The Import, page 27
part #1 of Matthew Riker Series
Giving Weaver and Hendricks more time wouldn’t help anything. Riker needed to keep moving, even though things weren’t going exactly to plan. He trotted across the dark field, staying low, making his way to the now silent plane.
When he reached it, he scanned the airfield with his eyes. Other than the dead men near the gate, Riker was the only person not near the hangar. Just as Hendricks had ordered, most of them were now in the building. There were still three men on the roof with rifles. They worried Riker. He’d have to deal with them before he figured out a way to get inside the heavily defended building.
But first, he needed to deal with the plane.
He pulled a metal cable out of his pack. Reaching up, he jammed the cable inside the engine under the right wing, packing it inside tight. If anyone started the engine, the engine would immediately be destroyed.
He felt a moment of accomplishment. There was no way they were flying Li out of this airfield now. Granted, they could drive her out after they killed Riker. He’d just have to make sure that didn’t happen.
Now that the plane was disabled, there was nothing left except to face the real target—the hangar. He paused for a moment, considering his best approach. Walking straight in that building would be suicide. He needed to draw the men out. He could think of only one way to do that. He needed to get to the roof.
A direct approach would only get him killed. For a moment, he considered trying to climb the building on the east side, but he decided against it. It would be difficult and risky. Even though it would take more time, he needed to work his way around the perimeter of the field, to get to the ladder on the south side of the building and get behind the men who were all facing north toward the gate.
He moved quickly through the dark, dropping his pack and leaving it near the fence. It wouldn’t help him. It took him nearly five precious minutes to get around the back of the building, but it allowed him to move through the darkness until he was only ten yards from the building. He sprinted through the thin shaft of light near the wall, ignoring the pain singing through his body, and reached the ladder. He climbed quickly, not wanting to pause and consider what he was about to attempt.
When he reached the top of the ladder, he stopped with his hands on the top rung and let out a soft whistle.
“The hell was that?” a voice on the roof said.
Riker waited in silence as footsteps approached. There were three guys on that roof. He wasn’t worried about the first one. But the second and third guys? Their positions would determine everything.
After a moment, someone leaned over the edge of the building, the barrel of their rifle pointing down toward Riker.
For a split second, time froze for Riker. It was as if his mind were grinding time itself to a halt to give itself one more instant to strategize.
Then time sped up and all hell broke loose.
He reached up and grabbed the barrel of the rifle in an iron grip, yanking it downward. The man tumbled over the edge of the building, letting out a surprised shout as he fell thirty feet to the pavement below.
Riker didn’t have the luxury of affording that man another second’s thought. He charged up the ladder, exploding off the top rung and onto the roof. As his feet touched the metal roof, he surged forward. He saw two men in front of him, twin dark silhouettes hunkering toward him. He charged at the shorter, broader man first.
The broad man held a rifle in his hands—a great weapon at a distance, but tough to bring around in time to shoot a target charging at you. The man did his best, but Riker reached him too quickly, grabbing the rifle with both hands and driving it back and up, slamming the butt into the man’s chin.
The man managed to maintain his grip on the rifle as he staggered backward. Riker held fast as well. He snapped his right leg forward, kicking the man hard in the balls. The man let out a pathetic grunt, and he released the rifle as he fell.
Riker spun the weapon around, wedging the stock against his shoulder in an instant as he drew a bead on the second, taller man. He squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of three rounds into the thin man’s chest. Then he turned back to the broad man and squeezed off another three rounds.
“What’s going on up there?” a voice said through a radio clipped to the thin man’s belt. Riker thought about picking it up and answering, but he didn’t think that would serve much of a purpose.
He tried to steady his breath, just as he’d been trained to do, in through the nose and out through the mouth. He’d somehow survived this initial assault, but there were at least eleven more men in the hangar, not including the Chinese men and Weaver.
