Unto the Breach

Chapter Thirty-One

The C2 device in Adams’ thigh pocket buzzed just for a moment. Time.

The snipers were using .338 Whisper sniper rifles. The rifles were big as was the round, but it was subsonic and the silencers were integral, part of the mass of the rifle. The two guards at the front door, shielding their cigarettes against the wind and rain, never knew what hit them. They slumped straight down, red blotches staining the wall behind them where their heads used to be.

The strike team crossed the road fast and silently. Shota was in the lead but even before he reached the door two teams of two Keldara each split left and right down the side of the building. The rest stacked behind the leaders, spread to either side in two wings of heavily armed, and armored, figures.

Adams was two men behind Shota and prayed that the big Keldara was finally going to get it right.

The big man, wearing body armor normally carried only by demolition squads, massive torso armor, heavy leg coverings and a helmet with integrated blast-shield face plate, armor that would have slowed a lesser man to a waddle, trotted up to the door, stopped, pressed the shotgun against the lock and triggered one round.

The blast of the shotgun rang through the street like an alarm but it didn’t even occasion a shout. Too many guns were fired for too many reasons in Gamasoara for anyone to notice a single shot.

That was about to change.

The Keldara, despite the fifty pound padding on his leg, kicked the door hard enough that it was flung off its hinges then…

Took one, two, three, four, FIVE steps into the room. At a good solid trot. Hallelujia!

Of course, while he was doing that he was being fired on from three separate directions. Three of the former Spetznaz guards had been playing poker at the table in the front room and did not react kindly to a large man blasting their door down.

The heavy duty body armor shrugged off even the point blank rounds from AK assault rifles and before Shota could finish his trot, Oleg and Adams were through the door, leaning to either side and using his bulk, and armor, as cover.

Three short bursts, nine rounds of 5.56 high velocity bullets and Russian former Spetznaz were down and dead. They were wearing body armor, too. But there was a qualitative difference between theirs and Shotas. And 5.56, at these ranges, had the penetration to break anything less.

Not that either Adams or Oleg fired at their center of mass.

Shota shot one as he was falling. It seemed like the thing to do. Nobody had said you weren’t suppose to shoot someone, just because their head had been turned to pulp by three 5.56 rounds. No women, no kids. Dead bodies didn’t count as either.

“NEXT DOOR!” Adams shouted, pointing across the small entry room. As he said it, there was a “crack” of a grenade from in the building. “MOVE!”

Each of the rooms down the hallway had a window.

Each of the rooms was occupied by men, identified as Russian guards. Valid targets.

Each of the windows had simple panes of glass protecting the interior from the elements.

But like a baseball thrown by an overzealous child, which flies out and breaks mommy’s plate glass window as the children who had been playing watch in horror and fascination, hand grenades have no problem breaking such panes.

Less.

“This hardly seems fair,” Danes said, plucking another frag grenade from the pouch at his side and arming it.

“Says you,” Jachin replied as the window two behind the current one exploded outward in fire. “They can always toss them back.”

He pulled the pin and threw it through the window, hard and to the side, so that it was likely to hit the far wall and bounce around a bit. They might just reach it in time for it to explode.

Danes followed with his own, thrown up through the broken window, aimed at the ceiling. He could see forms moving in the darkness as men scrambled to throw on clothes, body armor, grab weapons, whatever was necessary to prepare themselves for a battle out of nowhere. If either of them noticed the breaking window, they were far to encumbered to try to find the grenade bouncing around in the dark room.

He moved on. He wasn’t going to be by the window when his present exploded.

“Open it!” Adams yelled. “Just use the knob!”

Shota paused and turned the doorknob, opening the door politely. Rifle fire cracked down the hallway in a much less polite fashion.

“Back!” Adams yelled, throwing a flashbang into the corridor then pulling Shota back from the door. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Shota answered. “I am good. I like this armor.”

The flash-bang went off with a massive “crack!” and a flash of light and heat.

