Reflexive Fire - 01 Read Online Free Page B

trunk by 30mm autofire, crumpling frames and shattering windows, the massive holes seeming to appear from nowhere.  Utilizing the opportunity, Deckard fired.  Acting on muscle memory, he put the round right through the bridge of the bodyguard's nose, effectively dropping his target to the ground.
       Edging deeper into the warehouse, he picked up the pace as the large bore automatic cannon above tore through the roof as if it wasn't even there.  From the sound of J-Rod lowering his rate of fire to just a shot every few seconds, he knew he had to act quickly.  J-Rod was almost black on rounds.
       At the last row of classic cars he lay down on his side, looking under the frame of the vehicles for any bad guys, finding one foolishly kneeling down on the cement and occasionally firing a shot or two, attempting to seek out J-Rod's position.  Still on his side, Deckard swung the M4 up horizontally to his shoulder and lined up the red dot sight on the man's ankle.  Triggering a single shot, the Colombian fell to the ground howling, allowing Deckard to easily deliver a fatal shot to the back of his head, spraying a wash of gore across the floor.
       Another crack sounded as Pat fired on someone, just as another salvo came bursting through the rooftop from above.
       Swinging out around the vehicle on one knee, Deckard gained target acquisition on the nearest asesino standing a few meters behind the corpse he has just made.  His finger was tightening around the trigger when a crash thundered down in front of him, throwing him on his backside.  With his finger on the trigger he accidentally discharged a round into the air.
       The man had been split end from end, a 30mm round tearing down through the ceiling had sliced through flesh and bone, cracking him open like a lobster.  Two arms and a leg could be made out amid the intestines strewn out across the floor, but that was about all that was recognizable.  Deckard swallowed.  His nose filled with the sickly smell of blood, he realized he had been hosed with bits of bone and gore.
       Wearing khakis and a collared shirt left open to reveal a large gold cross, Ramirez sat at the edge of the pool of blood.  His pistol lay at his side while he had both hands on his forehead, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
       Snarling at the turn of events, Deckard got to his feet as Ramirez's face suddenly bulged outwards, the back of his head disappearing as it was taken off by a gunshot.  At this point Deckard was so deaf he didn't even register the shot.  The drug lord collapsed backwards, his blood mixing with that of his late comrade.
       “Mission complete,” a voice said from the darkness.
       Deckard spun toward the sound. 
       “Let's get the hell out of here,” Pat said stepping out of the shadows.
     

Two
     
       Depressing the magazine release on his M4, Deckard acknowledged two rounds in the mag, plus one in the chamber.
       “Grab what you can.  We need to go,” Deckard said.
       Pat ran back to retrieve J-Rod while Deckard consolidated the enemy's weapons.  The battlefield recovery netted a gold plated AK-47, one FN P90 sub-machine gun, a jewel encrusted 1911 pistol that had belonged to the former drug lord, and a CZ75 pistol with a spare magazine that Deckard shoved in his waistband. 
       A little cliché for a drug baron, but that was the kind of stuff they'd go in for, Deckard figured.  The way things were heading, he just hoped they all went 'bang' when he pulled the trigger.
       Pat made it back with J-Rod over his shoulder, just as he spotted the key box and flipped it open.
       “The Ferrari looks like it's about done,” J-Rod said, pointing to the Italian car riddled with 30mm craters.  “Maybe we can take the Lamborghini out for a spin?”
       “Not with your bum ankle,” Deckard said, grabbing a key.  “How about something a little more practical?”
       “A little more boring you mean,” he