The Hard Way

[Kate Hammerhill]

The unexpected explosion of gunfire to her right make Kate flinch involuntarily, her pistol barking off a single round before she regained her composure, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed her initial flinch had moved the laser sight off the mans heart and down, to quickly splash across his left hand where it gripped the shotgun barrel tightly, coming to rest at the middle of his groin.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE, MARINE!"

Franks drill sergeant like voice slashed across the room making her freeze in place as she realigned her laser back onto Boss Hog JR.'s chest. Franks voice reminded her of her fathers, full of authority and seeming to carry the will of creation itself. A man who was used to being obeyed when he gave an order. A man who didn't always forgive mistakes lightly.

She eyed the result of her single bullet with a critical gaze. Too late now to do jack about it. "Never apologize, even when you're at fault, people will take that as a sign of weakness. You can't afford to be seen as weak, not ever! Prey is weak, and criminals don't much prey on predators." Her fathers favorite piece of advice re-echoed through her mind in Franks voice. Whatever came next, the odds were assuredly in favor of them living past this night, unless Ozil caught up to them first.

[Murometz]

“Maybe you should invite them down for a chat."

Fire, shift right, fire, shift right fire, HOO-RA!

“HOLD YOUR FIRE, MARINE”

Silence.

Two Huskers down, blood pumping from their torsos. Both have their hands on their bellies, as if trying to keep their guts from spilling out. Guns dropped. No more fight in these 2.

Third shot missed a Husker by a hair. Blew a window open. Glass crash.

Rollins (goatee) stares at the downed Huskers in shock, and then raises his eyes toward Cutter.
 
“Cocksucker”, he says, dumbfounded.

Then screams, as a bullet blows his shiny Mossberg from his hands, missing his man-parts by inches. No, less than inches. Instead the Mossberg drops, and he grabs his shattered hand. At least one finger blown off. Palm wrecked.

Lets out another half-scream, half-moan. Eyes wild now. Just stares at the trio, then at Kate. Doesn’t make a move to retreat the Mossberg.

"BIIITCH!!"


3 remaining Huskers just stand there, also in shock. Sweating rivers. Scared.


“Well. I do believe that establishes our bargaining position, gentlemen."

Pause

“All I wanted was to know if you knew one boy by the name of Ronnie Junior, but I hope you're more interested in picking up your boys and going home now." 

Silence.

As he mentions Ronnie Jr. Frank scans the audience. Husker, husker, husker, Goatee, husker. Wait, back up. Husker #2. He knows the name, Frank can tell. He knows something. Frank catches the recognition in the behemoth’s pig-like eyes. Good enough for now.

No one says anything; finally, Rollins looks at his Huskers. “Let’s go.” He says, trying his d**ndest to sound tough. Not scared. Not in pain. In control of the situation.

Doesn’t work. He sounds whiny, and in severe pain.

Eyes still on Kate, Cutter, and Frank, the group begins backing out of the bar. Huskers lift and drag their 2 fallen comrades. One looks like he’s not going to make it. Eyes rolled in back off head. Bleeding profusely. So much blood. Other one moans, as he’s dragged out.

“This ain’t over” Rollins hisses at them. Leaves. Few seconds go by. They here truck ignitions starting.

Cutter yawns. Not from boredom. Trying to unclench his jaw.

Silence.

But not for long.

BANG. Cutter down. Shot from staircase. They look. Fat man,using staircase for cover. Firing a SiG of his own.

About to fire again.

Crunch-Crunch, BOOOOM.

Shotgun blasts through ceiling. Big hole. Sparks fly.

Crunch-Crunch. Shot-gun reloaded.

Cutter slides down bar. Shoulder wound, maybe even the plastic arm side, Frank notices in a split second. He’ll live.

Go time.

[Siren no Orakio]

The response to the shot from the stairs is nearly instant, the .45 barking its basso tone in a two-shot stattacco. The 9s, those were guns for putting little holes in people. It's why the military kept them. Franks SIG was for knocking big men down.

"EVADE, MARINE!"

The command cracked through the air once more, as All-The-Way began to move himself. Bastard with the shotgun upstairs was shooting blind. Keep him confused. Close on the stairwell.  Make the kind of shots that drive the bastard deep into cover. Maybe he could close it faster in a straight line, but Frank had long ago been forced to master the skill of the woven, broken run, using every scrap of cover and juke his frame would permit to keep himself from getting shot. What he really wanted to do was lay a hand on one of these fat bastards, and twist him into a human pretzel. But had to help the odds some first.

