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And suddenly, a deafening sound rattles through the night silence around us.
Tra-ta-ta-ta-ta.
Machine guns.
I duck. The rest follow.
I won’t mistake this sound for anything.
My dad used to teach me how to shoot. He had many guns. I can identify all of them—automatic, semi, pistols, rifles, shotguns.
This one.
AK-47.
There is nothing like the sound of it tr-r-r-ra-ta-tatting through the air, echoing afterward in your chest.
Only Guff is still spraying the fire like his life depends on it, the hissing of the foam over the flames subsiding.
The guys are hunching, looking around.
The girls are cowering on the ground.
Another round of gunshots slices the night air.
Closer.
Much closer.
From behind the lounge, coming from the direction of the jungles.
“Everyone down!” someone shouts. “Now!”
Another round of shots. The distinct hollow shots of a semi-automatic. Pistol shots come from another direction.
They are everywhere.
And then there is another burst of gunshots and the machine gun again as dark figures start descending into the open area where we are.
About two dozen of them.
Tall. Muscled. T-shirts and tanks. Shorts and cargo pants. Boots. Guns and rifles in their hands and across their shoulders as they step out of the darkness and circle the space around us.
Fuck…
It’s an army of Commandos. Young and older ones. Most of them are not fucking spring-breakers for sure. Amateurs don’t wear bullet-proof vests.
“Anyone moves, and she is dead!” one of them says and steps in front of the Common Lounge that is only four poles and the small fire still burning in the center, like a battlefield.
A guy pushes the barrel of his gun into Guff, making him retreat into the middle of the circle.
Another guy comes up next to him, holding Callie in front of him, a gun to her head.
Fuck, Callie. How does a girl get in trouble like this all the time?
And there is a distant sound of motors.
More motors?
