EndWar

Wind-whipped smoke appeared in the distant north. Vatz seized his binoculars and swore as one of the Russian helos fired rockets on the main roadblock. He’d been hoping they’d leave that obstacle to the mechanized infantry, but sometimes luck — and bullets — ran out.

Those local guys manning the roadblock couldn’t do much against that bird, and they wouldn’t last long. Vatz already felt the pang of their loss.

“Bali, this is Black Bear, over.”

The voice surprised Vatz, and he switched his Cross Com to an image piped in from Samson’s helmet camera. “Bear, this is Bali, go ahead, over.”

“Communications are back. Go figure. Anyway, we’ve taken out four enemy helos, but we got twenty, thirty Spetsnaz guys on the ground from at least two we didn’t get, moving toward the terminal, over.”

“Roger that. We destroyed our two helos. Still got one out by the northern roadblock. No location for the rest, over.”

“Yeah, I see the smoke.”

“Black Bear, hold them there. If we don’t get any more visitors, we’ll rally at your position, over.”

“Sounds good, Black Bear, out.”

Captain Godfrey, who was coordinating operations with Captain Rodriguez from 887, said those guys were sending a truck out to the roadblock to see if they could assist with fires on that helo.

Meanwhile, the thumping of more rotors drove Vatz to the opposite side of the roof. Down below, in the side street, a Ka-29 had just landed, and troops began pouring out.

He cursed, got back on the radio, told his boys to expect dismounts in the area.

Then he express-delivered another pair of guided munitions down on the helo through its canopy. He slipped the LC into his Blackhawk SERPA holster, took up his MR-C rifle, and fired down on the still-exiting infantry.

The Spetsnaz rushed around the chopper and began returning fire, rounds tearing up the stone balustrade as Vatz rolled back for cover.

“We have to get down,” he shouted to Godfrey, who was still speaking to Rodriguez. “They’re getting inside! They’ll come up and cut us off!”

“All right,” cried the captain.

Automatic weapons fire was already drumming from somewhere below as Vatz wrenched open the door leading to the dark stairwell.

He rushed down to the first landing, turned—

And locked gazes with a Spetsnaz troop below whose rifle was still pointed down.

While Vatz’s first reaction should’ve been to lift his rifle and fire, adrenaline had already taken over.

And muscle memory.

And a rage simmering deep down.

He launched himself from the landing and crashed down onto the guy before the enemy soldier could react. They fell onto the floor, the Russian’s rifle knocked free, Vatz’s weapon having dropped somewhere behind him.

The guy’s left hand was going for the pistol holstered at his waist. Vatz seized that wrist with his right hand, now unable to draw his own LC from the SERPA holster.

“Sergeant, get him!” shouted Godfrey, who had just reached the landing above.

But Vatz couldn’t stop the guy’s right hand from coming up to unsheathe a small neck knife dangling from a chain.

The troop thrust upward with the three-inch blade, and Vatz took hold of the guy’s wrist with the blade tip poised a few inches from his cheek.

The guy raged aloud, fighting against Vatz’s grip, as the captain yelled, “Move, I can’t get a shot!”

Drawing in a quick breath, Vatz did three things: released his grip on the trooper, threw his head back away from the blade, then forced himself onto his rump while drawing his LC.

He fired.

Nothing. What the…

Vatz realized in that horrible moment that he’d failed to switch the pistol from the guided munitions to the stacked 4.6 mm rounds for close quarters, which was why she clicked empty.

Another shot rang out from above: Godfrey.

But it was dark, and that round punched the wall beside the soldier.

The Russian went for his pistol.

Vatz thought of the Blackhawk caracara blade he always packed for those up-close and personal moments, but it was buried deep in one of his hip pockets.

The seven-inch fixed blade he carried, the Masters of Defense Mark V, was held tight in its sheath strapped farther down his hip.

But Marc Rakken’s prized balisong, the Venturi, was right there, in a narrow pocket much higher on his hip.

Sorry, Marc.

In the span of two heartbeats Vatz had the Venturi in his hand, pinky-popping the bottom latch, bite handle dropping then swinging up to lock the blade in the open position.

The Russian was sliding the pistol out of his holster—

Vatz dove forward for the kill, thrusting his blade deep into the soldier’s neck to sever his spinal cord.

Gunfire resounded over his shoulder, and Godfrey was there. He put a bullet in the guy’s head as Vatz withdrew the balisong’s Damascus blade.

“I put out the word to mask up,” said Godfrey. “Now that they know we’re here.”

Vatz rose, covered in blood. He closed the balisong and returned it to his pocket, then slid off his light pack to fish out his mask.