Apartment Firefight

 

She burst into the room, removed her mask, and looked for a place to hide the letter. She ripped it out from beneath her bullet-proof vest, fear gripping her. 

“They’re coming, Rachel,” said her husband, Ryan Cloverfield.  

She looked at the man behind her. His six-foot-three frame filled the doorway of the small apartment and blocked out the gray, overcast sky behind him. He had a Captain America-like physique, complete with huge biceps and barrel chest. 

“I know,” she said. She gripped her 9MM Walther PPQ harder. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good fight,” Ryan said, smiling. He whipped two .44 Mag Ruger Redhawks from side holsters. In the same motion, he replaced them, his smile disappearing. 

Rachel swept a lock of bright red hair out of her face as a wave of panic hit her. 

“We can’t let them find this!” she cried, on the verge of tears. 

“Don’t plan to.” 

A splintering sound filled the small apartment as their pursuers kicked in the door. The door swung in and a man jumped into the apartment. Ryan neutralized him with a roundhouse kick that sent him flying. Ryan jumped over, picked him up and threw him through the door and into a stream of black-clad assassins, pushing them back. He unstrapped an M4 carbine from his back and fired a burst through the door, dropping some and sending the others running. 

“It’s not going to work now! Let’s get out of here and find another place!” Ryan grunted, throwing an assassin off him and double-tapping him in the chest with one of his Redhawks. 

Rachel bit her lip, trapped in the grasp of indecision. The window behind her shattered and she stiffened as the cold steel of a rifle barrel jabbed her in the back.  

“Drop your weapons, lady,” the owner of the rifle growled.  

She spun to the side and grabbed the barrel. She felt the heat of the bullet as it seared through it. She jerked the rifle forward, throwing the assassin of balance, then thrust the rifle back, sending the assassin flying from the three-story window. 

“This way! Through the window!” she called to Ryan, who had picked up two assassins and was bashing their heads together. He dropped them and turned. 

“Go! Go! Go!” he bellowed, dispatching another assassin with a .44 slug, “I’ll cover you!” 

She plunged through the window and rolled on impact, just as Ryan had taught her. She came up on her feet, drawing her pistol and training it on her surroundings. She watched Ryan’s tracer rounds race through the light rain and drop assassins that had been waiting for them. She ran through the parking lot, taking cover behind a car. She winced as bullets crashed into the car. She heard the thud and grunt of Ryan hitting the ground.  

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Move!” Ryan yelled as he sprinted past, zig-zagging. 

She ran, trying to keep up with him, but knowing it was almost impossible, he was just a blur, going impossibly fast. 

Bullets hit all around her, throwing up chunks of asphalt.  Rachel watched as an assassin jump out from behind an SUV right in front of Ryan. Ryan didn’t slow. He plowed right into him, throwing him back into the side of the car.  

Ryan yank a radio from his belt and yelled their coordinates into it. He replaced it on his belt and grabbed his M4 from his back and fired short bursts, blowing out car windows and sending assassins into hiding.  

An armored Suburban peeled off the nearby highway and roared through the parking lot, heading straight for them, rapidly closing the distance.  

An assassin jumped into the open behind her, M16 leveled. Rachel knew she couldn't dodge in time. Everything slowed into slow motion. She imagined his trigger finger growing tighter and tighter around the trigger, getting closer and closer to ending her life.  

CRASH! 

The Suburban came out of nowhere and slammed into the gunman, crushing him like a pop can. The driver rolled down the window and screamed for them to jump in. Rachel turned and sprinted for it, with Ryan just a couple beats behind her. He’s like the Flash! she thought, smiling in spite of her self.  The driver rolled up his window and another agent in the back opened their door. Rachel had almost made it when Ryan tackled her, sending them both airborne and through the door. Ryan slammed the door, just as a burst of machine-gun fire reached them.  

Rachel collected herself and rose from the floor, smiling at her husband.  “Thank you,” she said, kissing him. 

“Least I could do,” he said, his smirk not hiding the fire of battle in his eyes. He ejected the spent magazine from his M4 and replaced it with a fresh one.