The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Fifty-Four

The commotion Ben had been expecting kicked off one startled beat after the truck engine roared into life. McCrory’s men dropped what they were doing and began yelling and running towards the truck, grappling for their pistols, leaping to grab their rifles.

Ben crunched the gearstick into first, stamped on the gas and the truck lurched violently forwards, bouncing over the uneven ground. He could feel the sheer weight of the cargo of weaponry and munitions in the back. There was no way he could have tried to use it as a getaway vehicle and outrun the 4×4s belonging to the crew. That was fine by him, because theft wasn’t his intention.

His purpose was simple: to inflict maximum damage. Hit McCrory where it hurt most, hit him hard and whittle down his forces with all the speed, aggression and surprise the SAS had taught Ben to deploy.

He drove the loaded truck straight towards the half-loaded one, revving the diesel to a scream and bracing himself for the impact that bounced his ribcage off the steering wheel amid a rending crash of heavy metal. Men hurled themselves out of the way as the half-loaded truck was rammed sideways into the crane lorry. The crane toppled over the edge like a falling tree, crushing its operator who hadn’t been able to get out of the way in time. As if in slow motion it went smashing down into the concrete pit, crushing ladders and equipment and crates, followed by the truck which tumbled over on end, shedding its cargo everywhere.

By then, bullets were thwacking into the bodywork of Ben’s truck, which had ploughed to a halt at a crazy angle at the edge of the pit. With the shotgun still slung around his shoulder, he grabbed the two grenade launchers, kicked open the driver’s door and hurled himself out. He hadn’t hit the ground before he squeezed off the first grenade. It sailed into the side of one of the 4×4s and the vehicle was lifted off the ground and flipped like a toy in a rolling ball of fire. Shrapnel cut down the three men who’d been too slow to escape the range of the explosion. Another managed to dive clear. He fired at Ben. Ben fired another grenade that caught the guy square in the chest, carried him off his feet and backwards into the pit before it went off, setting off a chain explosion of the spilled munitions down there that rocked the earth like a volcanic eruption and sent up a spout of flame bigger than the blazing oil-wells of Kuwait.

Ben felt the skin-peeling heatwave gush by him like dragon’s breath as he ducked around the side of a building. One of the big barns was instantly engulfed in the conflagration, its flimsy wooden structure collapsing, buckled and blackened sheet metal raining down to bury several more of the 4×4s while McCrory’s crew ran like ants.

Never let your enemy get up once he’s down. Tacticians from Napoleon Bonaparte to General George Patton had said it, and with eight grenades to go, it was wisdom Ben intended to honour. He didn’t stop squeezing off shots until both launchers were empty and both trucks and two more farm buildings were blazing skeletons. The fireworks shooting up from the arsenal pit were lighting up the sky with one massive mushrooming blast after another that melted into a rising skyscraper of black smoke they could probably see in Oklahoma City.

Ben threw down the launchers and unslung the shotgun. The first round was already in the chamber. He fired a round of buckshot at a guy who was aiming a pistol his way from behind an old trailer. The shotgun kicked against Ben’s shoulder. The guy’s head dropped out of sight. Ben racked the shotgun lightning-fast. Ker-chunk. Fired again, swept the man’s legs out from under him with the second shot and racked it again and blew out his heart and lungs with the third as he went down.

A bullet skipped off the ground near Ben’s feet and he danced away between the buildings, topping up the shotgun’s magazine from the loose cartridges in his pockets. He kept moving, running back in the direction of the higher ground where he’d stashed the dead sentry’s rifle. Hastily aimed gunfire followed him as he went. He whirled round and fired back from the hip, saw a bite-shaped chunk of masonry disappear from the corner of a building and the guy leaning out from behind it go down with a red flower spreading over his white T-shirt.

Ben kept running. He reached the tree stumps, threw himself down prone behind them in the tall yellow grass and switched weapons. The blunt instrument of a sawn-off shotgun was out of its depth at this distance, but the rifle was a scalpel. Scanning left to right with the ten-times magnification scope, with the gun mounted in the V of the tree stumps, he picked out running figures through the smoke. Still no sign of Ritter or Moon. He wondered where they were, and why not here. What was left of the loading crew was a disorganised rabble. Ben smoothly tracked the rifle after one of them, crucified him in the scope’s fine cross hairs and squeezed the trigger. The .308 punched his shoulder and his eardrums; Ben saw the red-pink mist of blood spray from his target and instantly moved on to acquire another in his sights. Fired again. Same result. Then the wind changed, and a sweeping pall of black smoke engulfed the battlefield that had been Big Bear Farm, obscuring everything from view.

Ben took his eye from the scope. Time to leave. Enough damage had been done.

For now.

Turning his back on the burning farm, he returned un-noticed to the place he’d hidden the car. As he walked down the track he checked through the wallet he’d taken from the sentry. Two hundred and eighty dollars cash, driver’s licence and assorted cards. This guy was the kind of rent-a-thug who actually carried ID on a job. His name had been Dwayne S. Gulick. Next Ben did a quick inspection of Gulick’s phone. There might be one or two contacts on there that could be useful to him.

On the way back through Adonis, he tried calling Erin. There was no reply, and her phone was turned off. He left a brief message asking her to call him. But something didn’t feel right. He pulled over at the side of the road, got the Hyatt Regency front desk number from Google and called them to ask to be put through to Miss Lang in room 421. After a few moments, the receptionist informed him that Miss Lang had gone out.

A tingle of worry began to grow inside him, and he drove on more quickly.