Collateral Damage

A soldier lay crumpled on his side in the hallway near the door to an office, his eyes half-open and bullet holes peppering his chest. A pool of blood surrounded him, already congealing on the linoleum floor. Unmoving, making no noise. Dead.

“Shit,” the MP breathed as he came up behind him, weapon aimed.

Liam didn’t answer, all his focus shifting to the office door standing open down the hall, riddled with bullet holes. He motioned to the MP to shut the last door behind them, so the light streaming in wouldn’t backlight them. His pulse throbbed in his ears as he carefully entered the room.

Empty.

More bullet holes pockmarked the walls, the desk and cabinets, as though the shooter had sprayed random bursts of fire in a haphazard attempt to kill everyone in the room.

Then his gaze landed on a wide smear of blood staining the carpet. Liam followed it toward the far doorway of the office. Whoever had been wounded had gone through it, and likely the gunman too. He was terrified it would lead him to Honor’s body.

He stepped into the open doorway, checked to make sure the hallway was clear. Faint light coming through the windows and the open exterior door at the far end of the corridor allowed him to see the blood trail as it continued down the hall. His rubber-soled boots were almost silent on the floor as he hurried toward the far exit door, standing open a foot or so.

He paused when he heard a muffled groan, whipped his rifle toward the figure of a man edging out of the doorway of another office. “Hands up and don’t fucking move,” Liam snapped as he approaching the wounded man.

Behind him, the MP flipped on a Maglite and aimed the beam at the suspect. The man was now lying sprawled on his back with one hand pressed to his belly, his dark skin glazed with sweat and blood pouring out of the wounds in his stomach. Liam kept his eyes on the man’s hands, which were empty. He could still have a weapon close by though.

While the MP kept his weapon trained on the man, Liam knelt and quickly checked him for weapons. He was not only unarmed, but bleeding out. Still conscious, his pain-glazed eyes focusing on Liam. They widened slightly in what seemed like recognition, although Liam didn’t know him. “Hon-or,” he rasped weakly.

Liam gripped the man’s shoulder, urgency flooding him. “You saw Honor? Where is she?”

The man rolled his eyes toward the far door. “An-drews…after…her…” One bloody hand came up to grab Liam’s wrist. “H-help her…”

Andrews. Whoever he was, he was going down. “I will.” A vow, one he’d die keeping.

“You go, I got him,” the MP said, and Liam surged to his feet, took off toward the far door. It flew open under the force of his shoulder. Weapon up, Liam exited the building and visually swept the area just in time to see a man carrying a rifle disappear around the corner of the next building.

Liam leaped off the steps and charged after him. A cold, deadly rage burned in his chest, raising the hair on his arms. That fucker Andrews was a dead man walking.

****

Girard was a dead woman.

Andrews could barely contain his elation as he ran after her. He’d only done coke a couple times in his life but this rush felt exactly like that—an insane jolt of endorphins blasting through his system, so intense he could barely think. His heart was beating out of control and he was panting like he’d been ru

She’d been hurt from a fall on the stairs, slowing her down slightly, but he’d decided this was better. He’d given her just enough lead time to let her think she might have a chance at getting away, but not enough that he couldn’t maintain a visual on her. He was good enough with a rifle that he probably could have picked her off at this range, but he was better at hitting a stationary target than a moving one.

Besides, he liked knowing she was afraid. Got off on knowing she was ru

Helos were still in the air and he heard the occasional jet fly by but no one was after him yet. He still had time. A few people were ru

In reality he was one of the hunters, but focused on one target in particular.

Up ahead he caught a flash of red-gold hair under the lights on the side of a storage building. Stupid of her not to stick to the shadows. Not that shadows would have helped her live much longer. Another wave of excitement flashed through him. He couldn’t wait to corner her, drink in the terror in those wide aqua eyes as he aimed the muzzle of his weapon at her. He wanted to watch her panic, hear her fucking beg for her life before he killed her.

“You’re dead, bitch,” he mumbled to himself, keeping to a steady jog as he followed. Triumph filled his veins. She represented everything he hated, and all the reasons why his life had gone to shit. Now she would pay the ultimate price for what she’d done to him.

He’d already killed Ipman and Smithers; once he killed Girard there’d be no one left to identify him as the killer except that civilian with them, and there’s no way the man could ever identify him given the low lighting and how fast everything had happened. He was long gone now anyway. By the time anyone reviewed the CCTVs and other security systems it would be too late, Andrews would already be on his way south.

The other four shooters were from sleeper cells here in the States attached to Safir’s network. He’d helped them get on base by giving them fake military IDs and uniforms he’d stolen. They would all be long dead by now, a calculated sacrifice made by Safir and his network. They’d each smuggled their disassembled M-16s one member had provided for them onto the base by hiding the components in various places in their vehicles. His fingerprints were on file but he’d worn gloves to avoid leaving prints. As soon as Andrews killed Girard he’d dump his weapon and escape to the barracks with everyone else and wait until the base wasn’t on lockdown before making his escape.

The money he’d been promised would be in his bank account by now. All he had to do was make it off base, find an ATM and access enough cash to get across the border into Mexico, where he’d start over. He’d live like a fucking king the rest of his days.

Up ahead, a door slammed shut in the building Girard had just entered. He smirked. The stupid bitch had just given herself away again.

Andrews smiled to himself and curved his finger around the trigger as he increased his pace, anticipation curling in his gut. He had a fresh mag loaded and ready to go, and another one in his pocket just in case. He’d make sure he pumped her full of enough holes in non-lethal places first, then listen to her scream in agony. Maybe he’d finish her off after that, maybe he wouldn’t. He hadn’t decided yet. Maybe he’d just let her lie there and bleed to death alone.

His dick got even harder at the thought but he ignored it, focused on the rush of being on the cusp of exacting revenge. The game of cat and mouse had been fun but now it was time to end this.

In another minute it would be over and he’d be able to start his new life, feeding off the satisfaction that he’d gotten his revenge for years to come.

****

He was gaining on her.

Honor’s breath sawed in and out of her aching lungs as she ran down the length of the storage warehouse, dodging pallets of equipment and supplies. Her left upper arm was throbbing where a bullet or ricochet had hit her, and so were the bruises from where she’d landed after her fall on the stairs but she barely felt any of it through the haze of adrenaline.