Firepower, John Cutter [best summer reads .txt] 📗

deep breaths, then yelled, “Don’t shoot, it’s me, Andy Kayson, I’m coming out!” He stepped out into the hallway — and looked to his left. “Wynn, don’t shoot! I’m a prisoner!”

Vince stepped to the left side of the door and leaned over just enough to look right. He saw no one down that way. The stairs to the basement were down there, though.

“Andy, goddamnit, get outta the way!” Wynn Foster’s voice.

“I can’t — I gotta do what he says!”

“Good thinking,” Vince said, transferring the shotgun to his left hand. He drew the Desert Eagle with his right, and then stepped out behind Kayson, firing past him with both weapons, the shotgun braced against his left hip, the pistol in his right hand. About forty feet away, Wynn Foster, assault rifle in hand, spun around and fell, his waist on the right side torn off by the shotgun blast as Vince fired three times at the three men behind Foster. The Brethren were wearing armored vests, so Vince aimed at their groins. Their combined screaming was ugly to hear as the big .50 rounds tore through their manhood and the base of their spines.

Andy Kayson shrieked in terror and ran out the open front door, which was partway between Vince and the men he’d killed —and Kayson was met by a hail of automatic weapons fire as the trigger-nervous Brethren out front reacted.

“Shit, that was one of ours,” someone said hollowly.

Vince was already running to the right and through the open door to the separate stairway leading to the basement. He paused at the top, saw no one immediately below. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, reloaded the Desert Eagle and then began to descend the stairs…

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I’m gonna take you outta here and use your ass for bait!” That was Dale French’s voice, coming from the basement corridor. “We got trouble upstairs and you’re going to help!”

Vince stepped into the corridor and saw French about thirty-five feet off, standing by the open door to a cell.

Hanging from the door by her wrists — which were tied behind her — was Agent Deirdre Corlin, her face contorted in pain. French had his right hand on the doorknob, his left holding the keys he’d used to open it. He pocketed the keys and reached out to grab hold of her hair.

“You’d better kill me now or you’ll be fucking sorry,” she said between clenched teeth.

“That right?” French laughed. “I think there’s time to teach you a lesson…”

Vince said, “Hello, French.”

French looked up, startled, let go of the doorknob, put his hand on his holstered Glock.

Deirdre saw Vince and her eyes got big. “Kill him, Vince! Do it!”

“Glad to oblige a friend,” Vince said, as French pulled his weapon.

Vince already had a bead on French’s center-mass. He fired, and French was knocked off his feet by the force of the .50, skidding on his back, yelling in pain.

French struggled to a sitting position, raised the Glock, and Vince fired again, taking off the top of French’s head from the bridge of his nose on up.

French’s body flopped back and the Glock clacked on the floor.

Vince holstered the Desert Eagle, ran to Deirdre, unsheathing his knife. He cut the rope, catching Deirdre in the crook of his left arm to lower her to the floor, and then he cut the knot around her wrists. She groaned as he cut through the plastic ties.

“Oh god,” she said, tears of relief flowing as she put her hands in front of her. “That hurts too… but what a relief… But… ow.” She leaned over, rocking in place from the pain. “Oh fuck.”

“Are your arms dislocated?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.” She grimaced, moving her shoulders around. “Some swelling. I think I can use them.”

“I brought you a gun, if you can hold it.”

“I’d love a gun, thank you very much. I can deal with it.”

“Let me lift you up, till we know for sure about your shoulders…” He gripped her just under her ribcage and lifted her to her feet, then stepped back from her.

“Oh… hurts like a bitch.” She shifted her shoulders again. “They seem in place — but so fucking sore.”

He held out the Glock, butt first. “You sure you can handle that right now?”

“Yes…” She took the handgun and hefted it. “Oh yes indeed.”

“Who’s out there?” shouted a voice from the other cell.

Vince stepped over to the other cell door. Bobby Destry looked through the barred window at Vince. “Vince Bellator?”

“That’s right. Hold on, I’ll get you out of there.”

“Bellator!” someone shouted from up the top of the stairs. “You come out with your hands up, we’ll take you into custody alive!”

It was Gustafson’s voice, remote, hard to hear. He was shouting from near the front door.

“I’ll think about it!” Vince shouted. “Give me five minutes!”

Vince went to French’s body, muttering, “Robbing a lot of corpses today…” as he took the keys from the dead man’s pants pocket.

He returned to Bobby’s cell, unlocked it, and the young man stepped out. “Oh shit, dude! Is this a dream?”

“Nope,” Vince said, clapping him on the shoulder. “More of a real messy reality.” He grinned at Bobby. “Your mom sent me!”

“That’s embarrassing!” Bobby laughed. “But I’m gonna kiss her, first thing when I see her.”

“First things first. You willing to shoot any of your ex compadres if you have to?”

“If I have to. Except Shaun. I don’t think I could shoot him.” He looked past Vince at the bloody remains of French. “Um — Shaun’s still alive…isn’t he?”

“Last I saw of him.” Vince turned to Deirdre who was rubbing her shoulders with her hands. “You okay to move out?”

“More than ready.” She looked at Bobby. “Good to see you in person.”