He stalked toward the edge of the building, considering his next move. He needed to draw out the men in the hangar. His first thought was to shoot down through the thin metal roof at them. It wasn’t ideal—they might just fire back up at him—but then he saw something lying near the edge of the roof.
“Oh, hell yeah,” he muttered. Finally a bit of good luck.
He picked up the RPG 7 and gave it a quick visual inspection. The rocket-propelled grenade was exactly the type of weapon he’d wished he had when preparing for this assault. Someone up there liked him.
He set up the weapon, took aim, and fired. The rocket whistled through the air and found its target, slamming into the body of the plane on the runway with a deafening boom. Riker allowed himself a quick smile as he dropped the RPG7 and picked up the automatic rifle.
Just as he’d hoped, the men poured out of the hangar, running around in a panic, confusion ruling their actions. Riker opened fire. He took out four of them in as many seconds. Adjusting his aim, he took out a fifth, leaving five more men, not including Hendricks, Weaver, and the Chinese men.
He prepared to fire again, but something sharp bit into his leg, and he let out a grunt of pain. The broad man stared up at him, his hand still holding the combat knife that had sliced through Riker’s thigh, a sadistic smile on his bloody face. The bullet holes in the left side of his chest were seeping blood, but he didn’t seem to notice.
The thin man reached up and snatched the rifle from Riker’s surprised hands. In a moment, he had tossed it over the edge of the building. His foot lashed out, sending the RPG 7 cascading to the floor after it.
“That evens the odds a bit, doesn’t it?” he said.
Riker blinked hard, pushing down the wave of pain that threatened to disorient him. All that existed in this world was him and the man with the knife.
“It really doesn’t,” he said.
He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife with his left hand. With his right, he grabbed the man’s throat. He squeezed viciously with both hands, as if his very life depended on it. Which it did. When the thin man finally went limp, he released him, letting him fall to the roof with a thump.
Riker breathed hard, trying to keep his bearings through the pain and nausea coursing through him. Blood poured from the knife wound in his leg, and it was all he could do to keep upright.
Then he saw it.
A man stood on the east side of the building, the one Riker had thought too risky to climb. His huge form cast a long shadow across the roof in the moonlight.
“Let’s finish this,” Hendricks said.
Riker steadied himself and turned toward the bigger man.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s finish it.”
45
A COLD WIND blew across the black tar roof. Shadows and light fought for space atop the building. Glowing lights around the building made Hendricks' face look pale and dead. The gauze around his head and the bandages on his neck completed the look of Frankenstein’s monster.
Sixty feet of open, flat space separated the two men. Hendricks had his 9mm drawn. He squeezed the trigger, expecting to end the fight before it began. The crack of the gunshot seemed small on the open rooftop.
The part of Riker’s brain that controlled conscious thought took a backseat to his instincts and training. He dropped to one knee and pulled up the body of the man he had just killed. One bullet went past them, and the second round hit the corpse. He sprang up, holding the body in front of him like a shield. If there was pain coming from the wound in his leg, Riker didn’t feel it. He held the body high with his head tucked behind the shoulder. He tilted forward and sprinted, the weight of the body increasing his forward momentum.
Riker couldn’t see past his shield. The crack of the 9mm sounded like an automatic. He ran at full speed, and he felt the tap of small rounds hitting the dead man in his arms. Hendricks was well trained with the weapon, but part of that training was to shoot at center mass. The bullets fired at almost the same pace as Riker’s feet hit the ground. In three seconds, the last shell ejected from the gun and Riker reached Hendricks.
The instant before Riker and the body that protected him made impact, Hendricks stepped to the side. Riker let go of the corpse and tried to stop, but his momentum kept him moving forward. He tumbled forward, arms reeling. The body flew over the edge of the roof, but Riker dropped to one knee, managed to stop a few inches from the edge. Hendricks pointed his gun at Riker’s face pulling the trigger. The empty chamber didn’t produce the result he’d expected.
