Blaze of Glory (37 page)

At the door he took hold of the knob and, to his surprise, turned it. He stepped into the lobby.

MOYER TURNED AT THE sound of Jose trotting down the steps. “What we got, Boss?”

“The woman is conscious, but the man is out. I’ve tried to revive him, but he seems too far under. See what you can do, Doc.”

“He’s not . . .” Jose trailed off as he looked at the woman.

“I got a pulse.”

“Here,” Jose handed a key to Moyer. “Found it on the guy in the doorway.”

Moyer took the brass colored key and unlocked the cuff on the woman’s wrist. She rubbed the raw skin beneath. He did the same for the man as Jose examined him. Jose asked the woman, “When was the last time you had water?”

“Two, maybe three days.”

Jose nodded. “He’s dehydrated. His pulse is weak and thready. I need to give him an IV.”

“We don’t have time for that, Doc. Any other ideas?”

Jose shook his head. “My field bag doesn’t carry stimulants. I’ve got stuff to dull pain; not sharpen senses.”

“So we carry him or leave him behind.”

“You can’t leave him!” the woman said.

Jose said, “I’ll be right back.” Moyer watched him race up the steps. A few moment’s later he reappeared with a deep, white plastic tray.

“What’s that?” Moyer asked.

“Ice. I need your help, Boss.” Jose handed plastic bags to Moyer. “Fill these with ice.”

Moyer did and handed the first bag to Jose, who had just finished unbuckling the man’s belt. “Give me two more.” He took the first bag and shoved it down the front of the man’s pants.

“That doesn’t look very medical, Doc.”

“My dad was a paramedic. He told me they used to do this to drug overdoses. Kept them from slipping into comas.”

“And your dad said it worked?”

“He said it did. Give me the other bag.” Jose pulled open the man’s shirt and placed the ice bag under his right arm. When Moyer handed him the third bag, he placed it under the left arm.

“That’s gotta be uncomfortable,” Moyer said.

“That’s the idea.” He reached into his med bag and removed two chemical ice packs and activated both, placing one under the man’s neck and one on his belly. A moment later he moaned and tried to push the pack off his stomach. “Bingo.”

Rich’s voice slipped from Moyer’s earpiece. “Party crashers, Boss. I count ten.”

“Understood. On my way.” He paused. “Um, Doc.”

“Just a sec, Boss.” Jose turned to the woman. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Everyone calls me Char. It’s easier to pronounce.”

“Come here, Char.”

She wobbled to him.

“I have to go help my pals. I want you to stay down here and try to revive your husband. Don’t be afraid to get a little rough. Once he comes to, you can remove the ice packs; just don’t let him go under again.”

“I may not be able to stop it.”

“You have to try. Clear?”

“Yes. You won’t leave us, will you?”

Jose looked at Moyer, who shook his head. “No, ma’am. We came a long way to get you and the others. When we go, you go.”

“The others are dead,” she whispered.

Moyer nodded. “We know.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s go, Doc.”

ZINSSER BIT HIS TONGUE—ON purpose. He tasted blood. Still it was better than listening to voices in his head. He stood at the window where the skinny man had fired on his team a short time ago. Rich stood at the other window.

J. J. walked into the worship center. “We sealed the front doors again. It’s not much of a lock. A couple of swift kicks and they’re in.”

“There is no way they’re getting close to the door—”

A roar of gunfire erupted, and plaster from the walls flew like shrapnel. Zinsser and the others hit the floor.

“What the—” Shaq began.

“That sounded like my old M249 SAW.” J. J. grimaced. “If it is, we’re in big trouble.”

The Squad Automatic Weapon could fire a thousand rounds a minute and, since it was fed by an ammo belt, could fire a long time without reloading.

Another barrage of bullets chewed through the wall.

“I was wrong,” J. J. said. “It sounds like
two
M249s.”

“Ever our ray of sunshine, aren’t you, Colt?”

“Just trying to be helpful, Shaq.”

Zinsser lifted his head to see Moyer crawling along the floor. “I can’t leave you guys alone for a minute. Junior, get a message off and report our situation.”

Pete pulled a satellite phone from the pocket on his vest.

“Where’s Doc?” Rich asked.

“He’s taken a position in the dining room. It has windows facing the courtyard, too.”

Again a volley of bullets ground away at the wall and wooden shutters. “I don’t think the mission was built for a full-on attack,” Zinsser said. “Rounds are cutting through the stucco and plaster like they’re paper.”

“Ya think?”

Zinsser ignored Shaq’s sarcasm and rolled on his back, removed the digital periscope from his vest, turned it on, and extended the gooseneck camera over the sill.

“See anything?”

“Not much. Too dark. I see the vans and some movement along the wall around the courtyard. I can’t make out details.”

