Operation Norfolk Read Online Free
Author: Randy Wayne White
breathless in the hollow silence. He heard a muted voice call something from upstairs and waited another full two minutes, hearing nothing else.
Maybe it was going to be okay after all; maybe these Vietnamese had gotten soft and fat over here in the land of free trade and could sleep through anything.
James Hawker made his way out of the kitchen, took two steps, and found out how wrong he was.â¦
four
Lights flashed on as Hawker stepped from the kitchen into some kind of huge hall, one of those rooms in mansions where they probably once held dinner parties and dances.
Lights flashed on, bright burglar spotlights in the high corners of the room, and before him, coming down the wide winding stairway, were three menâthree Vietnamese in baggy khakis and no shirts, with mussed hair, sparse black moustaches, and bellies hanging out. Each of them carried a weapon: one held a big chrome-plated .45 ACP, the other two Uzi submachine gun pistols.
The one carrying the .45 spotted Hawker first, screamed out something in Vietnamese, and fired from the hip. Plaster cracked over the vigilanteâs head, but first there was the echoing ker-WHACK that told him the slug had passed damn close to his head.
He dropped to the floor, belly first, and squeezed off two quick shots, the Colt Commando jolting in his arms and making that tinny fiberglass sound. The man holding the .45 was thrown backward, screaming. The pistol went tumbling into the air as his face disintegrated into a pulpy mess and his body fell down the steps, splattering blood on the white wall.
The other two men dove over the railing even though they were a half-dozen feet above the main floor. They reached the floor behind a table and chair set and began firing immediately, the big room echoing with gunfire.
Wood and glass and tile shattered all around the vigilante, and he fought the reaction to close his eyes and turn his head away because, in a fire fight, as in boxing, to close your eyes is to invite disaster.
With his thumb, Hawker hit the safety tang and the Commando switched to full automatic. Seeing the legs of one of the men, he fired off one short burst. A wild scream followed. The second man rose and tried to lunge to better cover. Hawker caught him in middive, cutting him down with a second burst that sent the man tumbling sideways, his whole body contorting with the impact of the 9-millimeter slugs.
Hawker jumped quickly to his feet, drew his own .45 Smith & Wesson, and saw the wounded man beyond the table. The man looked Hawker full in the face, his eyes bitter as he reached for the Uzi that lay beside his bleeding legs. But Hawker finished him before he could reach it. One careful shot to the head did the trick, the .45 jumping heavily in his hand.
In the glare of the burglar lights, Hawker yanked free the fresh clip that was taped to the Colt, ejected the old one, put it carefully in his pocket, and slid in the new one. As he sprinted across the room to the stairs, he carried the Commando in his left hand and the Smith & Wesson in his right.
The three corpses lay bleeding nearby, the air filled with the brassy stink of their blood and the odor of gunpowder. Hawker stopped on the bottom step, waiting.
Overhead he could hear the thudding shuffle of moving feet, could hear the occasional careless whisper of men trying to be quiet but not succeeding. A loud yell in Vietnamese, sounding like a question, changed all that. Hawker heard the question again.
The men upstairs were calling to the three dead men, hoping the intruder had been taken, hoping the intruder was dead. Hawker was tempted to answer back, to yell something, anything, just to get a reaction. But he didnât.
Then: âHey, you? Who down there? Anyone down there?â The person yelled from the second floor in broken English, his voice tentative, worried.
Once again the vigilante restrained the urge to call an answer, to taunt them. He waited ⦠then heard the same voice:
Maybe it was going to be okay after all; maybe these Vietnamese had gotten soft and fat over here in the land of free trade and could sleep through anything.
James Hawker made his way out of the kitchen, took two steps, and found out how wrong he was.â¦
four
Lights flashed on as Hawker stepped from the kitchen into some kind of huge hall, one of those rooms in mansions where they probably once held dinner parties and dances.
Lights flashed on, bright burglar spotlights in the high corners of the room, and before him, coming down the wide winding stairway, were three menâthree Vietnamese in baggy khakis and no shirts, with mussed hair, sparse black moustaches, and bellies hanging out. Each of them carried a weapon: one held a big chrome-plated .45 ACP, the other two Uzi submachine gun pistols.
The one carrying the .45 spotted Hawker first, screamed out something in Vietnamese, and fired from the hip. Plaster cracked over the vigilanteâs head, but first there was the echoing ker-WHACK that told him the slug had passed damn close to his head.
He dropped to the floor, belly first, and squeezed off two quick shots, the Colt Commando jolting in his arms and making that tinny fiberglass sound. The man holding the .45 was thrown backward, screaming. The pistol went tumbling into the air as his face disintegrated into a pulpy mess and his body fell down the steps, splattering blood on the white wall.
The other two men dove over the railing even though they were a half-dozen feet above the main floor. They reached the floor behind a table and chair set and began firing immediately, the big room echoing with gunfire.
Wood and glass and tile shattered all around the vigilante, and he fought the reaction to close his eyes and turn his head away because, in a fire fight, as in boxing, to close your eyes is to invite disaster.
With his thumb, Hawker hit the safety tang and the Commando switched to full automatic. Seeing the legs of one of the men, he fired off one short burst. A wild scream followed. The second man rose and tried to lunge to better cover. Hawker caught him in middive, cutting him down with a second burst that sent the man tumbling sideways, his whole body contorting with the impact of the 9-millimeter slugs.
Hawker jumped quickly to his feet, drew his own .45 Smith & Wesson, and saw the wounded man beyond the table. The man looked Hawker full in the face, his eyes bitter as he reached for the Uzi that lay beside his bleeding legs. But Hawker finished him before he could reach it. One careful shot to the head did the trick, the .45 jumping heavily in his hand.
In the glare of the burglar lights, Hawker yanked free the fresh clip that was taped to the Colt, ejected the old one, put it carefully in his pocket, and slid in the new one. As he sprinted across the room to the stairs, he carried the Commando in his left hand and the Smith & Wesson in his right.
The three corpses lay bleeding nearby, the air filled with the brassy stink of their blood and the odor of gunpowder. Hawker stopped on the bottom step, waiting.
Overhead he could hear the thudding shuffle of moving feet, could hear the occasional careless whisper of men trying to be quiet but not succeeding. A loud yell in Vietnamese, sounding like a question, changed all that. Hawker heard the question again.
The men upstairs were calling to the three dead men, hoping the intruder had been taken, hoping the intruder was dead. Hawker was tempted to answer back, to yell something, anything, just to get a reaction. But he didnât.
Then: âHey, you? Who down there? Anyone down there?â The person yelled from the second floor in broken English, his voice tentative, worried.
Once again the vigilante restrained the urge to call an answer, to taunt them. He waited ⦠then heard the same voice:
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