[Kate Hammerhill]

“This ain’t over.” Rollins hisses at them.

"Next time will be the last time." Kate said firmly, a cold finality to her voice, the laser sight firmly fixed between his eyes. Putting him down now would mean one less problem at her back, then again slime like him always had family who'd come foaming at the mouth for revenge. Better to let him be for now, maybe he'll make a good example to others.

BANG.  Shark Suited guy in the stairway, trying to take down what he perceives to be the biggest threat first.

"EVADE, MARINE!"  That drill sergeant like scream propelling her into action once more.

"Don't use your sights during practice, you'll rarely have time to use it in combat so don't get spoiled by it, just shoot in the general direction of the target. At close range it won't matter in what part of their body you lodge a bullet in, it will still keep them from going very far and make your follow up shots easier."

Her fathers words from her first firearms lesson so long ago were warm comfort in her mind as the world seemed to slip into slow motion and she threw herself sideways under a rickety table, stained from countless years of drink and cigarettes.

Raising her pistol Kate squeezed the trigger in smooth repetitive pulls, aiming in the general direction of the mans bulk where it vanished behind the thin plywood wall. She visualized the outline of his sagging flesh hidden from view, undulating where her bullets found their mark. Five rounds, it should be enough to stop even a man of his considerable size, especially at this range.

Shotgun fire. Loud, almost deafening in the close confines of the bar, overhead somewhere, impossible to locate in the pandemonium, better to ensure the fatback by the staircase was down for good.

Exhaling slowly Kate tried to block out the rest of the room, the sounds of gunfire, the sight of blood on Cutters body, the reek of urine and blood on the floor. Lining her laser sight up on the most vital area of the fat man she could still make out and pulling the trigger a final time.

The control shot.

[Scrasamax]

Well that hurt. Pain snapped Cutter out of his Iraqi fugue, his shoulder hurt like hell and there was blood. Pain was good, serious injuries don't hurt. Shotgun blasts overhead, CO has given an order, evade. There isn't thought or contemplation. Command, muscle memory, action. Cutter scrambles from his spot behind the bar away from the stairwell. More rounds fly and he hears the unmistakable lusty sound of a pump action working overhead.

The shooter is firing blind. He braced against the juke box and lifted the P90, switching to auto. No aiming, just spray and pray. The shotgunner had to pump the gun every round, Cutter could 27 more rounds through the ceiling before grabbing the spare clip in his back pocket.

The gun roars to life, the steel core rounds passing thought the floor like it was butter. Suppressing fire baby

[Murometz]

3 miles from motel...

(Phone rings 12 miles north of motel)

“What the hell happened out there?
“We walked in they just started firing, crazy @!#$er just unloaded! @!#$ing girl shot me too!”
“Stop whining son.”
“She shot my @!#$ing hand!”
“We’ll have Webster take a look at it.”
“I want them hurt, real bad.”
“They will be son. Don’t worry.”
“I want to shoot the &^%$@ myself.”
“You will.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“That big guy mentioned Ronnie.”
Pause
“Ok, son. Get the boys back here, let’s re-group. I’ll call your uncles. And Earl. There’s gonna be a reckoning.”
“Brett’s dead, dad.”
Pause
“Ok. So Brett’s dead. We have more Bretts.”

[Murometz]

Everything happens fast.

Frank fires twice. Can't tell if he hit the beef.

Cutter peppers the ceiling with gunshot, holes appearing, flashing beams of light, wood chips flying, s**t shattering everywhere. Trrrf-trrrf—trrrrf—trrf-trrrff-trrrrrrrf-trrrrrrrfffff… Budududududududududhp.

Bobby ducks behind counter and comes up with a Remington rifle, glass bottles blowing apart behind him.

Crunch-crunch BOOM.

This time the shotgun blast from above, misses Frank just barely, shattering a table into smithereens, as he runs by, weaving left, weaving right, fat man on his mind…

Kate fires, pop-pop-pop. More wood splinters. She hears a grunt. Fat man hit.

Frank is there now, bottom of staircase, fat man sitting on stairs, red blotch near his armpit; He’s inching his way back up the staircase on his ass, firing down.

Fires.

Misses Frank, hits a radiator.

Steam explodes.