“Okay, we’re about equal in number, but they have superior fire power,” Moyer said.

“Let’s hope they don’t have RPGs or worse,” Shaq said.

“Now who’s a ray of sunshine?” J. J. gave a grim smile.

The sound of muffled M-4 fire rolled through the lobby and into the sanctuary. Zinsser could hear the
clink-clink-clink
of spent shells landing on the wooden floor. Another round of machine gun fire hit the church. This time the gunners fired on Doc’s location.

Zinsser was on his feet, his weapon pointed out the window. If they were shooting at the other side of the church, then they must not be aiming at this side. Zinsser released burst after burst. Rich must have had the same idea. He lay down a stream of bullets. Both ducked a second. They heard a man—maybe two—screaming in the distance.

“Loading,” Zinsser said as he ejected his spent clip and inserted another.

“Junior,” Moyer ordered, “go help Doc. Keep your head down.”

Pete crawled along the floor.

“Think we took out the SAW?” As Rich spoke, scores of high-impact bullets hit the wall again. “Never mind.”

“We can’t get the extraction team in with those guys out there,” Moyer said.

“Who has the flash-bangs?” Zinsser glanced at the others.

Moyer shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re too far away and the sound won’t work that well outside.”

“I’m not thinking of the bang, Boss; I’m thinking of the flash.”

“They’re still too far.”

“I can hit them from the roof, and if I can’t, at least I’ll have a better angle of attack.”

Zinsser watched Moyer mull it over. “How are you going to get on the roof?”

“I’ll need a boost.”

Shaq looked at Moyer. “I’ll do it. I can probably just toss him onto the roof.”

Moyer nodded. “All right. When you’re ready, we’ll lay down cover fire.”

Shaq turned to Zinsser. “Where?”

“The priest’s bedroom had a window on the back wall.”

“Lead on, Data.”

THE MANSION SEEMED EMPTY except for a distant voice down a wide, plaster hall with a tile floor. The driver walked softly and slowly to a room with a partially open door. He could hear voices. One sounded mechanical.

“Two dead, but we have them pinned down. We have men watching the back.”

“Stay on them. I want to hear that every one of them is dead.”

The voice was familiar.

Things were working out.

“NOT MUCH OF A window,” Shaq said.

Zinsser looked at the window, at Rich, then back at the window. “Think you can make it, big guy?”

“I have to. Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

Zinsser moved close to the double-hung window and peeked outside. He saw no movement, just the darkness resisting the dawn. “We still have plenty of darkness, but we’ll have to do this quickly. I’ll go first so I can lay down cover if necessary.”

“I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten. Who’s the assistant team leader? You or me?”

“That’d be you, Shaq. I meant it as a suggestion. How do you want to do this?”

Rich looked at the window. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going through first and set up to lay down cover for me since it will take me a few moments longer.”

“Genius.”

The sound of bullets striking the front of the mission drove both men to the floor. The walls, plaster, and lathe prevented rounds from the small gunfire from coming into the room. The large machine gun was another matter.

Zinsser stepped to the window, took another look around, then removed his battle knife.

“What ya doin’?”

“Making your life easier.” Zinsser drove the blade of the knife into the wooden sash that held the lower sliding portion of the window and pried it away and returned his knife. He lifted the lower pane a couple of inches, slipped his fingers through the opening, clamped his hands on the frame, placed a foot on the wall, and yanked. The whole unit came loose. Zinsser tossed it to the side. “Do you think I’ll burn in hell for damaging a church?”

“Probably, but you’ll have to ask J. J.”

Zinsser reached for his knife again.

“Step back, Data. I have a different approach.” Rich raised his weapon, waited for the next round of gunfire, then smashed the butt of the M-4 into the upper glass pane. He cleared out the glass, seized the wooden frame, and pulled it from the wall as if it were held in place with tacks.

“Man, remind me never to make you angry.”

“Too late, pal. If we live through this, I’ll have a few things to say to you.”

“Can’t wait.” Zinsser scanned the area again, fearful that they had made too much noise, but he was pretty sure the constant give and take of gunfire made that impossible. He slipped his weapon through the window, put his hands on the sill. “Give me a boost—”

Zinsser landed outside before he could finish the sentence. He vaguely recalled something grabbing his vest and belt. The next thing he knew, he had a mouthful of dirt.
Cute.
He sprang to his feet and retrieved his weapon.

The area was clear. Something dropped at his feet: Shaq’s vest.

“Go,” Zinsser whispered. He turned to see Rich trying to work his way through the window. The hot popping of automatic weapons filled the air. Zinsser seized the back of Rich’s uniform and pulled for all he was worth. The big man landed hard, and Zinsser knew if they weren’t moving as covertly as possible, Shaq would have filled the air with enough curses to make birds drop dead from the sky.