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CHAPTER 20
COLEMAN joined Maslick and Gould on the roof just as things were settling down. The sun was starting to slide out from the cloud-filled sky and the wind was picking up a bit. Coleman ran across the roof in a low crouch
as sporadic bullets zipped overhead. He did a quick ammunition check with the other two and then handed each of them a thirty-round magazine, leaving himself two. Coleman then surveyed the situation at both ends of the block. It appeared Maslick and Gould had taken the fight out of the police.
Coleman had seen it many times before. Put a group of Special Operators in an all-out gunfight with a force superior in size and they would balance the scales quicker than you could imagine. The simple fact was that at these distances they hit what they were shooting at. It was demoralizing for the opposing force as they watched one friend after another get shot in the head. The ones who managed to stay alive got the message real quick that it was a good idea to keep their heads down. And when you decided to keep your head down you ceased to become an effective fighter for the simple reason that you couldn’t hit a target if you weren’t willing to expose yourself and aim your weapon properly.
Having been in combat many times, Coleman knew how to recognize the ebb and flow of a battle. The frantic adrenaline rush of the initial engagement was almost always followed by a lull as each side took stock of its losses and either retrenched or prepared for another assault. The dynamics of this battle dictated who would do what. They were in no position to launch an assault, so it would be the other side that would have to make the next move.
Coleman moved to the roof’s edge a few feet away and dropped to one knee. “Any movement on the roofs across the street?”
Gould glanced across the street. He’d been worried about the same thing. Crossways from them was a three-story building that was the high ground on the block. Gould pointed his rifle at the building and said, “If they put a few decent shooters up there they could make our lives miserable.”
“Yeah . . . keep your eye on it.”
Gould looked behind them. There were multiple elevated rooftop positions within five hundred yards. “If they get behind us we’re done for.”
Coleman checked his watch. “We’ll be out of here before they figure that out.”
Off in the distance he heard the dull thumping of rotor blades. Coleman looked to the east, toward the airport. At first he couldn’t find a sign of the helicopters, as they were flying so low, and then he saw the shimmer of movement as they skimmed the rooftops almost two miles out.
“Scott!”
Coleman turned his head and looked at Maslick, who was pointing over the edge of the building.
“We’ve got trouble.”
Coleman looked down and saw the men with the clear bulletproof shields forming up along the edge of the building. He looked to his right and saw the same thing. He grabbed Gould and said, “Get over there and help him.”
A bullet slammed into the top of the stone parapet, just a few inches from Gould’s face. He almost immediately realized from the trajectory that it had to have come from above. Lunging forward from his knees, he shoved Coleman to the ground as a barrage of bullets hit their position. Gould rolled off Coleman and said, “I’ll deal with the men across the street.” He handed Coleman one of the canisters from his vest. “It’s only a flash-bang but it might help.”
Coleman grabbed it from him. “I’ll try to draw their fire in a second.” On all fours he stayed near the edge and began crawling to the far corner. He looked back at Gould, counted down with his fingers, and rose onto one knee. He was surprised to see four gun barrels pointed in his general direction from an elevated position. He was expecting just one or two. Coleman’s right index finger began rapidly squeezing off rounds. His aim was far from exact, as he was trying to draw the attention of these men so Gould get a few good shots.
Gould came up a second later and quickly moved his aperture into position. He placed the red dot on the closest man’s head and fired. At the exact same instant he saw a muzzle flash from the man he was trying to kill. Before Gould had a chance to seek out a second target, he was knocked on his ass. He knew immediately it was his left shoulder. He looked over and saw the near-perfect circle of blood slowly growing. His shoulder was screaming with pain, but Gould knew the injury was not fatal. At least it wasn’t if he got medical care in the not-so-distant future. His best hope for that was if he got off his ass and back in the fight. With a grunt and more effort than he should have needed he got back on his knees and took aim at the men across the street. Gould’s left hand was still functional, so his aim was as steady as ever, although he knew that might not last. Only two heads were visible. Gould lined up the first one, took the shot, and saw the man go down. He was moving the rifle into position for the second shot when there was a large explosion beneath him. The building shook for a second and then all was quiet.
“Dammit,” Coleman yelled. “Cover me.” He tore off across the roof for the hatch.
Gould shouldered his weapon and began firing on the rooftop position across the street. More barrels suddenly appeared and he had to seek cover beneath the stone parapet. When he looked back the blond-haired guy was gone. Gould lay on his back for a moment trying to survey the damage to his shoulder, and then he suddenly became aware of the growing noise of helicopter rotors slicing through the air.
Coleman found his way down the ladder as quickly as you’d expect from a guy who had spent a good portion of his life on ships. By the time he reached the staircase he had Reavers’s M-4 up and ready to engage. He flew down the stairs and into a cloud of floating debris in the first-floor hallway. He didn’t care how many men there were, he was going to rush them head-on. Moving down the hallway at a steady pace, he saw the pile of debris near where he had last seen Rapp. Coleman’s heart sank as he stepped on the pile and swung his weapon to the left to engage the men who would be coming through the front door.
He was shocked to find not a person standing. On the sidewalk just outside the front entrance there was a tangle of bodies. Coleman saw some movement and almost fired. One of the cops was trying to roll onto his side. Coleman’s conscience got the better of him and he took his finger off the trigger. Two sounds suddenly filled the relative silence. The first was a low moan, which seemed to be fading, and the second one was the roar of U.S. Special Operations helicopters, which was definitely growing in volume.
Coleman turned and looked down at the pile of debris that he had just walked over. He began yanking ceiling tiles and pieces of wood and Sheetrock from the heap, and then he saw the blue countertop that Rapp had used to fortify his position. Next he spotted a hand and an arm. Coleman released the rifle, letting it hang from the sling around his neck. Taking both hands, he lifted the large piece of Formica up, revealing a dusty and pale Rapp. He chucked the large board off to the side, dropped down to one knee, and stared at Rapp’s lifeless face. Coleman placed a finger on Rapp’s neck to search for a pulse and then slapped him a couple times on each cheek.
Rapp gasped, his eyes shot open wide, and his left hand shot up and grabbed Coleman by the throat.
Coleman removed Rapp’s hand from his throat by applying just the right amount of pressure to his wrist. “It’s me, you idiot. Do you think you can stand?” The former Navy SEAL could tell by the way Rapp’s eyes were darting around that he still wasn’t entirely with it. He ran his hands up and down Rapp’s body looking for any injuries. The thump-thump signature of the helicopters was growing louder by the second. The thought of missing their ride, or worse, getting one of the birds blown out of the sky because they weren’t up on the LZ, made Coleman skip the rest of the medical assessment. He stood and grabbed Rapp by his tactical vest, yanking him to his feet. Rapp wobbled and almost fell to his left, but Coleman steadied him.
“Come on . . . this way. Our ride is waiting for us.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“We have a hot double date.” Coleman squatted, threw Rapp’s right arm around his neck, and then moved the two of them down the hallway. “Don’t want to be late. Come on, we need to hustle.”
“Where the hell are we?” Rapp wobbled again and his legs gave out.
Coleman struggled to keep him upright and then decided he needed to change tactics. He spun Rapp toward him, bent over, and threw Rapp over his shoulder. Coleman hefted him in a fireman’s carry and started up the steps. “Damn, you’re getting fat.”
