incursion by himself. Bishop turned and ran.
Finally reaching the main section of the courthouse, Bishop was waving and racing toward his men. “They’re inside! They’re inside!” he screamed, “Get help.”
Confused by their leader’s words, Bishop’s squad didn’t react at first, hesitant to leave their secure hide. When Bishop slid past them, like a baseball player swiping second base, they were still confused. The hailstorm of bullets chasing the Texan’s flying frame made his warning horrifically clear.
The four of them rushed to his side, taking up positions and raising their weapons. They didn’t have to wait long for clear targets to appear.
A dozen men stormed the main rotunda, their weapons firing wildly as they spread out through the complex. Stunned at the appearance of so many enemy within the walls, it took the men from West Texas a few nanoseconds to react.
The interior of the courthouse erupted in complete bedlam. Bishop’s squad opened fire, rifles blazing into the attackers at pointblank range. Lead, smoke, and thunder filled the air. Men were screaming, warning, ordering, crying, and praying - but no one could hear them.
Some of the invaders surprised the soldiers stationed throughout the courthouse, others falling prey to the military’s weapons. It was a rolling, confused, fur ball of combat - enemy and friend on all sides.
Realizing surprise was no longer with them, more and more of Red’s people rushed forward to join the fray. Soon it was Bishop’s five against 20. Less than a minute later, it was 30, and they kept on coming.
Bishop sensed they were about to be overrun, his mind demanding his body seek cover from the blizzard of death flying all around him. Forcing the panic down, he began shouting for his men to retreat. “Go to the major,” he ordered at the top of his lungs. “Move to the front… get to the Army’s position!”
He chanced sticking his rifle around the corner, blindly squeezing off a dozen shots to give his men cover as they retreated. Chunks of exploding p laster and wood responded, nipping, stinging masses of debris tearing into his arms and hands.
Pushing aside the pain in his chest, Bishop gathered his strength and rose. He began a rearguard action, walking bac kwards half bent at the waist, his weapon sweeping the doorway, waiting for a target to show. Through the haze, he spied the outline of a man at the corner, his weapon shoulder high and not more than 10 feet away.
Both men fired at the same moment, a searing, tearing pain ripping through Bishop’s thigh as he watched his target’s head jerk back from the impact of his own shot. Bishop fired constantly, not letting off the trigger until the attacker fell.
The muscles bearing his weight no longer answering his commands, Bishop’s leg buckled beneath him. After landing on his already pounding left side, the Texan managed to scramble prone, firing a few shots in a desperate move to keep the invaders from charging through the doublewide opening.
It took every ounce of willpower he could muster, but he forced his body to move. Every nerve in his body seemed to be howling in protest as he began to push his torso backwards in a clumsy motion that was a half crawl, half scuttle. After the first few movements, he felt something warm and wet beneath him, one hand slipping on the slick marble floor. He grimaced at the red liquid - he was crawling through his own blood.
After what seemed like a hundred-mile trip, he reached the next dividing wall. In the mayhem, he almost shot Baxter, the major and several men approaching from behind. The officer started issuing orders, positioning his men to counter-attack.
For the first time since the mission began, Bishop was actually happy to see the man. “You okay?” the major asked.
“I’m hit, but still functional. There are 30 or more of them forming up in the rotunda. Most have ARs and AKs. They came pouring out of some tunnel. I suspect it leads
Finally reaching the main section of the courthouse, Bishop was waving and racing toward his men. “They’re inside! They’re inside!” he screamed, “Get help.”
Confused by their leader’s words, Bishop’s squad didn’t react at first, hesitant to leave their secure hide. When Bishop slid past them, like a baseball player swiping second base, they were still confused. The hailstorm of bullets chasing the Texan’s flying frame made his warning horrifically clear.
The four of them rushed to his side, taking up positions and raising their weapons. They didn’t have to wait long for clear targets to appear.
A dozen men stormed the main rotunda, their weapons firing wildly as they spread out through the complex. Stunned at the appearance of so many enemy within the walls, it took the men from West Texas a few nanoseconds to react.
The interior of the courthouse erupted in complete bedlam. Bishop’s squad opened fire, rifles blazing into the attackers at pointblank range. Lead, smoke, and thunder filled the air. Men were screaming, warning, ordering, crying, and praying - but no one could hear them.
Some of the invaders surprised the soldiers stationed throughout the courthouse, others falling prey to the military’s weapons. It was a rolling, confused, fur ball of combat - enemy and friend on all sides.
Realizing surprise was no longer with them, more and more of Red’s people rushed forward to join the fray. Soon it was Bishop’s five against 20. Less than a minute later, it was 30, and they kept on coming.
Bishop sensed they were about to be overrun, his mind demanding his body seek cover from the blizzard of death flying all around him. Forcing the panic down, he began shouting for his men to retreat. “Go to the major,” he ordered at the top of his lungs. “Move to the front… get to the Army’s position!”
He chanced sticking his rifle around the corner, blindly squeezing off a dozen shots to give his men cover as they retreated. Chunks of exploding p laster and wood responded, nipping, stinging masses of debris tearing into his arms and hands.
Pushing aside the pain in his chest, Bishop gathered his strength and rose. He began a rearguard action, walking bac kwards half bent at the waist, his weapon sweeping the doorway, waiting for a target to show. Through the haze, he spied the outline of a man at the corner, his weapon shoulder high and not more than 10 feet away.
Both men fired at the same moment, a searing, tearing pain ripping through Bishop’s thigh as he watched his target’s head jerk back from the impact of his own shot. Bishop fired constantly, not letting off the trigger until the attacker fell.
The muscles bearing his weight no longer answering his commands, Bishop’s leg buckled beneath him. After landing on his already pounding left side, the Texan managed to scramble prone, firing a few shots in a desperate move to keep the invaders from charging through the doublewide opening.
It took every ounce of willpower he could muster, but he forced his body to move. Every nerve in his body seemed to be howling in protest as he began to push his torso backwards in a clumsy motion that was a half crawl, half scuttle. After the first few movements, he felt something warm and wet beneath him, one hand slipping on the slick marble floor. He grimaced at the red liquid - he was crawling through his own blood.
After what seemed like a hundred-mile trip, he reached the next dividing wall. In the mayhem, he almost shot Baxter, the major and several men approaching from behind. The officer started issuing orders, positioning his men to counter-attack.
For the first time since the mission began, Bishop was actually happy to see the man. “You okay?” the major asked.
“I’m hit, but still functional. There are 30 or more of them forming up in the rotunda. Most have ARs and AKs. They came pouring out of some tunnel. I suspect it leads
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