“GO!” Adams yelled, yanking the massive Keldara around and pushing him into the hallway.

Shota shot one of the screaming men in the hallway in the face as a door near the far end blew in, throwing a body into the hall.

“Forget them!” Adams screamed. “CHARGE THE FAR DOOR. GO! NOW! TAKE IT DOWN.”

Shota lowered his head and bulled forward, throwing the two remaining fighters in the hallway to the side as Adams stayed right behind him. He ignored the rooms to either side, the teams following him had them to deal with and he could hear the cries of “CLEAR!” following him in a wave. There were occasional cracks of fire, one or two rounds, always followed by the “CLEAR!”

He was concentrated on the far door. That was the target, the only thing that mattered.

One more defender and they were done.

Katya wasn’t sure what caused the chair to suddenly scrape but she could tell by the sound that Kurt was on his feet. A moment later there was the shot from a gun. It wasn’t a rifle like the Keldara used, something bigger, booming through the building. She heard a click, something like a briefcase might make opening. Then sharp, rapid footsteps.

Before the second burst of fire from the guards in the front room, Kurt was at her side. She felt the shackles come loose and longed to use her special fingernails on the bastard. But with the blindfold still on she couldn’t be sure quite where to strike. And she knew she’d only get one shot.

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the room. There was a click of something again and a dragging sound. She slid her hands up to her head and flicked the blindfold up just as she was yanked forward again. She had just enough time to see that the fireplace in the room was false, a doorway that led to a tunnel. But the second yank forced her to stumble forward, completely off balance and held up only by her hair. For a moment the pain half blinded her then she had her balance back again and prepared to strike. Before she could the light was extinguished again as the false fireplace slid back into place. Kurt let her go and all she could do was stand in Stygian darkness.

“We expected some such stupid attempt by the Russian government,” Kurt said, flicking on his flashlight. “The best of the Russian special forces leave for better opportunities. Such as this one. You will be coming with me. Don’t think to try anything stupid.”

“Why Herr Schwenke, why would you think I would do anything stupid,” Katya said, flicking the blindfold off and sweeping her fingers up to rake at his face.

Schwenke was fast, credit him for that. The strike that should have taken out an eye, and pumped his eyesocket full of neurotoxin, just grazed one cheek.

“It’s the little Russian hooker,” Schwenke said, springing back and flashing the light in her face. He gave a chortle. “How very… rich.”

“Katya Ivanova at your service,” Katya said, taking up a cat stance and mentally triggering the combat hormones held in a pouch under her left arm. She could feel the world slowing down and, to her, her speech blurring. There was a distant explosion but her ears automatically muted it, her vision focussing down to concentrate on the target. “Or, rather, in the service of the Kildar. You may call me Cottontail.”

“The fucking Keldara,” Schwenke said with a grin. “You switched you little bi… ” He had automatically reached for his gun and as it came out in an expert draw it slid from nerveless fingers to the floor. “Wha… ” He swayed and nearly dropped the flashlight as well but seemed to draw strength from some inner well. “What did you do to me you bitch?”

“You have your cocktails, I have mine,” Katya answered, sliding forward gracefully, hands held in a panther strike position, nails forward and hooked. “In this case, a little neurotoxin, made from cobra venom or so they told me. Courtesy of the United States government. I have the antidote. It’s in my fangs. You’re welcome to sample it.”

Schwenke sprang backward then carefully knelt and came up holding a smaller pistol from an ankle holster. But his hands shook so hard he was going to have a difficult time hitting even a target as relatively large as Katya. He clearly knew that.

“Who is the cobra and who the mouse, now?” Katya asked, swaying from side to side as the man backed away. “Can you hit me little man? Or can I pump you full of my little cocktail, first?”

She slid forward and sideways, striking at the gun hand. Kurt fired while backpedaling. Both missed.

