Operation Norfolk Read Online Free Page A
Author: Randy Wayne White
âYou policeee? You no have warrant, we make big stink, yes? You have warrant? We know rights, yes? We have big lawyer, make big stink!â
The vigilante let the deadly silence answer, let the silence grate at the men upstairs, knowing that it was getting to them when the voice yelled, âWe kill you, motherfucker! We kill you, no chance you escape now!â
Hawker waited with growing confidence. But when he heard the hydraulic clank and whir of something moving, he realized that a house this big would likely have more than one passageway upstairs. Was the noise that of an elevator?
The thought had hardly entered his mind when two more men came charging into the room. They came sprinting through, almost firing before they jumped from the service elevator, spraying the room with slugs from big, brutal-looking AK-47s with scythe clips, standard Soviet issue.
The vigilante didnât have a moment to think. He dropped to the floor and opened fire in return, holding the Commando on full automatic, squeezing off shots with the Smith & Wesson, laying a withering cover of fire that slammed his attackers in their tracks. They were dead before they hit the ground.
Hawker turned quickly back toward the stairs knowing that, if they charged him from above now, he was deadâdead because both his weapons were nearly spent. Holding his breath in that microsecond, already sliding out of his pack, Hawker reached for the explosives. They would be his only hope.
But the men did not charge. They waited like the cowards they were, hoping their Kamikazes would put him away before they had to show their faces.
The vigilante quickly popped fresh clips into both the Colt Commando assault rifle and the .45, his hands deadly calm, in perfect control. This was what James Hawker did better than anything else, and probably better than anyone who had ever done it. This was what he lived for, tough missions in the dark of night, fighting on unfamiliar turf where he knew his total detachment and lack of emotion were the only edge he had.
Again came the voice at the top of the stairs, calling in Vietnamese for an answer, hoping his fellow gang members would yell back that the intruder was dead, the trouble over.
Hawker let silence be his only answer as he waited, the solid metal of his weapons now warm in his hands, fully loaded and ready.
Then he heard something odd. Something heavy thudded onto the stairs, thudded and rolled. He realized what the noise was just in time and dove down the hall, the stair wall protecting him as a hand grenade exploded. It was a shrapnel offensive grenade, and it brought plaster raining down and filled the room with dust from the percussion.
Hawker thought, They know this is a fight to the finish, or else they wouldnât have tried that ⦠wouldnât have blown up part of their own house even if they are slobs.
But he didnât have time to think about anything else, because then they came charging at himâfrom the stairs and from the set of wide double doors that led to the outside, coming at him from both directions.â¦
five
Hawker took the men coming through the door first, reasoning in that millisecond that the men upstairs were the least anxious to attack. They would probably be a few steps slower, hoping it would be over before they had to put their lives on the line.
That one bit of reasoning probably saved the vigilanteâs life.
As the three men came crashing through the doorway, Hawker held the trigger of the Commando on full fire, pointing it carefully back and forth, trying to conserve a few rounds, seeing the menâs faces grow wide-eyed with shock as the slugs slammed home, tearing through their bodies. And in those long seconds, his back was completely unprotected; they could have taken him from the stairs at their leisure, gunned him down in perfect safety.â¦
But they laid off just long enough.
When the open doorway was filled with only the screams of
The vigilante let the deadly silence answer, let the silence grate at the men upstairs, knowing that it was getting to them when the voice yelled, âWe kill you, motherfucker! We kill you, no chance you escape now!â
Hawker waited with growing confidence. But when he heard the hydraulic clank and whir of something moving, he realized that a house this big would likely have more than one passageway upstairs. Was the noise that of an elevator?
The thought had hardly entered his mind when two more men came charging into the room. They came sprinting through, almost firing before they jumped from the service elevator, spraying the room with slugs from big, brutal-looking AK-47s with scythe clips, standard Soviet issue.
The vigilante didnât have a moment to think. He dropped to the floor and opened fire in return, holding the Commando on full automatic, squeezing off shots with the Smith & Wesson, laying a withering cover of fire that slammed his attackers in their tracks. They were dead before they hit the ground.
Hawker turned quickly back toward the stairs knowing that, if they charged him from above now, he was deadâdead because both his weapons were nearly spent. Holding his breath in that microsecond, already sliding out of his pack, Hawker reached for the explosives. They would be his only hope.
But the men did not charge. They waited like the cowards they were, hoping their Kamikazes would put him away before they had to show their faces.
The vigilante quickly popped fresh clips into both the Colt Commando assault rifle and the .45, his hands deadly calm, in perfect control. This was what James Hawker did better than anything else, and probably better than anyone who had ever done it. This was what he lived for, tough missions in the dark of night, fighting on unfamiliar turf where he knew his total detachment and lack of emotion were the only edge he had.
Again came the voice at the top of the stairs, calling in Vietnamese for an answer, hoping his fellow gang members would yell back that the intruder was dead, the trouble over.
Hawker let silence be his only answer as he waited, the solid metal of his weapons now warm in his hands, fully loaded and ready.
Then he heard something odd. Something heavy thudded onto the stairs, thudded and rolled. He realized what the noise was just in time and dove down the hall, the stair wall protecting him as a hand grenade exploded. It was a shrapnel offensive grenade, and it brought plaster raining down and filled the room with dust from the percussion.
Hawker thought, They know this is a fight to the finish, or else they wouldnât have tried that ⦠wouldnât have blown up part of their own house even if they are slobs.
But he didnât have time to think about anything else, because then they came charging at himâfrom the stairs and from the set of wide double doors that led to the outside, coming at him from both directions.â¦
five
Hawker took the men coming through the door first, reasoning in that millisecond that the men upstairs were the least anxious to attack. They would probably be a few steps slower, hoping it would be over before they had to put their lives on the line.
That one bit of reasoning probably saved the vigilanteâs life.
As the three men came crashing through the doorway, Hawker held the trigger of the Commando on full fire, pointing it carefully back and forth, trying to conserve a few rounds, seeing the menâs faces grow wide-eyed with shock as the slugs slammed home, tearing through their bodies. And in those long seconds, his back was completely unprotected; they could have taken him from the stairs at their leisure, gunned him down in perfect safety.â¦
But they laid off just long enough.
When the open doorway was filled with only the screams of
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