Page 153 of Hurt

Go time.

Jamie held out his hand and one of the Mesa snipers slapped an already assembled sniper rifle in his hand. It wasn’t his, and he wasn’t a huge fan of the sights on this one, but it would work. His baby was snuggled safely in its case on his back waiting for its turn.

On his belly, he crawled about twenty yards ahead and then settled his gun into the dirt. Regulating his breathing, he set the gun against his shoulder and lowered his eye to the sight.

Night visions swathed the world in hues of green. His heart was racing but he couldn’t rush this. This had to be perfect.

Adjusting the gun, he found the first guard. He was standing just on the other side of the chain link fence, resting against the guard house. With this advanced sight Jamie could even see the fine wrinkles around the man’s eyes as he yawned.

According to Jackson there was one other guard at the gate. He was most likely in the guard house.

Not for much longer.

Jamie closed his eyes and centered himself. It wasn’t a particularly far shot, but it was difficult, and there would be no second chance.

With his tongue pressed between his teeth he opened his eyes and began counting his heart beats. He counted and waited until the thump thump slowed to a dangerous level.

Between those beats, he squeezed the trigger.

The gun bucked against his shoulder, hard enough to jar the teeth in his skull.

A .30 caliber round zinged through the air faster than the eye could see. It passed through the spaces in the chain link fence and blasted its way through the guard’s skull. An explosion of brain matter splattered against the tin wall of the guard shack.

The second guard took two steps out of the shack before a second round cut through his neck.

Jamie was up before the second guard had collapsed, leaving the borrowed gun in his wake.

The second shot was the signal. As the round left the chamber, over a hundred people began moving. A slick looking dually roared to life and raced over the desert to slam to a stop in front of the gate. Two White Sand Mesa guys leaped from the bed and secured a thick chain to the support post before the truck took off again, ripping the gate from its hinges with a shriek of metal.

The case on his back smacked against him as he sprinted the 100 yards to the gate of the Catacombs. Jamie had to be one of the first in the compound. All the snipers had to set up as soon as possible to provide those on the ground with adequate cover.

A stitch formed in his side, and he regretted the plate of microwave lasagna he had wolfed down before they came.

He could hear the other gunmen behind him, but he didn’t have time to be their fearless leader. Jamie liked being a sniper specifically because it meant he didn’t have to lead anyone. He wasn’t even qualified to be in charge of himself.

In the distance he could hear the warning sirens going off. The element of surprise was officially gone.

Careening through the gates Jamie ran to the first building with more than one story. Unwinding the rope and grappling hook from his shoulders he tried to breathe through the stitch as he swung the metal hook up into the night sky and prayed it caught on something that would hold.

It did.

“God, I’m awesome.” Jamie panted as he leaped up the rope and began to climb.

The buildings in the Catacombs wouldn’t burn. But the cars would. Twenty vehicles were engulfed in flames, tires popping when the heat and safety glass melting under the intense heat. The glow from the flames lit up the early night, casting shadows across the ground.

Gunfire cracked across the quiet desert. A symphony of various calibers—theratatatof automatics punctuated by the snap of sniper rifle fire. Handguns joined the fray, their users conserving ammunition and taking careful shots.

Exact numbers would be impossible to get, but the Vega Cabal outnumbered their attackers. Some of them ran out of the buildings in pajamas, holding nothing but baseball bats and lead pipes while others were fully kitted out with multiple guns and knives.

There was no battlefield. The fighting was spread through the compound like a malignant cancer. In the narrow spaces between buildings and beside burning cars. There were no organized movements planned out on a map, no stratagem that would make the generals of history nod their head in respect. This was a battle borne of blood and vengeance.

At the front of the fray Grant and Jackson were pressing down the main drive. Jackson had his first assault rifle out. The modified M16 was leveled out in front of him, steady and sure. His shots were controlled bursts. Quick, efficient with almost no ammunition waste. A head taller than most, his keen eyes picked out his enemies, a shot fired toward them before they lifted their weapon to fire.

Grant wasn’t quite as accurate with his 9-millimeter. He wasn’t a fan of guns and wanted to get in close so he could draw his blade. Blood pounding in his ears, he slapped a new clip into the gun and popped off three rounds toward a grouping of Vegas taking shots at them from behind two trashcans.

The third round winged the man. Snarling, the Vega lifted his gun and pointed it at Grant. A hole burst through his chest before he had a chance to even sight the weapon. Grant didn’t have to look to know that Jamie had taken the man out.

Their very own eye in the sky, Jamie had surpassed his ten-minute estimate by twenty-seven seconds. Before the bulk of the group stormed into the Catacombs the sniper was picking off Vega Cabal members as they emerged from the buildings.