of the door, allowing the men to stand upright. Mason credited the height differential with making his approach even possible. It put the men’s eyes at a different elevation than the incoming tunnel, allowing him to essentially sneak in at knee level.
The tunnel suddenly fell into complete darkness, and Mason instinctively lowered his head to the concrete floor. Not that that would have done much good. If a flashlight or night vision optics turned in his direction, the game would be up.
He waited, lying perfectly still.
Voices sounded, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Something metal clattered against the concrete floor.
Had they gotten the door open? Not with a cutting torch, they hadn’t. But something had broken free. That’s when it hit him. They were in an air shaft, and air shafts had vents. The soldiers had found a way in.
Mason reached for his flashlight. As soon as he had it in hand, he raised his head and pressed the flashlight against the stock of his M4. He had only one choice left.
He had to fight.
He clicked the flashlight on and fired a three-round burst where he had last seen one of the soldiers. The noise was deafening, like a garbage can being hit by hammers. He shifted right and fired another burst. Then back to the left. Then to the right. Two of the soldiers dropped to their knees, pushing their weapons out in front of them as they fell.
Mason continued to fire, now targeting their torsos. Three rounds toward one. Three toward the other. There was no aiming, just point and squeeze. Bullets ricocheted off the steel door, veering up into the concrete wall and then back toward the other wall. The way the concrete tunnel opened up into a taller shaft had created the perfect kill box. Back and forth the bullets went until their energy was either expended or they had found something soft to sink into.
He continued firing until the weapon ran dry. Thirty rounds downrange. He dropped the spent magazine, shoved in the spare, and released the bolt. Nothing at the end of the tunnel fired back at him—a good sign to be sure. He swept the flashlight over the area, but the light reflected off the thick cloud of smoke from the burnt gunpowder.
Rising to a crouch, he shuffled down the last forty yards of the tunnel. When he entered the opening, he found two soldiers lying dead. Both had been hit with at least a half-dozen 5.56 mm rounds. There was also a hubcap-sized fan leaning against the wall.
He brought his light up. Three identical air vents, each roughly a foot and a half in diameter, were positioned above the door. The fan had been pulled from the right-most vent, leaving a narrow cylindrical hole through the thick concrete wall. Mason checked the floor again for the missing soldier, refusing to believe that he could have fit through the hole. But each time he looked, he came up with the same answer. There were three rifles, and only two bodies. And that could only mean one thing.
A Black Dog had managed to get inside.
Chapter 8
As luck would have it, Canal Road not only intersected M Street, it actually became M Street. A four-lane roundabout brought Highway 29, Canal Road, and M Street together into one giant intersection. It was only as Tanner and Samantha passed Dixie Liquors, did they realize they had actually walked on M Street the night before.
The Francis Scott Key Memorial sat directly across the street. Canopies of interwoven branches topped concrete pillars to cast a refreshing shade across several reading benches. No doubt it would have been a comfortable place to sit and rest. But neither Samantha nor Tanner suggested they stop. Every distraction, no matter how small, seemed to bring new threats and delays. Both had accepted that it was better to get on with the task at hand. Besides, their hike had only just begun, and they were quickly becoming accustomed to walking several miles at a stretch.
M Street wasn’t quite a shopper’s Mecca, but it did
The tunnel suddenly fell into complete darkness, and Mason instinctively lowered his head to the concrete floor. Not that that would have done much good. If a flashlight or night vision optics turned in his direction, the game would be up.
He waited, lying perfectly still.
Voices sounded, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Something metal clattered against the concrete floor.
Had they gotten the door open? Not with a cutting torch, they hadn’t. But something had broken free. That’s when it hit him. They were in an air shaft, and air shafts had vents. The soldiers had found a way in.
Mason reached for his flashlight. As soon as he had it in hand, he raised his head and pressed the flashlight against the stock of his M4. He had only one choice left.
He had to fight.
He clicked the flashlight on and fired a three-round burst where he had last seen one of the soldiers. The noise was deafening, like a garbage can being hit by hammers. He shifted right and fired another burst. Then back to the left. Then to the right. Two of the soldiers dropped to their knees, pushing their weapons out in front of them as they fell.
Mason continued to fire, now targeting their torsos. Three rounds toward one. Three toward the other. There was no aiming, just point and squeeze. Bullets ricocheted off the steel door, veering up into the concrete wall and then back toward the other wall. The way the concrete tunnel opened up into a taller shaft had created the perfect kill box. Back and forth the bullets went until their energy was either expended or they had found something soft to sink into.
He continued firing until the weapon ran dry. Thirty rounds downrange. He dropped the spent magazine, shoved in the spare, and released the bolt. Nothing at the end of the tunnel fired back at him—a good sign to be sure. He swept the flashlight over the area, but the light reflected off the thick cloud of smoke from the burnt gunpowder.
Rising to a crouch, he shuffled down the last forty yards of the tunnel. When he entered the opening, he found two soldiers lying dead. Both had been hit with at least a half-dozen 5.56 mm rounds. There was also a hubcap-sized fan leaning against the wall.
He brought his light up. Three identical air vents, each roughly a foot and a half in diameter, were positioned above the door. The fan had been pulled from the right-most vent, leaving a narrow cylindrical hole through the thick concrete wall. Mason checked the floor again for the missing soldier, refusing to believe that he could have fit through the hole. But each time he looked, he came up with the same answer. There were three rifles, and only two bodies. And that could only mean one thing.
A Black Dog had managed to get inside.
Chapter 8
As luck would have it, Canal Road not only intersected M Street, it actually became M Street. A four-lane roundabout brought Highway 29, Canal Road, and M Street together into one giant intersection. It was only as Tanner and Samantha passed Dixie Liquors, did they realize they had actually walked on M Street the night before.
The Francis Scott Key Memorial sat directly across the street. Canopies of interwoven branches topped concrete pillars to cast a refreshing shade across several reading benches. No doubt it would have been a comfortable place to sit and rest. But neither Samantha nor Tanner suggested they stop. Every distraction, no matter how small, seemed to bring new threats and delays. Both had accepted that it was better to get on with the task at hand. Besides, their hike had only just begun, and they were quickly becoming accustomed to walking several miles at a stretch.
M Street wasn’t quite a shopper’s Mecca, but it did
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