Page 100 of Lash
I have one grenade clipped to my vest. I meant to grab more but forgot—a foolish thing to forget in a situation like this. But,one is enough for now. I pull the pin, peek around the side to judge the distance, and then hook-toss the grenade.
While it is in the air, they pour more fire at us, and a round punches through the A/C unit and hits me in the vest. Its momentum is slowed enough that it only feels like being kicked by a horse rather than punched by a god. My chest will be a mess of bruising, later.
I'm thrown backward to my back, left gasping and blinking at the cloud-dark sky, hearing gunfire and voices in my ear.
Crump-BOOOM!
The grenade detonates with an earth-shaking roar, and the gunfire goes silent.
Scarlett's face swims into view above me. "You good, bro?"
I grab her hand, let her haul me up to my feet, and then bend over to suck in oxygen, nodding. "Took one to the vest. I am okay."
After another moment or two to catch my breath, I reload and follow Scarlett around the corner. We're just in time to join the rest of the team at the gate as Kane places the breaching chargers on the gate. The explosion shakes the ground, and the gate flies apart with an ear-piercing shriek of protesting metal. Solomon is first through, and we form up on him.
The courtyard is wide and blacktopped, and empty of cars. All is peculiarly silent.
"Not saying this has been easy," Kane mutters, "But this feels too easy yet a-fuckin’-gain. Something's up."
I sweep the roofline but see nothing. Ahead, the main doors into the hacienda stand closed. Solomon approaches, standing to one side. Chance approaches, rears back, and kicks it open, ducking out of the way the second the door splinters open.
Just in time—gunfire blatters concussively, and we all throw ourselves to the side as rounds chainsaw across the ground and bite into the doorway and shatter glass.
Rev lobs a flashbang inside, and we all turn away and plug our ears—the detonation leaves our ears ringing and white lights dancing in our vision. Kane fills the doorway and his rifle barks in a series of three-round bursts.
He gestures at me and at the doorway, indicating I should precede him through.
Scarlett grabs my shoulder and follows me through the doorway; several bodies lay writhing on the floor, bleeding from legs and shoulders onto the elaborate blue, white, and yellow Spanish-style tile of the foyer. Inside is cool and airy, the walls more white-washed adobe, with nooks built into the walls housing vases and other decorative knickknacks.
The foyer opens to a wide, high-ceilinged hallway extending left and right, arches marching in both directions. Directly opposite the foyer on the far side of the arched hallway is an open-air courtyard with a blossoming orange tree heavy with fruit, the tree surrounded by elegant wrought iron benches; small, low-to-the-ground lights bathe the tree in a soft amber glow. To the left, the hallway leads to the library; to the right, the kitchen and den.
"Must be in the basement," Saxon says.
"Find the basement, then,” Solomon orders.
We split up into pairs and clear the house—other than the small contingent left to die in the foyer, there's no sign of anyone else.
“Found it!" Silas calls out over the comms. "Kitchen."
We all converge on the door, which is locked.
Chance chose the Benelli shotgun I claimed, and he uses it to blast open the door. Gunfire echoes and slugs splinter through the lintel and doorframe and chew at the ceiling. A round hits Chance in the chest and knocks him backward, and that backward stumble saves his life as another buzzes through the air where he was.
He drops to a knee, hand on his chest, gasping.
Saxon, Silas, and Rev all fill the doorway, pouring fire down the stairs.
“Well, fuck," Saxon growls. “He ducked into my round and took it to the fuckin' head, the dumbfuck."
"I think that was mine," Silas argues.
Solomon whacks them both. "Shut the fuck up, both of you. He’s dead. Let's move on. We gotta find Inez and get the fuck out of here." He rests a hand on Chance's massive back. “You good, man?"
Chance nods, straightening to stretch his torso, wincing. "Good. Let's go. Fuck these fuckers."
The stairwell abandons the Spanish Hacienda style in favor of modern, utilitarian plain white drywall and simple wall sconces.
Down we go, Saxon in the lead, now, with Silas on his left and Sol on his right in a tight triangle formation. The stairs go down to a landing, where the shooter now slumps over himself, drooling blood from a hole in his forehead into his lap. Blood is splattered on the wall, sprinkled with pink chunks. At the landing, the stairs turn left and descend again, reaching a squeaky, black-and-white checkered epoxy floor and drop-tile ceilings with LED lights. A bar runs the length of the basement on the right side, with the usual assortment of basement features—a pool table, couches, and a gigantic flat-screen TV.