heard the call from Trestle Two, but he had no idea what the man on the other side of the row of buildings was talking about. Nick was behind the action, still moving up Kooli Street by himself, having left Seven under the avalanche of snow from the roof.

He stopped in the street and struggled with the boom arm of his mic, which had gotten turned around when he fell in the snow. He twisted it back around to his mouth so he could transmit. “Repeat last? Who is the second target?”

“Two men… uh, two people jumped to the roof on the other side of the alley. I think I hit one of them.”

Actual started to move again, but headlights washed over his body from behind. He stopped, looked back over his shoulder, and saw a small police car racing up Aida Street. Its siren squawked out an angry wail and it slid to a stop just thirty feet from him.

“Fuck!” Nick dropped his HK into the snow and stood there in the middle of the street, clutching his bloody shoulder wound with his hand.

As soon as Russ and Court crawled out of the snow pile, Russ shouted, “Contact rear!” Both men scrambled to their knees and trained their pistols on the alleyway. Two men in black tactical gear appeared from around the corner. Both of their weapons were trained on the roof above; they clearly did not realize their targets had fallen off the building into the forecourt.

Gentry and Whitlock opened fire together, dumping over a dozen rounds into their targets at a range of twenty feet.

The two Townsend operators fell into the snow.

“This way,” Russ said, and he turned away from the dead men in the street and began moving toward a low stone passageway between the art studio and the city wall.

As Court climbed out of the snowdrift he noticed blood in the snow around him; he’d smeared it with his hand as he stood up, so the streak moved in an arc in the impression left by his glove. Quickly he turned behind him and saw more blood, drips and smears all over the snow pile.

Russ saw it, too. “You’re hit,” he said.

Court entered the passageway, feeling himself for holes as he went. He felt the smeared blood on his left hand, but as he ran his hands over his body he could find no other injuries.

He turned to Russ as they arrived under a streetlamp on the southern exit of the passageway. “I’m good. It must be you.”

Russ slowed and performed the same blood sweep; he ran his hands over his torso, then down the front of his midsection and his upper legs, and finally back up his hips. He winced in pain. He pulled his hand off his left hip and saw his fingers red with blood, watery from the dampness in his clothing. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I’m shot.” He held his hand to his hip to stanch the blood flow and called out to Gentry. “Head south. Away from the port. Find a place to go to ground and watch for me. I’ll catch up in ten mikes. Stay to the east. Their police HQ is on Kolde, to the west; they will—”

Court said, “I know where the police HQ is. Where are you going?”

“Have to take care of something first.” He handed Gentry a fresh magazine for his Glock, and then reloaded his own weapon.

Court reloaded his own pistol, and then said, “More important than that gunshot wound and getting away from the cops?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Wait for me.”

“Sure.”

Whitlock turned and started running in the other direction, one hand holding his pistol and the other holding his hip. He had no idea if Gentry was going to do as he said, but he had no alternative.

There were still Trestle men out there, and he had to kill them all.

Trestle Actual stood in the middle of the cobblestoned alley with his hands in the air. The two cops stared at him through their windshield; one spoke into the radio, and the other just pointed his pistol at him through the glass.

The cops had started to exit their car as soon as they arrived, but a long salvo of gunfire a block to the east sent them back into their vehicle, content to wait on the dozens of police cars that were on the way from the station.

While Actual stood there, listening to gunfire and an increasing chorus of approaching sirens, waiting to be arrested and already imagining the uncomfortable international incident that would begin just as soon as these two bozos grew a pair of balls and climbed out of their cruiser to handcuff him, he spoke into his mic. “Two and Four, this is Actual. Tell me you got him.”

No response.

“Two and Four, are you receiving?”

Nothing.

“Dammit! Kip? Dave? Talk to me, guys.”

The gunfire he’d heard seconds before sounded like multiple handguns firing simultaneously. What the hell? Two Targets? His men were down?

“Fuck this shit,” he said aloud, and then his arms shot down to his sides in a blur; he drew the SIG Sauer P226 pistol from the retention holster on his right hip and dropped to one knee as he raised the gun at the cops.

The two young Tallinn municipal police saw the movement, but neither the officer with the gun in his hand nor the officer talking into the radio had any reaction that was fast enough to defend themselves.

Trestle Actual opened fire on them, spraying the two young men and their patrol car with round after round of nine-millimeter hollow points. The windshield exploded, glass turned to white dust, and blood sprayed throughout the car’s interior.

The echoes of gunfire died in the alleyway, and sirens neared from the west and south.

Nick reloaded his weapon quickly and turned back in the street to catch up with Trestles Two and Four, but as he did so, he saw a man coming toward him in the darkness. He raised his pistol, but Dead Eye moved into the glow of a streetlight.

Actual lowered his pistol and shouted angrily. “I thought I told you to stay inside your damned—”

Dead Eye raised his weapon.

“The fuck is wrong with—”

Whitlock shot Nick, Trestle One, through the jaw. He fell back onto the icy street, his arms wide, his pistol tumbling from his hand.

Russ stood over him, and their eyes met through the snowfall. He shot the man again in the forehead, then knelt and retrieved the gun.

A minute later Trestle Five climbed behind the wheel of the van in front of the hotel. He’d found Six, dead out here in the parking lot, and dragged his body into the vehicle. All around him lights were on in the buildings; a few people looked out from windows, but the majority of those in the neighborhood had the good sense to keep their heads down.

With the door still open he started the van, and then he saw a shadow to his left. He turned quickly, raising his MP7 at the threat, but almost immediately he lowered it and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was the singleton, Dead Eye. He was holding his left hip with one hand, and he held a pistol in his right.

Trestle Five said, “Get in! I can’t raise anybody. The whole fucking team is down, man! We’ve got to—”

He stopped speaking when Dead Eye drew his pistol up to eye level. He tried to get his own weapon up to meet the threat, but Whitlock shot him once between the eyes. Five flipped away from the side window, out of the seat, and over the center console of the van, and his foot slid from the brake. The van began rolling forward across the little parking lot through the heavy snow, and it crashed into the entrance of the hotel.

Dead Eye turned away and disappeared into the shadows.