Ballistic(111)

Matthew Hanley flipped off the overhead light, shrouding the room in near complete darkness. The only faint light now was a dim glow from the stairwell. He then pulled a submachine gun from the neck of one of the dead federales, kneeling on the floor below Gentry to do so. He turned low in a crouch, pulled the charging handle back on the weapon, and aimed it at the stairs.

“How many?” he asked. He was all business, intense concentration preparing for the threat to come.

Gentry was barely conscious. That last jolt of electricity, administered by Hanley himself, had almost killed him. Still, he muttered a guess. “Don’t know. A couple of federal cops, maybe more.”

“Okay.”

Several sets of footsteps on the stairs, running down.

Hanley waited.

Court hung from his bindings, a spectator; he felt completely exposed.

Federal police in black appeared in the dim of the stairwell; Matt Hanley fired bursts into their legs to drop them, then more bursts into their faces and necks, hitting them above their body armor. Two men, three men down now. A fourth man took a round to the throat and stumbled on through the doorway before toppling in the middle of the room; his rifle flew from his hands and clanked across the concrete.

It bounced into the lap of Jerry Pfleger. When the embassy clerk recognized what it was, his eyes opened even wider, and he pushed the weapon off of him like it was a live rattlesnake. It landed at his feet, and he kicked it away frantically, his arms raised high.

He didn’t want anything to do with that rifle; he made it abundantly clear. He was not going to fight back. He did not want to give Hanley any reason to shoot him.

Hanley grabbed the new weapon and stepped into the stairwell. He neither heard nor saw anyone else.

As he returned to the torture chamber, he flicked the overhead light back on and the Little Butcher grunted. He held his bloody stomach with his fist, looked up at the armed American with eyes of fear and confusion.

“You need him for anything?” Hanley asked Gentry, motioning to the fat torturer with the muzzle of the MP5.

Gentry shook his head. “Nope.”

Without hesitation Hanley shot the man three more times in the chest, and his groans stopped.

After several seconds of quiet, Court said, “Thanks, Matt.”

Hanley reloaded the weapon with a fresh magazine taken off the chest of one of the dead federales. As he manipulated the magazine release to recharge the weapon he said, “Fuck you, Violator. I don’t like you much more than these assholes.”

“Okay.”

Hanley then began unscrewing the restraints on Gentry’s wrists. “Glad to see you didn’t bite your tongue off. I was worried you’d forgotten your Russian.”

“You told me to shut my mouth tight and to grab the men by the throat.”

“Neck, actually, but close enough.”

Hanley got both arm shackles removed then unfastened the ankle bindings. Court staggered forward, went down on one knee, and then sat on the cold concrete floor. His muscles hurt and spasmed uncontrollably. His right leg shook so badly he held it to the floor with his hands to quell the movement.

Matt had already begun stripping the boots and pants off of one of the dead federal police. He stopped what he was doing to reach for the Bersa .380 he’d taken from the Little Butcher’s protégé, and he slid the weapon across the floor to Court.

Hanley nodded towards Jerry Pfleger, still sitting in the corner, now shaking with fear.

“I left that dumbass for you. You can kill him if you want. I really don’t care.”

“No. I need him.”

Pfleger nodded forcefully; his eyes wide with newfound hope. “That’s right! That’s right, buddy! You need me!”

“I don’t need you to dance.”

“To dance? What do you—”

Court took the pistol proffered by his ex-boss, shot Jerry Pfleger in the top of his left foot, a round hole with a tattered edge of sock and leather appeared on his brown loafer.

The young man stared at his bloody shoe for several seconds before screaming.

Hanley winced with the shouting and screaming, and he tossed a pair of black tactical pants to Gentry.

“Did you have to do that?”

Court continued to gasp; he lay back flat on the cold floor for a moment to rest from his torture. Matter-of-factly, he said, “I don’t want him running away. I really don’t feel like chasing after him right now.”

Jerry screamed, spit, and snot and vile curses ejected from him like water from a fire hose. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, you crazy sick mother—”

Gentry crawled on his hands and knees over to the wounded man in the corner; the stainless automatic clicked on the concrete in the process. He sat back down, pressed the muzzle of the weapon onto the top of Pfleger’s right hand, pinning the hand to the concrete. “Don’t guess I need you to type, either.”