Chapter 36 - The Breach on the Third Floor
The heavy oak door of Room 314 shuddered under a single, violent kick.
The deadbolt snapped like brittle plastic, and the door burst inward. The first operator entered with his carbine up, his tactical light illuminating the empty hospital bed and the tangled white sheets.
"Target not in bed," the operator began into his throat mic.
Those were the last words he ever spoke.
From the dead space behind the door, Mack lunged. He didn't use the shotgun—in tight quarters, steel was quieter and faster. His heavy combat blade plunged beneath the operator's chin, angling upward into the cranial vault with terrifying precision. Mack twisted the blade and shoved the dying soldier forward into the second man entering the threshold.
"Contact! Interior!" the second man yelled, stumbling under the weight of his comrade's corpse.
Mack brought the Benelli up and pulled the trigger.
*BOOM!*
The deafening blast in the enclosed room was catastrophic. Double-aught buckshot ripped through the second operator’s chest plate at point-blank range, lifting him off his feet and hurling him back into the corridor like a puppet with cut strings. Plaster, shattered ceiling tiles, and blood sprayed across the corridor walls.
"Down! Take the door!" the lead contractor in the hall screamed.
Two flashbang grenades arced through the doorway, bouncing across the linoleum.
Mack dove behind the heavy metal bed frame, clamping his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut.
*CRACK-BANG!*
A blinding white flash and a concussive shockwave ripped through the room, shattering the remaining window panes and tearing the curtains from their rods. Smoke poured through the doorway as the two remaining operators rushed the threshold, their carbines chattering in suppressed bursts, chewing the mattress and the walls into shredded cotton and dust.
Beneath the bed, Leo curled into a ball, his hands pressed tightly against his ears, tears streaming down his face as dust rained down on his hair.
Mack rolled out from behind the bed frame, his ears ringing with high-pitched agony. He raised the Benelli, but a three-round burst from the corridor caught him in the right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the shotgun from his grip.
Mack slammed against the wall, gasping, blood soaking through his flannel shirt.
A tall, masked operator stepped through the ruined doorway, raising his rifle, aligning the red dot directly with Mack’s chest.
"Semper Fi, old man," the contractor sneered.
"Wrong branch, asshole," Mack spat, grinning through bloody teeth. "We were Navy."
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Behind the contractor, the emergency exit door at the end of the hall flew off its hinges with the force of a battering ram.
***