Frank fires too. Doesn’t miss. Another grunt. Frank hits him dead center, but curses under his breath. Bullet-proof vest. Fat man looks down at Frank. Frank looks up at him. Fat man realizes he can only shoot. No time to move. He aims between Frank’s eyes. Bastard even manages to grin…

Pop.

Fat man’s neck explodes with blood.  Kate got him, snuck up behind Frank. Used him for cover. Didn’t miss.

Fat man looks shocked, then gravity takes over and he starts sliding back down stairs on his ass, eyes bulging, blood gushing out of him in fountains.

Frank fires once more to make sure. Dead on arrival.

Kate and Frank turn quickly. Cutter grinning. Stopped firing, but can’t stop grinning.

Shotgun blasts from upstairs have stopped. Smoke everywhere. Ceiling looks like Swiss cheese. Fat man sitting at bottom of stairs, still upright. But dead.

No way to tell what happened to the upstairs shot-gun guy. All quiet.

Kate winces. Looks down. Shrapnel, piece of wood from something or other, stuck in her thigh. Bleeding profusely. Not as bad as it looks, but painful. Frank wipes some glass shards from his forehead.

Cutter just sitting there, breathing heavy. Bleeding from shoulder. Prosthetic arm busted.

Jukebox starts playing. 99 problems by Hugo. Loud.

“Still want that Jameson?" Bobby says to Cutter.

[Scrasamax]

Cutter ejects the clip from the rifle, no mean feat with his damaged arm, and slams the spare home. "I'll take the whole bottle," he said and fumbled at his wallet. His hand was starting to shake. He took the bottle and took a long drink from it. He was sweating heavily and was starting to look sick. He took a second drink.

"What about upstairs?"

[Kate Hammerhill]

"Target eliminated father." Kate whispered, more to herself then anyone else, blinking back tears of pain as she holstered her still faintly smoking pistol and looked down at the shrapnel in her leg, grateful it didn't puncture the femoral artery. Gritting her teeth against the flash of torment she pulled it free in a single sharp tug, quickly pressing a handful of napkins from the nearby table over the wound to stop the bleeding.

"First aid kit?" She questioned Frank, giving him a pained look and gesturing with her nose towards her leg and cutters shoulder.

The blaring of the Juke box made Kate's gunfire induced headache worse and conversation difficult. With a annoyed glare she gestured for the bartender to kill the music so she could speak in a tone of voice approaching normal, and hopefully hear if anyone above them was moving.

"What about upstairs?"

Kate gave him her best shrug of uncertainty and glanced upwards at the bullet holes riddling the ceiling, knowing if the man had been seriously wounded and bleeding out there would be at least a trickle of crimson oozing through the cracks and punctures of the faded wood by now.

[Murometz]

Bobby pulls the plug on the Juke. Buttons not working.

Quieter now. Sort of. Sphssss, steam escaping radiator, bloop,bloop, water dripping somewhere, an occasional skzzzt from an electrical wire, hanging from the ceiling.

[Scrasamax]

Cutter gulped a third round from the bottle of Jameson, maybe enough booze would make this nightmare float away. His shoulder hurt like he'll, but compared to when he lost that arm, and the six months of PT that followed it would take more than that to phase him. He didn't feel the alcohol burn, not a good sign that, pushed too far, too hard. He wiped his face and dabbed at the blood on his arm. He would need a new shirt after this.

"Well you bark like an officer," he said, "Can you give orders outside of a firefight? I'm not so good for following orders now, I do the best I can but I aint no leader." Cutter took a forth swig from the bottle and it was the one too many. He sat the bottle down; turned an ashen color and then emptied his stomach of beer, peanuts, and sadly, a good deal of Jameson.

[Siren no Orakio]

The response to Cutter came first, at least verbally, as Frank began to mount the stairs, fully meaning to find and confirm the corpse of the man upstairs... or interrogate him. He was good at that part. Too good. It was why he had volunteered his ass for busting back down to patrolling Fort Riley. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Major Frank Castiglione, Retired. Seventy Fifth Regiment."

Lead the way. Up the stairs. Quiet, his feet to the outside of the steps to prevent creaking. Kept him in the cover of the shadow and the wall, too. Sweep with the pistol at the top. Should be over.. that way. Stay quiet. Stay on the structural members of the building when you can. Sweep and cover.

[Murometz]

Frank avoids creaking. Gets to 2nd floor landing.

Upstairs hallway. Cheap carpet smell.

