When they refused, he tried threatening instead, and when that hadn’t worked, ground troops had been sent in. The post office people repelled the attack, costing Emer valuable bodies. Fuel and ammo expenditure ceased to matter as rage instantly replaced reason, and so today, after taking two days to regroup, the biker had come back in force. Never one to shy away from extremes, Little Emer had brought along Baby. He didn’t use it often, and its commander frequently complained of maintenance difficulties, of using up heavy ammunition that couldn’t be replaced. But Little Emer got what he wanted, and he now wished he had simply skipped negotiations with the post office people and used Baby first.
From farther up the street came the harsh rumble of a big diesel engine coming to life. Baby came into view a moment later, emerging from a side street and racing up the avenue, closing fast on the post office.
Olive and tan, still bearing its National Guard markings, the M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicle was twenty-seven tons of steel capable of moving at forty miles per hour. As it drew near, bullets fired from inside the building began sparking off its aluminum armor. Designed to transport infantry across a hostile battlefield, while providing fire to suppress enemy troops and armored vehicles, the M2 was an older design, this particular unit manufactured in 1986. Its age had meant it went to a Guard unit, but there was nothing mechanically wrong with the vehicle.
The twenty-five-millimeter chain gun in its turret could fire two hundred rounds per minute and was capable of shredding both light and medium-armored vehicles. The concrete front of Chico’s post office was no match for its firepower.
A rapid, metallic thudding sound split the air as a torrent of white fire spat from the main barrel, spitting a mixture of armor-piercing and high-explosive incendiary rounds. The front of the post office, its solid front doors and high, barred windows, disintegrated in a cloud of flying metal and concrete dust.
“I
love
that bitch,” Braga yelled from behind the garbage truck, covering his ears with his hands.
Still firing, the M2 pivoted in the street, its tracks chewing into the asphalt. The thudding sound continued as the vehicle rumbled closer to its target. At close range, the auto-cannon tore the front off the building, and most of the roof collapsed in on the interior. Then the twenty-five-millimeter stopped, and the 7.62-millimeter machine gun built into the turret beside the main gun chattered to life, sweeping back and forth across the structure as the Bradley’s turret swung left, right, and left again.
Little Emer permitted the assault to go on for a full minute before calling, “Cease fire,” through the walkie-talkie. The firing stopped at once, leaving echoes rolling down Vallombrosa before being replaced by silence. What had been the post office was now a ruined shell, something from news coverage during the war in Bosnia. Baby grumbled in the street outside.
“Let’s go,” said the biker leader, and moments later five Harleys, followed by a pair of pickup trucks filled with armed men and women, rolled up the avenue to stop in front of the crumbled structure. Briggs’s people leaped from the trucks and entered the building.
“Any bets on survivors?” Little Emer asked, arms folded.
On the bike beside him, Braga shook his head. “I’d say no, after all that, but you’ve been lucky. No bet, man.”
Briggs chuckled.
The bikers sat astride their rides while the others secured the ruins. There were five of them, including Stark, who had once planned to be a professional wrestler before choosing this life, and an older man named Reed Cornish, whom everyone called Red Hen. They wore Skinners jackets like their brethren. Titan lit a joint and passed it around.
The shooters who had gone inside emerged with five corpses: two cops, a man in camouflage, and two women. The bodies were quickly gagged
From farther up the street came the harsh rumble of a big diesel engine coming to life. Baby came into view a moment later, emerging from a side street and racing up the avenue, closing fast on the post office.
Olive and tan, still bearing its National Guard markings, the M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicle was twenty-seven tons of steel capable of moving at forty miles per hour. As it drew near, bullets fired from inside the building began sparking off its aluminum armor. Designed to transport infantry across a hostile battlefield, while providing fire to suppress enemy troops and armored vehicles, the M2 was an older design, this particular unit manufactured in 1986. Its age had meant it went to a Guard unit, but there was nothing mechanically wrong with the vehicle.
The twenty-five-millimeter chain gun in its turret could fire two hundred rounds per minute and was capable of shredding both light and medium-armored vehicles. The concrete front of Chico’s post office was no match for its firepower.
A rapid, metallic thudding sound split the air as a torrent of white fire spat from the main barrel, spitting a mixture of armor-piercing and high-explosive incendiary rounds. The front of the post office, its solid front doors and high, barred windows, disintegrated in a cloud of flying metal and concrete dust.
“I
love
that bitch,” Braga yelled from behind the garbage truck, covering his ears with his hands.
Still firing, the M2 pivoted in the street, its tracks chewing into the asphalt. The thudding sound continued as the vehicle rumbled closer to its target. At close range, the auto-cannon tore the front off the building, and most of the roof collapsed in on the interior. Then the twenty-five-millimeter stopped, and the 7.62-millimeter machine gun built into the turret beside the main gun chattered to life, sweeping back and forth across the structure as the Bradley’s turret swung left, right, and left again.
Little Emer permitted the assault to go on for a full minute before calling, “Cease fire,” through the walkie-talkie. The firing stopped at once, leaving echoes rolling down Vallombrosa before being replaced by silence. What had been the post office was now a ruined shell, something from news coverage during the war in Bosnia. Baby grumbled in the street outside.
“Let’s go,” said the biker leader, and moments later five Harleys, followed by a pair of pickup trucks filled with armed men and women, rolled up the avenue to stop in front of the crumbled structure. Briggs’s people leaped from the trucks and entered the building.
“Any bets on survivors?” Little Emer asked, arms folded.
On the bike beside him, Braga shook his head. “I’d say no, after all that, but you’ve been lucky. No bet, man.”
Briggs chuckled.
The bikers sat astride their rides while the others secured the ruins. There were five of them, including Stark, who had once planned to be a professional wrestler before choosing this life, and an older man named Reed Cornish, whom everyone called Red Hen. They wore Skinners jackets like their brethren. Titan lit a joint and passed it around.
The shooters who had gone inside emerged with five corpses: two cops, a man in camouflage, and two women. The bodies were quickly gagged
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