a darkened doorway, initially believing some of the major’s troopers had retreated to this area of the building. He heard a voice, a man directing, “Go! Go! Go! Come on! Get moving!”
Bishop stuck his head through the opening, thinking some of the soldiers were inside. He examined what appeared to be a heavy equipment room, rusted pipes, valves, and tanks littering the area. It took a moment before he realized that there were too many warriors to be the major’s men. Another moment passed before he recognized Red, the man he’d taken down at the roadblock.
Now what the hell is he doing here? the Texan’s mind scrambled to answer. How did he get in… inside? His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He spotted the tunnel, men pouring out of the opening.
Bishop’s rifle came to his shoulder in a flash, his finger tightening on the trigger as the tiny red dot of his optic found the lead man’s chest.
Over and over again, he fired, his weapon hammering a cadence of devastating bullets into the invaders. Center. Pull. Center. Pull.
Bodies were flying, diving, and scampering everywhere, screams and shouts of warning filling the confined space. Curses were lost in the roar of Bishop’s carbine, the yelps and howls of the wounded lost in the chaos. As he swept the room, it occurred to Bishop that invaders were still streaming out of the opening. Pivoting on his heel, the narrow doorway appeared behind the red dot of his optic.
His first two rounds struck center mass of a man on the top step, the kinetic energy and shock pushing the already dead man backwards into the line of his fellows, knocking another back into his peers like a string of falling dominoes. For a few moments, no one in the tunnel seemed eager to ascend the stairs.
Repeatedly Bishop fired into the opening, the familiar nudge of the M4 against his shoulder comforting in the confused mayhem of the fight. He worked his aim downward, waist high, spraying right and left.
The men in the tunnel suffered badly. Traveling at over 2800 feet per second, the 68-grain hollow points spit out of the M4’s muzzle slashing organs and smashing bone. Even the shots that initially missed human flesh generated havoc, the whistling lead bouncing off the concrete walls and slamming into the men further back in line.
With the tunnel-exit holding the Texan’s focus, the survivors of Bishop’s initial sweep recognized an opening. One brave soul rose from behind his cover, centering his sights on Bishop’s chest. He started pulling on the trigger.
Bishop sensed the movement, desperately commanding his body to get low. Something slammed into the Texan’s left side as he hit the floor, the sledgehammer-like blow sending streaks of pain circling his rib cage. He rolled left, snapped three shots, and then rolled again. A shriek of misery told him he’d found the shooter.
From the tunnel came more sounds of suffering mixed with curses of frustration. Bishop imagined the men down there, trying to push the dead and wounded out of their way so they could join the fight… so they could seek revenge.
His discovery had taken the intruders by surprise, but they were recovering quickly. Bishop saw the white flashes of muzzle blasts and knew he couldn’t stay where he was. He crawled backwards, making for the door, his rifle maintaining a steady, rhythmic bark, covering the retreat.
Once in the hall, Bishop tried to stand. His left side was throbbing, breathing difficult. He was sure he ’d taken a round to the chest. Time to get back to his own people and warn them of the breach. Time to get some help.
He kept the tunnel-room to his front, stepping backwards and retracing his original route. The attackers were becoming more aggressive, the occasional pursuing head appearing, always followed by three or four hastily aimed shots flying in Bishop’s direction. The volume and rate of the harassing fire was increasing every second.
He knew he wasn’t going to contain the
Bishop stuck his head through the opening, thinking some of the soldiers were inside. He examined what appeared to be a heavy equipment room, rusted pipes, valves, and tanks littering the area. It took a moment before he realized that there were too many warriors to be the major’s men. Another moment passed before he recognized Red, the man he’d taken down at the roadblock.
Now what the hell is he doing here? the Texan’s mind scrambled to answer. How did he get in… inside? His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He spotted the tunnel, men pouring out of the opening.
Bishop’s rifle came to his shoulder in a flash, his finger tightening on the trigger as the tiny red dot of his optic found the lead man’s chest.
Over and over again, he fired, his weapon hammering a cadence of devastating bullets into the invaders. Center. Pull. Center. Pull.
Bodies were flying, diving, and scampering everywhere, screams and shouts of warning filling the confined space. Curses were lost in the roar of Bishop’s carbine, the yelps and howls of the wounded lost in the chaos. As he swept the room, it occurred to Bishop that invaders were still streaming out of the opening. Pivoting on his heel, the narrow doorway appeared behind the red dot of his optic.
His first two rounds struck center mass of a man on the top step, the kinetic energy and shock pushing the already dead man backwards into the line of his fellows, knocking another back into his peers like a string of falling dominoes. For a few moments, no one in the tunnel seemed eager to ascend the stairs.
Repeatedly Bishop fired into the opening, the familiar nudge of the M4 against his shoulder comforting in the confused mayhem of the fight. He worked his aim downward, waist high, spraying right and left.
The men in the tunnel suffered badly. Traveling at over 2800 feet per second, the 68-grain hollow points spit out of the M4’s muzzle slashing organs and smashing bone. Even the shots that initially missed human flesh generated havoc, the whistling lead bouncing off the concrete walls and slamming into the men further back in line.
With the tunnel-exit holding the Texan’s focus, the survivors of Bishop’s initial sweep recognized an opening. One brave soul rose from behind his cover, centering his sights on Bishop’s chest. He started pulling on the trigger.
Bishop sensed the movement, desperately commanding his body to get low. Something slammed into the Texan’s left side as he hit the floor, the sledgehammer-like blow sending streaks of pain circling his rib cage. He rolled left, snapped three shots, and then rolled again. A shriek of misery told him he’d found the shooter.
From the tunnel came more sounds of suffering mixed with curses of frustration. Bishop imagined the men down there, trying to push the dead and wounded out of their way so they could join the fight… so they could seek revenge.
His discovery had taken the intruders by surprise, but they were recovering quickly. Bishop saw the white flashes of muzzle blasts and knew he couldn’t stay where he was. He crawled backwards, making for the door, his rifle maintaining a steady, rhythmic bark, covering the retreat.
Once in the hall, Bishop tried to stand. His left side was throbbing, breathing difficult. He was sure he ’d taken a round to the chest. Time to get back to his own people and warn them of the breach. Time to get some help.
He kept the tunnel-room to his front, stepping backwards and retracing his original route. The attackers were becoming more aggressive, the occasional pursuing head appearing, always followed by three or four hastily aimed shots flying in Bishop’s direction. The volume and rate of the harassing fire was increasing every second.
He knew he wasn’t going to contain the
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