Ahead, Duke’s light hits a door. This is new construction. The hinges are fastened to the stone frame with bolts two fingers thick, new and shiny silver. The door itself is thick beams of dark old wood strapped together with iron bands. It fits into the frame exactly—measured and built to fit. Duke’s light sweeps the door, examining it. There’s a ring-pull, the metal at least an inch and a half thick.
Thresh lumbers past, tugs. “Bolted.”
Duke turns to eye the collected squad—I spy Murph and Dutchie. Murph is moving slowly, gingerly, but he’s upright and moving and not dead. He meets my eyes, shoots me a finger gun and a wink.
I laugh.
“Anyone bring a door breach kit?” Duke asks.
One of the men on Thresh’s team raises a hand. “I did, sir. I’m an explosives engineer, so I never go anywhere without some kinda boom-boom.”
Duke gestures at the door. “Do your thing, then, my friend.”
“Yes, sir. I’d love to.”
It’s a matter of seconds, maybe a full minute, and the explosives expert has the door wired. We all retreat back around the corner as he ignites it, and then jogs to join us, turning away at the corner.
The concussion is dull and muffled, the flash dim.
The moment the explosion goes, we’re all in motion—I’m watching Duke for my cue. He starts moving the very instant the initialcrumpis heard, and I’m right behind him, rifle up, beam spearing the swirling cloud of dust. My feet crunch over debris. Duke steps through and I’m beside him, sweeping the opposite way. I sweep; spot a flash of movement, something glints. I step to the side, through the doorway, cracking off two shots. Duke is firing. Behind me, the others.
Muzzles flash in every direction, and I feel something sting my foot across my big toe. Another bites the outside of my knee. I move forward, not staying in the same spot. Layout: a long, wide room filled with rows of columns outlining a walkway leading toward another doorway. Barricades hulk on either side of the doorway, framed by the columns. I hide behind a column and watch for muzzle flash—Apollo is one row down. Firing, firing, all around. My ears ring.
I feel sluggish.
That sense of time distortion, my heartbeat thudding every sixty seconds in my ears—thud…thud-thud……..thud…thud-thud……..thud…thud-thud.
Apollo’s pistol cracks—I watch it buck in his hand; he’s in a duelist’s stance, body sideways, arm extended.
I feel my rifle kick against my shoulder—I’ll have a hell of a bruise there. I don’t remember my brain telling my finger to fire, but I am. My rounds are hitting the barricade, an inch low from where the flash is coming from. I adjust for the next burst, and there’s a scream.
Silence.
The engineer jogs for the next door, another handmade custom door, new.
Breached.
On the other side, we find a full-fledged firefight. Dad, Harris, and Puck with their squads, hunkered behind a barricade. Facing them, another barricade—they’re made of chunks of stone, beams of wood, hoods from old cars; gunfire. A SAW rips the air.
Puck sees us, lifts up, fires over the barricade. Winks at us. “How nice of you to join us.” His cigar is still in his jaws, unlit.
We take up positions at the doorway. Duke meets Harris’s eyes. Something is exchanged.
“Boom-Boom,” Duke calls.
The explosives expert shuffles forward. “Here, sir.”
“We need that barricade gone. You got any boom-boom we can throw?”
He slings his pack around in front and rummages in it, comes up with a string of grenades on a length of paracord. “Why, it just so happens that I do.”
“Good man,” Duke says. “Have at it.”
Boom-Boom unclips one grenade from the string, replaces the rest, and inches for the corner of the doorframe. A bullet spatters stone in his face, and he jerks back.
“Shit.”
He wipes at his eyes, blinks, and then tries again, quickly. Another glance. And then he pulls the pin, tosses it, and ducks back. “Big boom.”
