Operation Norfolk Read Online Free Page B
Author: Randy Wayne White
the dying, Hawker immediately turned his attention to the stairsâjust in time to see the feet, then legs, then body of the first man charge. Behind this first attacker, screaming wild battle cries, came four more, all firing at once.
The light in the room now was hazy with dust and falling plaster and gunpowder, and Hawker squinted over the barrel of the Commando, having no choice but to hold it on full automatic.
The first man winced, fell sideways over the railing, his arms thrown outward as if he might fly.
The next man staggered, stumbled, his white T-shirt splotched with blackish-red holes, then fell. And in that instant, the Colt Commando went silent, its clip empty.
Hawker raised the Smith & Wesson automatic carefully, held the iridescent orange competition sight on the third manâs chest forty yards away, fired ⦠missed ⦠fired again, and the slow-moving .45 slug hit the man in the head, snapping his neck back, breaking it, and most likely killing him before the lead entered the brain cavity.
All of this happened in an instant. The final Vietnamese in the charge had decided that the stairway was not the place to be. He vaulted over the railing, an Uzi submachine gun in his left hand. Hawker shot again with the .45, this time just pointing, not aiming, and had better luck. The slug hit the man in the left hip, spinning him in midair. He landed headfirst on the hard floor, kicking crazily for a moment, then lying still.
Then all was silentâa hollow, echoing, ticking silence of falling plaster dust and distant roar of the surf outside.
But there was something else too. What?
The vigilante strained to hear as he reloaded once more, strained to identify the sound. He finally realized what it might be.
It sounded like people outside ⦠like men running but trying not to be heard ⦠the foot-thud of men getting farther and farther away, not closer.
He finally realized that the rest of Con Ye Cwongâs gang of Norfolk drug runners were trying to flee, to escape.
The vigilante quickly reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of TH3 incendiary grenades. There might be more men, more drugs upstairs, and he didnât want any of these bastards or their narcotic poison to escape destruction.
But he sure as hell wasnât going to let the men outside escape, because they were, in all likelihood, the leaders. And the leaders in these kinds of low-life gangs were almost always the last to fight and the first to run.
Hawker drew the pins from both grenades, holding the safety arms until he was ready, then lobbed both canisters toward the far walls of the old mansion. Then he ran for cover, back toward the kitchen.
The grenades, armed with 750 grams each of thermite, exploded with a searing white flash of streaming white smoke rays. The thermite burned at more than 3,600 degrees Fahrenheit, and the vigilante could feel the terrible heat on his back as he ran, knowing the house would soon be entirely consumed by flames.
Outside now, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The temperature had fallen and a bitter autumn wind blew off the Chesapeake, through the bare trees. His clothes were still wet, clammy with sweat and salt water, and the wind stung as he ran into the yard, his Smith & Wesson holstered now but the assault rifle waist-high and ready. Behind him, the spreading fire cast an eerie orange glow on the windows of the mansion. Ahead of him, he could see dim figures on the dockâmen in a hurry.
When he heard the diesel rumble of engines starting, first one, then another, he knew immediately what it was. The survivors of Cwongâs Norfolk connection were trying to escape by sea, probably figuring it was the local cops or maybe the FBI who had hit them and that the roads werenât safe. They were probably going to take the big cruiser far enough down or up the coast until they figured it was safe, then maybe run it in close enough so they could
The light in the room now was hazy with dust and falling plaster and gunpowder, and Hawker squinted over the barrel of the Commando, having no choice but to hold it on full automatic.
The first man winced, fell sideways over the railing, his arms thrown outward as if he might fly.
The next man staggered, stumbled, his white T-shirt splotched with blackish-red holes, then fell. And in that instant, the Colt Commando went silent, its clip empty.
Hawker raised the Smith & Wesson automatic carefully, held the iridescent orange competition sight on the third manâs chest forty yards away, fired ⦠missed ⦠fired again, and the slow-moving .45 slug hit the man in the head, snapping his neck back, breaking it, and most likely killing him before the lead entered the brain cavity.
All of this happened in an instant. The final Vietnamese in the charge had decided that the stairway was not the place to be. He vaulted over the railing, an Uzi submachine gun in his left hand. Hawker shot again with the .45, this time just pointing, not aiming, and had better luck. The slug hit the man in the left hip, spinning him in midair. He landed headfirst on the hard floor, kicking crazily for a moment, then lying still.
Then all was silentâa hollow, echoing, ticking silence of falling plaster dust and distant roar of the surf outside.
But there was something else too. What?
The vigilante strained to hear as he reloaded once more, strained to identify the sound. He finally realized what it might be.
It sounded like people outside ⦠like men running but trying not to be heard ⦠the foot-thud of men getting farther and farther away, not closer.
He finally realized that the rest of Con Ye Cwongâs gang of Norfolk drug runners were trying to flee, to escape.
The vigilante quickly reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of TH3 incendiary grenades. There might be more men, more drugs upstairs, and he didnât want any of these bastards or their narcotic poison to escape destruction.
But he sure as hell wasnât going to let the men outside escape, because they were, in all likelihood, the leaders. And the leaders in these kinds of low-life gangs were almost always the last to fight and the first to run.
Hawker drew the pins from both grenades, holding the safety arms until he was ready, then lobbed both canisters toward the far walls of the old mansion. Then he ran for cover, back toward the kitchen.
The grenades, armed with 750 grams each of thermite, exploded with a searing white flash of streaming white smoke rays. The thermite burned at more than 3,600 degrees Fahrenheit, and the vigilante could feel the terrible heat on his back as he ran, knowing the house would soon be entirely consumed by flames.
Outside now, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The temperature had fallen and a bitter autumn wind blew off the Chesapeake, through the bare trees. His clothes were still wet, clammy with sweat and salt water, and the wind stung as he ran into the yard, his Smith & Wesson holstered now but the assault rifle waist-high and ready. Behind him, the spreading fire cast an eerie orange glow on the windows of the mansion. Ahead of him, he could see dim figures on the dockâmen in a hurry.
When he heard the diesel rumble of engines starting, first one, then another, he knew immediately what it was. The survivors of Cwongâs Norfolk connection were trying to escape by sea, probably figuring it was the local cops or maybe the FBI who had hit them and that the roads werenât safe. They were probably going to take the big cruiser far enough down or up the coast until they figured it was safe, then maybe run it in close enough so they could
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