Riker sprang to his feet as his hand shot out and grabbed Hendricks’ wrist. He pulled hard and twisted his body, trying to throw the large man off the roof. Hendricks moved towards the edge, but he put one foot on the ledge and used the power of his leg to pull back in the opposite direction. Riker kept his grip, but the battle of strength went to Hendricks.
Riker felt his feet leave the ground and Hendricks tossed him away from the edge. He let go of the wrist and tucked a shoulder into the ground. He rolled and reached for the gun in his belt. He came to a stop with one knee on the ground and one foot on the roof. Hendricks didn’t let up and raced towards Riker.
Riker’s hand wrapped around the butt of the gun in his waistband and time slowed to a crawl. This game of milliseconds could end the fight. He brought the gun around and increased the pressure on the trigger. Hendricks kicked hard and a flash brightened their faces.
Hendricks’ boot connected with the gun a moment before it fired. The bullet still hit the target, but not in the intended location. Hendricks’ right arm swung backward as his foot connected with Riker’s gun. The kick sent the gun flying across the roof.
Both men regained their balance, and they stood toe-to-toe. Blood seeped through Hendricks’ shirt at his right forearm.
Riker threw a hard left hook and Hendricks instinctively blocked with his injured arm.
He screamed out in pain when the blow connected with the fresh wound. Most men would crumple when they felt pain like that, but Hendricks used it. He threw a left hook of his own and it connected with the side of Riker’s face. A high-pitched ringing canceled out the sound of the world and white spots filled his vision as Riker staggered backward. Hendricks threw a right hook to finish him. Riker’s arms didn’t want to work, but his will to survive was stronger than the pain of the blow and his hands and forearms came high enough to block the blow. Hendricks was running on rage and another hard left came for Riker. This one was telegraphed enough that Riker ducked it and shot out for Hendricks’ legs.
Riker shot forward, smashing his head into Hendricks’ stomach. He grabbed the back of both knees with his hands and pushed forward into the big man. Hendricks fell backward, landing on his ass. In wrestling, the double leg takedown was a masterful move, but here on the roof, there were no rules governing the game. Hendricks grabbed Riker around the neck with both hands.
Riker felt the raw strength of Hendricks' large hands choking the life from him. His thumbs crushed into Riker’s larynx, and his fingers dug into the back of Riker’s neck. Riker used his left hand to grab Hendricks’ forearm. He slid his hand down the arm until he felt a hole in the sleeve. He hooked his thumb through the bullet hole, squeezing as tightly as he could and turning his wrist to force his thumb deep into the open wound.
Hendricks howled and released his grip. Riker did not. His thumb touched the flattened bullet inside the arm and he pressed harder. He straddled Hendricks and crashed hard punches into his face with his free right hand. Three fast hard hits landed on his eye socket. Hendricks lost all technique and resorted to instinct, bucking his body. He flailed and twisted with enough force that Riker was thrown off.
Riker got to his feet. The wound in his leg caused him to stagger. Blood trickled down his thigh. He took a deep breath. His injured throat made the air feel like hot smoke on the way to his lungs.
Hendricks stumbled to his feet. Riker saw his left eye was mostly closed from the bruised and beaten tissue. He held his right arm at his side. Blood dripped off of it in a steady stream. He reached to the back of his pants and his hand came back holding a knife.
Riker reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife. He flicked the blade into place with a click. For a moment the night was quiet as the two warriors stared at one another.
“Not bad for a squid,” Hendricks said. He spit out a mouthful of blood. “I’m going to bring your head down to the kid after I take it off.”
“Don’t just talk about it. Let’s see what you’ve got left.” Riker motioned Hendricks toward him.
Hendricks moved in slowly. Riker shuffled to the left, trying to use the swollen eye to his advantage. Hendricks slashed out with the knife. The air hummed with the speed of the blade. Hendricks’ reach was long and Riker had to take a step back to avoid the knife. The thin piece of metal narrowly missed Riker’s neck.