Bobby volunteers, “I had ‘em in 208.” Not loud, but loud enough for Frank to hear.

Hallway has 4 doors on each side. 201, 203, 205, 207, on the left, 202, 204, 206, 208 on the right.

208. Last door down on the right.

All quiet.

Frank crouches along the hall. Approaches door. It’s closed.

Hmmm, Frank's thinking.

Based on the layout downstairs, Fat Man #2 must must have fired from a different room. 208 too far down. So he could theoretically be in any room. One thing seems sure. Fat Man #2 was probably way too fat to slither out of a window to escape, if he was as fat as Fat Man #1.

Still here somewhere.

Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe, catch the Fat Man by the toe, if he hollers, DON'T let him go.

[Scrasamax]

Collecting himself and wiping his mouth on the ruined sleeve of his shirt, Cutter followed Frank up. 30 rounds in the P90, he followed behind with the weapon ready. Compared with the standoff he was a different person, he was still Cutter, still a marine, but he was here and now, not trapped back next to a filthy river in a stinking desert.

Hand signals, room by room sweep, first on right, then across hall, then repeat until all doors opened? Basic training and building sweeping, but there were only 3 of them and not a squad of marines. 

[Kate Hammerhill]

"I guess that's a no." Kate answered her earlier question herself, giving a wide eyed stare at as both entered the darkened stairway and proceeded out of her line of sight. From her observation of the ceiling she couldn't make out any blood, good chance fatback number two was still alive up there somewhere, probably pissed and wondering if his pal was alive or dead.

Poor lighting, no body armor, up against an defender with a shotgun loaded with buckshot or flechettes. Good chance of eating 12 gauge discharge for your last meal. Kate considered following them, but realized quickly her leg wound in its current condition would make moving up the stairs quietly impossible, and likely reopen the inury. She'd be a liability that could get them all killed.

"When dealing with a heavily armed opponent who's barricaded himself in a dark building, don't try to dig him out on your own with your partner. There's a real good chance he'll spot one of you first and unload on you. Call for back up. Hang back in a good covering position to keep him bottled up and let Swat handle the mess. Flash bangs, tac IV body armor. They can soak bullets and casualties better then a patrol officer. If he's like most punks he'll get impatient, think maybe he lost you or he can get away and try for an exit. That's your chance, when he's moving into your line of sight."

More of her fathers unasked for advice flooded Kate's memory as she considered her options. Apparently these guys had never studied police tactics, or were out for blood and willing to take the risk. Patience was never  a Marines strong point she recalled hearing, semper fi, do or die, blood, guts, and glory.

Still pressing against her wound with her left hand Kate drew her pistol again with her right, closing her legs to keep the napkins firmly against the puncture while she loaded a fresh clip and trained the handgun up the stair well to cover it's dimmed entrance. Not using a laser sight this time, it'd give away her position.

Cover wasn't the best, cheap ass table worked more to break up her profile then offer any sort of bullet impediment; but she had the jacket. Supposedly it was able to stop anything up to a .45 acp round cold, she hoped to hell the manufacturer wasn't exaggerating. She hoped even more Frank and Cutter would be successful in their sweep and clear operation.

[Murometz]

12 miles north of motel...

(Phone rings. Call coming in from Vegas.)

“Where’s my shipment?”
“Should be here in 10-12 hours.”
“Have you met up with my guys?”
“Problem there.”
“What problem? I haven’t heard from them.”
“I think your guys are dead.”
“What?!”
“Not us. Coupla’ army guys. And a girl. Shot us up too.”
“Who are they? Whats their angle?”
“Don’t know. FBI came, questioned them, and then left. We came. Came to get your guys. The three of them started shooting at us.”
“Wait--you said girl? Is she dangerous?”

Pause

“Well, the bullets from her gun hurt.”
“This is @!#$ing ridiculous.”
“I agree. But now you understand why your shipment is delayed.”

Pause

“If I don’t have my shipment in---10 hours---you, and your whole @!#$ing red-neck crew is DEAD. You understand?”

Click.

[Murometz]

Frank at 201, Cutter 202. Using hand signals to signify "Clear."

Bust doors open.

"Clear"
"Clear"

Frank at 203, Cutter 204

"Clear"
"Clear"

Frank at 205, Cutter 206

"Clear"

Cutter hesitates, 206 is swiss cheese room. Holes in the floor. Something dripping somewhere. Looks around. Bathroom door open. Nothing.

