Aim And Fire - Cliff Ryder

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the usual—hip-deep in shit.” Nate heard a flurry of shots from the front of the store, and knew the other two agents had bottled up anyone trying to leave—at least he hoped that’s what was happening. Another boom from the front made him wince. “Goddammit, these bastards are fuckin’ with the wrong guys. Take the right, I’ll take left, let’s see if we can pin ’em in a cross fire,” he said.

      Hernando nodded and rolled over to a rack of crates, rising and ducking into the shadows of the warehouse. Nate checked George again, finding his breathing had steadied. “How you doin’?” he asked.

      “All right—just prop me against the jamb, and I’ll cover the back.”

      Nate nodded admiringly. He’s tougher than I thought. “You got it. Let’s give ’em something to think about first.” Sticking his pistol around the corner, he shot three times toward where the shotgun blasts had erupted. He propped George against the back wall. “Medics will be here soon enough. Keep your powder dry.”

      George coughed, but held his pistol steady. “Go get ’em.”

      Nate fired two more rounds, reloaded, then ran to the other side, hunching against the expected fire. Just as he ducked behind the parts rack, the shotgun roared again, and the corner of a wooden crate exploded into jagged splinters. But the shot had given him valuable information—he now knew the shooter’s location.

      Nate looked up at the sturdy shelves around him and decided to take the high ground. Holstering his gun, he had just gotten a firm handhold when a shape barreled out of the shadows toward him. Caught in the act of lifting himself up, Nate had just turned his head when the man tackled him at the waist, shoving him off the rack and to the concrete floor. The breath rushed out of Nate’s lungs, and pain stabbed through his elbow and knee. Pinned by his attacker, he couldn’t snake an arm around to his pistol, and was forced to throw up his hurt arm to keep the man’s clutching hand away his throat. Squirming, he ended up flat on his back, with the attacker sitting on top of him and throwing wild punches at his face. Dodging a swing that grazed his cheek, Nate lashed out with his fist, clouting the man’s head so hard he rocked back. The agent hooked his arm underneath the smuggler’s leg and heaved him over. Rolling, Nate threw a knee into the man’s chest, doubling him up, then scrambled to his feet and slammed his opponent in the head twice with his boot heel. The man struggled to his hands and knees, but Nate put him right back down with another hard shot to the back of the neck. He checked his pistol, then keyed his mike.

      “Hernando, come in. Hernando, do you read?”

      Nate didn’t even hear the hiss of static, but instead caught a rattle of something broken inside the radio. He dropped the useless device and hoisted himself up the shelves while ignoring his throbbing elbow and knee. Scrambling up and over the final row of boxes, Nate began creeping in the direction he had last heard the shotgunner fire from. It had now gone ominously silent.

      Geez, I could really use that radio now, he thought, since he had no idea who was dead or alive, who was shot or not. He couldn’t even hear any sirens in the distance, and wasn’t sure when any backup would arrive. For all he knew, he was on his own.

      He heard the noise as the shotgun slide racked again and another boom thundered through the cavernous warehouse. Nate homed in on the sound, climbing over the uneven terrain of boxes and crates, his pistol always pointing toward the direction of the shotgun fire. At one point he had to leap from one rack to another. He barely made it, dangling from one arm for a few tense moments. When he was safely positioned again, he took a second not only to listen, but also to try to calm his jackhammering heart.

      Should be close now, Nate thought, peering over the edge to see if he could spot the gunner in the gloom of the warehouse. In the sudden quiet, the faint scream of sirens reached his ears, and he knew if they didn’t take this guy soon, he would bolt. He reached the end of a row and looked over again. Spotting a crouched form, he raised his pistol and aimed, but pointed it toward the ceiling when he saw Hernando moving cautiously through the racks. Nate instinctively reached for his radio again, silently cursing when he remembered it was on the floor. He considered trying to get the other agent’s attention, but didn’t want to risk giving away his position.

      Standing slowly, he looked in all directions, wondering where in the hell their common enemy was. The slam of a door at the front of the warehouse drew his attention, along with Hernando’s, and another loud blast echoed as the jumpy shotgunner loosed more buckshot in that direction. This time it sounded as if the guy was directly below him, and Nate stepped to the far side of the rack in time to see the man taking cover behind a pile of boxes, his scattergun aimed at the end of the row. Nate glanced over to see Hernando appearing from around the end, squinting to see the smuggler in the gloom.

      Nate extended his gun and yelled, “Drop it!” The shotgunner blinked in surprise and raised the scattergun. Nate squeezed the HK’s trigger twice and two 165-grain hollow-points smashed into the man’s chest, dropping him where he crouched.

      Hernando ran up and kicked the shotgun away as the sirens finally echoed off the buildings as cars pulled up. “I got mine on the other side. You?” he asked.

      “Number three’s sleeping off a kiss from my boot up front. The other two probably lit out for the front.” Nate clambered down the rack, sliding the last several feet. “Cuff him, and I’ll clear the store.” Running from rack to rack, he reached the set of double doors, which now sported several bullet holes and a spiderwebbed Plexiglas window. “Carter? Juan?” he called out.

      “In here!” Carter replied.

      Still keeping his pistol ready, Nate eased the door open, not wanting to walk into another ambush. The storefront looked like a war zone, with damaged cardboard display racks lying on their sides amid fluttering car-parts brochures. A black puddle of oil slowly grew from rows of blasted, leaking containers. As Nate walked forward, he heard Carter’s voice counting steadily.

      “One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five.” Pause. “One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five—come on, dammit, breathe! Where’s the damn medics?”

      Nate ran through the racks to the far side of the store, where the damage was even worse. The counter had taken so many bullets and shotgun blasts that it had broken in two, the pieces leaning against each other. An overhead fan lazily stirred the smoky air. Nate spotted two bodies right away, one behind the counter, the other near the door, brought down while trying to make a break for it.

      Seeing his two remaining men on the floor in the center of the room, however, chilled Nate’s heart. Agent Juan Menendez lay unmoving, his side a soaked mass of blood. Next to him, his partner leaned over and performed chest compressions, stopping after every fifth pump to breathe into his partner’s mouth.

      “We need those medics in here now!” Nate shouted over his shoulder as he ran to them. “Stay on mouth-to-mouth—I’ve got this.” Locking his arms, he began chest compressions, leaning in to drive the wounded man’s breastbone down and manually keep his heart pumping blood. “Come on, Juan, you still haven’t given me that damn barbeque recipe yet, and I ain’t lettin’ you go until I get it!”

      The two agents continued CPR until the medics arrived a few minutes later, but Nate knew it was a lost cause. Juan had shown no response to their ministrations, and even electric shocks directly to the heart had done nothing. In the end, the agent was taken out in an ambulance with the lights flashing on its way to the hospital, but Nate was pretty sure they would call it on the way. He put his hand on Carter’s shoulder. “Sorry, man.”

      “There’s still a chance—they might save him at the hospital….”

      “Yeah, he might pull through—Juan’s a tough old bastard.” What else could he say? he wondered. “Come on, we better get back and clean up the rest of this mess.”

      He helped the shaken Carter through the ruined shop and into the back room, where apparent chaos was unfolding. Uniformed El Paso police officers were everywhere, cordoning off the area, taking pictures and trying to keep some semblance of order. “Aw, Jesus Christ.” Nate shook his head

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