Riker continued to circle left looking for his opening. Hendricks stayed with him and jabbed the knife at Riker’s chest. Riker took a risk, turning his body sideways instead of moving back. The knife cut across his chest. The wound wasn’t deep but it slid through his shirt and skin across the meat of his pectoral muscle.
The move left Hendricks exposed and Riker racked his knife down into Hendricks' left shoulder. The three-inch blade sunk into the joint and Hendricks’ left arm went limp. His knife fell to the ground with a thud. Riker pulled his blade back out and blood sprayed from the wound. That bright red stream told Riker that Hendricks was finished. The arterial blood meant that he would bleed out in minutes. Riker drew back to strike a final blow.
His opponent might have been a walking dead man but he didn’t know that. Hendricks drove his body into Riker, wrapping his right arm around him. His right shoulder dropped into Riker’s sternum and he ran forward, lifting him off the ground. Riker’s feet kicked with no results as Hendricks ran towards the edge of the building.
Riker was doubled over on Hendricks’ shoulder. He had no leverage to stop the motion or free himself. He brought his knife down hard in the meat of Hendricks’ back. The blade buried itself deep, but Hendricks didn’t slow.
Riker could see the edge of the roof out of the corner of his eye. In a few seconds, the two fighters would fall to their deaths. Riker pulled the knife out and brought it down hard one more time, aiming for the center of the back. The blade found its mark and slid between two vertebrae in the thoracic spine. The gruesome sound of the blade scraping bone came through in a muffled vibration. The spinal cord behind the bones was sliced in half.
Hendricks’ legs went limp and his weight collapsed onto the roof. Riker’s lower body was smashed between Hendricks and the tar on the roof as they skidded to a stop. Hendricks’ shoulder drove deep into Riker’s guts, and he lost most of his air.
Hendricks let out a scream, and his right arm flailed wildly. Riker drew in a breath and pushed Hendricks off of him. He rolled to his knees and pushed himself up. His knife was still stuck in Hendricks’ back and he raised his fist, turning to Hendricks.
Blood flowed from Hendricks' shoulder. It followed the drainage line of the roof and dripped off the building a foot from where they stopped. The screaming had stopped and his right arm moved less and less. Hendricks looked up at the sky with his eyes open. The color of his face went white, contrasting sharply with the black of the roof and the red of the blood. Then all movement stopped and a final gasp of air left Hendricks.
Riker looked around the roof and saw his gun. He walked toward it. His entire body sang out with a symphony of pain. He touched his wounded chest and looked down. There was no way to tell how much of the blood covering him was his own.
A voice in his head screamed at him to lie down. His body wanted him to stop. There was nothing more important than finding a safe place to rest. Riker pushed that small voice down so deep that it was silenced. He pushed the pain to that same place, telling himself that pain was just a reminder of how powerful he was.
That force of will filled him. He picked up his Glock and made sure that the magazine was full and a round was chambered. Somewhere in the hangar under his feet were a little girl that needed help and a man that needed to be put down.
46
RIKER THOUGHT he was in pain as he stood on the roof, but when he climbed down the ladder, he was reminded what real pain was all about. The ladder forced his body to stretch in ways that standing hadn’t, and each of his many wounds cried out, letting its displeasure be known. He pushed it down. One way or another, the end was in sight.
By his count, there were at least five of Weaver’s guys still inside the hangar, no doubt hunkered down and ready to defend their boss. Plus, he had to worry about Weaver and the three Chinese men who had apparently shown up to purchase Li from Weaver. And Helen. He couldn’t forget about Helen.
After reaching the ground, he put a hand into his pocket, checking to make sure that the last of the magazines Brennan had given him hadn’t fallen out during the fight. Gun held in a two-handed grip and pointed at the ground, Riker eased his way around the perimeter of the building. When he reached the main entrance, he kept his back against the bay door and peeked through the smaller glass door next to it. He saw a flash of motion inside the hangar and whipped his head back just as a shot rang out. A bullet shattered the glass.