"Clear"

Two doors left.

[Scrasamax]

Cutter pauses, this is getting tense again. He had hoped to find the fat boys quick and for this to be done with. Somewhere a voice told him call the cops, due process and Miranda rights, calling for back up. County this big and empty the local police were probably tight with the Cornhusker boys. That is assuming they didn't control them outright. He had nO backup of his own to call and while marines trained to fight toe to toe, in the field they always had reinforcements: apache longbow gunships, 155 mm artillery, and birds like Hornets and Harriers to come in and dust up the ugliness. Things got even more fin when the army or navy was involved. In Kuwait the marines could call on the Might Mo to bring the rain, the USS Missouri that is.

He made a hand sign, trap, and pointed towards the remaining rooms, they had time to barricade themselves and could no doubtedly turn the clean and sweep into an ambush. The shotgun was a much better close range weapon than the P90 and it trumped pistols with ease. Situations like his they had just fallen back and dropped an artillery shell or a guided bomb from a fighter on station. This didn't feel so good now.

Fall back? Fire building? He asked with hand signals

[Siren no Orakio]

Frank... Frank remembered the civvy tactics, but the timer was ticking. When boys like him got left behind by evac, it was plausible deniability time.

Raising his hand, Frank ordered the halt. They were running out of rooms. Left or right - did 207 look forced? Flimsy ass walls and doors would slow down shot, the iron plates under his shirt would probably protect vitals, but d**n, did Frank miss the stealth armor. And then he had a sudden thought. His hand reached up, and signaled. No fall back. Best way to break an ambuscade was to trigger it.. and not be in the line of fire. That shotgun was brutal - run down the characteristics. Many, simultaneous, weak hits. Shotgun made ground beef, but it couldn't penetrate. Wall was two layers of cover - quarter inch of dry wall boarding, 2 x 4 probably every 2 feet, quarter inch of dry boarding. Door was probably hollow core wood. Two layers of flim-flam, basically. Four layers was gonna stop a lot of buck, even if the last two weren't much. He'd heard the racking of a pump. Pump meant a long reload. He could cover a lot of ground in the time it took to reset and pump a shotgun. Pump also meant a good chance of 3 rounds max. Seven to nine, if it was older. And a long, long time to fill the tube.

 His heart pounded once, twice, then the old training reasserted itself. The Group never got backup.

Inside the doorways from 205 and 206. It took him a moment to convey quietly, but shoot out the locks on the doors of 207 and 08 from inside cover. Door half open made extra cover. Force the mobster's hand. Ready the SIG. Wait for Cutter to ready the P90. Fire. The double tap was pure habit.

[Kate Hammerhill]

Kate held her position calmly, whatever was happening upstairs was well out of her control, right now staying ready to put down the thug if he got past, (or took out) Frank and Cutter was more important then worrying about what came after. Focus on the task at hand, deal with the consequences afterward.

[Scrasamax]

In mathematics, a vector is direction and magnitude. Cutter, running on years of training and three tours through Iraq, had plenty of magnitude. He only lacked direction. He would have never made anything higher than a squad leader, he was much better at taking orders than giving them.

He nodded, gripped the P90 and gave Frank a three head nod count before popping a round through the locking mechanism of 207. He turned, second round passed cheerily through the lock of 208. The image of the cartoon bullet wearing a trilby hat came to mind. It shot out the gun like a salesman going to work. A momentary surprise, the lock brass plate and hollow core door...  Wait, did I hit something? I guess not.

Not time for cartoons now, it was time to kill, like a good marine.

[Murometz]

Door to 207 hesitates, then ever-so slowly swings inward. Flirty. Inviting. Creaky.
Door to 208 has the lock blown out just the same, but refuses to budge. Just a hiccup, open an inch.

Silence. No fat man running out.

[Murometz]

Downstairs at motel...

Bobby says quietly, "Young lady, I have a first-aid kit in the back. I'll get it." Goes in back, still clutching his Remington.

[Siren no Orakio]

Alright, Frank. Its party time. Creep. Stay low. Shift weight. Sweep kick the door to 207 open with the back of your heel. Don't open a line of fire through the door just yet. Stay to the side, stay low. Keep your arm up, cover your head and your ribs.

[Murometz]

Head and ribs covered, Frank's eyes peer inside. Empty. Bathroom door closed.

Quiet.

Can hear Cutter breathing.

One door left. One room.