“Katya, Vanner,” the communicator in her head crackled. “Quit fucking around with him. Shota is down. Adams is going nuts. Get the damned door open.”

Shota hit the door like a human battering ram and the door splintered under the weight and speed of the big man.

Which just meant he was that much closer to the bomb Kurt had left behind when it went off.

Adams felt himself lifted off his feet and flung backward from the explosion. Being blown up was bad enough. Having Shota land on him was worse. The impact drove the air from his lungs and he was pretty sure he felt a couple of ribs crack. Fortunately, his helmet kept him from getting either a broken nose or a cracked skull.

“Oof.”

Another weight hit the combined pile, a heavy step unless Adams was much mistaken. Oleg, true to his training, was continuing the assault. You worried about casualties when the firing was over.

Adams managed to push Shota off and get a breath, wincing at the pain in his ribcage. To his amazement, the big man was moving as well, slowly, but he was moving.

“Shota,” Adams said, rolling over on his side then propping himself up on one elbow. “Shota?”

“I don’t like doors anymore,” Shota said, petulantly. “I don’t like bombs.”

“You’re alive?” Adams asked. He propped himself up some more and shook his head. The massive Keldara’s armor was peppered with holes. The bomb had apparently been something like a claymore. There were even rounds, round little ball bearings, stuck in his faceshield. But, amazingly, he didn’t seem to be wounded at all. The armor had caught all of it.

“I’m alive,” Shota responded. “But I wish I wasn’t. That hurt.”

Adams couldn’t bear it, he had to laugh. He was still chortling when Oleg called him.

“Master Chief?” the team leader said from the door of the room. “There is no one here!”

“Fuck me,” Adams replied. He hadn’t forgotten that there was a hostage in the room that had just got all blown up. But it was, after all, Katya. He’d take ten Katya’s over Shota. If she got blown up it was no skin off of his nose. But missing? That was another thing. The girl knew things. “VANNER!”

What was driving him nuts was that Adams could hear them talking. Oh, it was muted, but he could hear Katya’s tones, like ice. No, not like ice. She was playing with someone. It was the voice of a cat, one of the really malicious ones, that has caught a baby mouse.

“Vanner! Tell her to get this damned thing open or I’m going to blow the son-of-a-bitch in!”

They hadn’t been looking long but there was no obvious switch to open the fireplace. Vanner had apparently caught a flash of it as Katya was dragged out. Pity he hadn’t noticed the booby-trap in front of the door.

“She’s pretty locked in on killing this guy, Master Chief,” Vanner replied. “We’re in movement to your location. Be aware that the Chechens in town are up and moving. You’re about to have about two hundred shooters on your ass in no more than five mikes. Security teams are in place and we’ve got wheels but we need to unass. Now.”

“KATYA! OPEN THIS GOD DAMNED DOOR!”

Another swing and a miss. Another shot ricocheting off the rock walls.

“You’re running out of time,” Kurt said. He was to the stairs, now, sweating heavily but, if anything, the poison seemed to be wearing off.

“You’re the one backing away,” Katya replied. But she knew it was true. They had to run away, the Kildar preferred the term “egress”, before the entire Chechen force dropped on their heads. “And where are you going to be without your Russian guards?”

“Gone,” Kurt said, putting away his pistol and holding up empty hands. “Disappeared. A ghost.”

“One haunting me?” Katya asked, straightening out of her crouch cautiously.

“You’re not a professional are you, dear,” Kurt said and grinned as if he really found it humorous. “I won’t waste my time. Oh, perhaps we’ll meet again. We live in the same world, after all. If so, I’ll remember your cocktails, little girl.”

“And I’ll remember yours,” Katya said, smiling as she backed away. “Another day then. I don’t suppose you’ll leave me the flashlight?”

“No, I need it,” Kurt admitted. “But the switch for the door is on the upper right.” He turned off the flashlight and she could hear him moving up the stairs, fast if a little unsteadily.

And damn if the switch wasn’t right where he’d said.