Into the Fire(112)
He’d pay for it later.
Gladly.
For the first time since he’d smacked his head on that parking lot, he felt entirely clear-minded. Better than clear-minded. Like the rifle was a part of his body and he was a part of it and together they would operate like a single piece of weaponry.
Through the scope Evan zeroed in on the van once more. Aimed at the rear right tire. Tracked it as it flickered in and out of sight behind other vehicles.
He exhaled. Waited for the space between heartbeats.
And readied to apply 2.75 pounds of trigger pressure.
* * *
Mia spilled from the elevator and sprinted across the lobby, knocking over a businessman. She slammed out through the hefty front door and bulled through pedestrians, ignoring the shouts and protests.
The white van strobed into view a full block away, turning onto Grand Street.
She forged into traffic, darting up 6th Street through blaring horns and screeching brakes. Tears streaked her face.
She ran to her son.
* * *
Even over the city bustle, the crack of the round was audible.
The van’s rear tire blew. The vehicle reared up on its front tires and smashed through the picture window of Bottega Louie. Glass waterfalled, tumbling onto the sidewalk. Inside the upscale patisserie, patrons screamed and ran. One of the take-out counters shattered, spilling a rainbow of macaroons across the marble floor.
Directly above the wreckage, street signs announced the intersection of 7th and Grand.
The package, delivered right on the mark.
The driver drew his gun, stepped out, and immediately lost half his skull.
The man in the passenger seat peered into the side mirror an instant before it was sheared off by the next sniper round. Panicking, he flung open the door and dove for the restaurant. Another round whined in.
He was dead before he struck the ground.
The sidewalks erupted with panic. Commuters left their cars in the middle of the street. Pedestrians shouted and headed for cover, washing through the abandoned vehicles to the safety of the surrounding buildings.
Inside the van the six remaining operators kicked through the damaged bulkhead partition, crawled to the front, and spilled from the doors. They fanned out, carbines at the ready, a strike team unleashed.
* * *
Evan cycled the rifle, ejecting the brass. He eased out a breath through his teeth. Heart rate—normal. Body temperature—normal. Hands—steady.
Eye back to the scope. A breeze riffled his hair. Cries carried up to him from the street. Mia came into view below, running into the chaos.
His view was blocked by panicked civilians. But there were slivers between the rush of bodies that let him see through to the operators readying for battle.
No margin for error.
He would have to be perfect.
He emptied his lungs once more. At moments like this, the voice inside his head was Jack’s.
Don’t think about Mia.
Don’t think about Peter.
Don’t think about anything that matters.
A simple process.
Track. Exhale. Squeeze.
Repeat.
* * *
Mia sprinted toward the crash, sobbing with fear, dread, rage. People were surging away from the van, banging into her, knocking her back against the tide.
She tripped, bloodying a knee, but kept on.
She emerged from a clot between abandoned cars and saw— finally—what everyone was running from.
A formation of heavily armed men, spread in a V-formation, advancing directly at her. They were a half block away, the van that held her son at their backs. It was shoved crookedly through the restaurant’s window, hoisted higher on one side from the impact. One of the men rolled his neck, another shook out an injured arm. They readied their rifles.
Mia braced herself.
And sprinted directly into their midst.
There was no way she wouldn’t be killed.
And yet.
She floated through the fray untouched.
A man spun to aim at her and was ripped out of sight as cleanly as if he’d been lassoed by a passing truck, his dome cracked from a V split of a round.
The operator behind him caught a faceful of bone fragment, pounding him into the asphalt.
A third lunged as she neared and took a bullet to the neck.
She sprinted through the blood and death to her son.
Invisibly protected by a guardian angel.
Ten yards ahead two operators closed ranks, sighting on her. They were afraid now; she could see that in their rolling eyes. But even as their ranks thinned, felled by an invisible hand, they kept coming at her. She was the only thread they had to follow, the sole target for their desperation. Two barrels rose and aimed at her critical mass.
She closed her eyes. Did not slow.
She heard the crack of the gunshots and knew herself to be dead. A double clap of corpses struck the ground. Neither was hers.
She opened her eyes. Warm syrup on her cheeks, her shirt. Flecked with blood, she never slowed. Breath burning. Lungs on fire. A panic heat lighting her skin, flushing her face. Running past the fallen men.
Running to her son.
She was almost there.
The last operator lifted his rifle to aim at her. Her legs had gone numb, sprinting of their own accord, carrying her forward. The world turned to slow motion, every detail rendered with hyperclarity—the single furrow of his brow on the right side, the glisten of sweat at his hairline, the whiteness of his hand on the grip. She sensed that her mouth was open, that she was screaming.