Red Shark

Scott heard bursts of gunfire. Next he heard shouts, then a grenade exploding somewhere outside. Holdouts. Fat might be among them and Scott hoped that he wasn’t dead, because he needed Fat alive and talking.

He eased down a hallway and stopped outside Fat’s bedroom, which he recognized from its red satin walls and the bed, big enough to serve as the flight deck of a carrier. Only Navy F-18 Hornets were missing.

Scott slowly pushed the bedroom door open with the muzzle of his M4, the Sig in his left hand, ready if needed. He peeked in. The place was a mess. The bed had been torn apart; clothing, purple satin pillows, and scores of video cassettes and magazines were strewn all over the carpeted floor. There was no sign of Fat, nor any of the naked girls Scott had seen on the MAV monitor. And there was no sign of the downed MAV itself, which had to be retrieved. Then he felt something hard in the small of his back and knew it was a weapon, probably a fully automatic one.

“Fuck you, dude.”

She had a tiny voice, like a child’s.

“Not so big shot now, huh, dude? You drop guns or I shoot.”

“No shoot.”

Scott bent his knees and slowly lowered both safed weapons to the floor.

“Now you raise hands.”

She didn’t order him to stop as he slowly turned around to see that he faced one of the girls he’d seen working on Fat’s limp cock. She was small breasted, slim, and very pretty, and naked except for bright red bikini panties and the AK-47 in her hands. Scott estimated she was seventeen or eighteen years old, probably mainland Chinese. But lurking behind the delicate young beauty he saw a woman as hard and merciless as the two women shooters he’d killed on the veranda.

She thrust the AK-47 at Scott. “Hey dude, want to fuck me, huh?”

“Not now.”

She lowered the AK and shoved its muzzle against Scott’s crotch. “Hey dude, got a hard-on?” she taunted, shoving Scott against the wall.

“No, no hard-on,” he said.

“No? You no want to fuck me? Then maybe I blow you balls off, yes?”

Scott wondered what action-hero videos she’d watched to perfect her technique. He knew by the look on her face that she’d do it.

“What you say about that, dude?”

“No, no blow off balls.”

She drew back and spit in Scott’s face. “Fuck you, American.” She lifted the assault rifle from his crotch and planted its muzzle under his right eye, her tiny hand wrapped tightly around the wooden grip. “Maybe I kill you now.” Her tiny finger wiggled on the trigger.

A burst of gunfire that sounded like a string of firecrackers going off made her jump. Scott thought to rush her and knock the weapon aside, but she recovered and slammed the AK’s muzzle into his chest, driving him against the wall.

Scott heard boots beating up the stairs at the end of the hallway. “Skipper, you up here?” It was Ramos.

The girl swung the rifle around, toward the stairs. Scott made a grab for it, but she saw it coming and swung the weapon back. He threw up a forearm to fend it off, but the AK’s barrel cracked into the side of his head.

“Skipper!”

A blinding hot muzzle flash and a deafening, stuttering roar erupted as the girl walked the AK across the ceiling, bringing down plaster and debris on their heads. Before Scott could act, she fired a long burst into Ramos, almost cutting him in half, blowing him backward down the stairs.

Stunned from the blow to his head, Scott lunged at the girl but missed and went down on all fours. He saw his pistol, snatched it off the floor, and came up in a shooter’s crouch, ready to fire, but he didn’t. The girl, covered with plaster dust, had the AK leveled not at Scott but at McCoy Jefferson.

On his haunches at the top of the stairs, left hand splayed against the wall to keep his balance, Jefferson had his M4 aimed at the girl, its barrel rising and falling in time to his rapid heartbeat.

The girl had her eyes planted on Jefferson. After a long moment she snapped her head around to look at Scott, then back at Jefferson. Scott had never seen eyes so wild as hers.

“Fuck you, dudes!” she shrieked in a voice that left no doubt about what she intended.

Jefferson fired a burst that hit her in the face. Her head twisted out of shape before it exploded into chunks of brain tissue and splinters of white bone.

In was over in an instant. The hallway smelled of cordite, blood, and feces. A haze of eye-stinging smoke parted as Jefferson inched forward to make sure the girl, in a heap against the wall, was down for good. He saw that she was and only then lowered his weapon. He looked up at Scott standing with the unfired Sig held loosely in his right hand. He was covered with plaster dust and spattered with the girl’s blood and brain tissue. Red flecks clung to his cheeks and matted hair.