Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

Time to move to a better position.

She looked over her shoulder, to the far side of the store, where another window was positioned. She nudged the barrel of her MP5 above the counter surface, rising to a knee to get a decent view through the optical sight. The register and other clutter on the counter broke up her profile just enough that she was able to get off two shots before being spotted. They were fired in haste, and missed, but had the desired effect of forcing the gunman to duck behind the first pillar at the arcade entrance.

She dashed across the store, zig-zagging between the assorted displays, shelving units, and clothing racks. Her shoes crunched on fragments of broken glass scattered across the floor. She didn’t slow as she neared the far wall and launched herself through the window, tucking her head and driving her shoulder through first. Her velocity cleared her body of the frame, avoiding the largest of the falling dagger-like shards.

Her shoulder and back took the brunt of the impact as she rolled to a stop. The sting of skin abrading from her face where her cheek kissed the rough pavement momentarily overrode the ache in her shoulder. She brought her weapon up, aiming toward the boat dock, but there was no one in sight.

Although her tactical position was not ideal, at least she had room to move. Behind her, the courtyard extended to the slope rising up to the parade ground—to the right was the vertical edge of the pavement and the cold water of the bay. She stole a glance around the corner of the store.

The rapid flicker of motion caught her eye. The gunman was repeatedly poking his head past the restrooms. A bad tactic. His brief views limited his brain to capturing only a small portion of the field of view. Even worse, his rapid movements, somewhat akin to a woodpecker’s bobbing head, was like waving a flag, announcing his presence.

She slowly pulled back from the corner to avoid sticking the MP5 barrel forward of the wall. She didn’t have to wait long before the terrorist darted from his hiding spot. He was on a direct line for the portico where it joined to the gift shop. She tracked him, holding the red dot sight on the leading edge of his body until he was less than thirty yards away.

The first shot sent the gunman tumbling forward. His submachine gun slipped from his grip as he piled up just short of the arcade. When he reached for a holstered pistol, she fired twice more, ending his resistance.

The other tango responded with a full-auto burst in a vain attempt to save his partner. The first several rounds embedded in the corner of the store before the recoil raised the muzzle of his gun, sending the remaining shots harmless into the air. Then the gunfire ceased.

She gambled that the magazine was empty, judging that it would take a couple seconds for him to reload. She stepped into the open to have a clear angle of fire, and caught the man fumbling to get a fresh magazine inserted into his weapon.

“Drop it,” she shouted, her ears ringing from the gunfire.

With her gun aimed at the terrorist, she closed the gap one step at a time, her gaze glued to the target.

The gunman glared back at her. He finished inserting the magazine and moved his hand to the charging handle.

“Don’t do it. You can’t cycle the bolt and raise your weapon fast enough. You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger.”

As she issued the warning, his lips retracted, exposing his teeth, yellowed from years of tobacco. Above his pockmarked cheeks, his eyes were narrowed with an intensity she had seen in other men when she worked for Mossad. Men whose misplaced hatred allowed them to be manipulated and twisted into mindless instruments of death. A certain part of her felt sorrow for them. To live their lives as they did, devoid of joy and love, was merely an existence, not a worthy or rewarding life.

As her heartbeat pounded loud in her ears, and time seemed to slow such that seconds were like minutes, she wondered about the man before her. What set him on this path of destruction? Is he a victim of another’s evil influences, or is his hatred the product of generations of racial mistreatment?

The thoughts passed with another heartbeat, and she watched his hand retract the charging handle. As the bolt sprang forward, it shoved a 9mm round into the chamber. The gun was loaded and ready to fire.

“Just put it down. You don’t have to die here.”

The barrel began to rise, and it appeared to Danya as if everything was playing out in extreme slow motion.

“Don’t!” she shouted, even though he was only yards away.

The muzzle continued to rise. He was going to kill her.

Boom!

The shot startled Danya. Her subconscious reflexes responded to training that had become part of her instinctive behavior.

The gunman’s MP5 lowered a little as his nervous system responded to the shock of the bullet driving through the side of his chest. He appeared unsteady and took a half-step backwards, then seemed to channel his energy on raising his weapon. She fired again. The round blew out his heart and exited through his spine.

His body collapsed into a lifeless pile of flesh.

Such a waste.

Precious minutes had been lost in the firefight with the two gunmen, and the Eurocopter had a significant head start on her. Not that she had a clear plan of how to pursue them. Or to where.

First priority, though, was to get help. She approached the dead man and kicked away his gun. Placed a finger beside his neck—no pulse, as she expected. His radio was still clipped to his belt, and she removed it and turned up the volume. Just static. She listened for several seconds, expecting someone to check-in now that the gun battle