Only they don’t realize I can’t get inside.
My stomach sinks as I approach the van. The plate is splashed with mud. The windows are blacked out completely. There’s no doubt in my mind what’s inside, and I wish it weren’t true.
I wish it didn’t mean what I know it means.
A part of me still resists the truth. Even as I walk to the driver’s side door and tap on the glass with the barrel of my rifle.
The window rolls down. The man looking out has dark hair, dark eyes, and a thick beard. “Ah, hello, yes, I don’t?—”
I aim the gun at his face. “How many in the back?”
“I don’t know?—”
“How many?”
The rear door kicks open. I pull the trigger, spraying the driver, the high-caliber bullets ripping his skull to pieces and continuing through to pierce the passenger.
I hold the trigger down, unloading the magazine as I turn the rifle toward the side of the van. I spray like a madman, filling the interior with M855 “Green Tip” rounds with a nice steel penetrator core, made for this exact purpose. Men inside scream as the bullets wreck their armor, finding soft spots, exploding tissue. I eject my spent magazine and reload with another, dropping to one knee as men tumble out the open back door.
I gun them down. I don’t hesitate. I blow apart three men before I walk around toward the back, their corpses riddled with massive wounds, blood pumping onto the asphalt. The interior of the van is a slaughterhouse: three more dead and one wounded.
Someone’s running. I step to the side, get a clear shot, and take it. The fucker goes down, with a hole in the middle of his back, center mass. I stalk over and finish him off before returning to the van.
I check to make sure we’re alone. All dead. I have maybe a few minutes before the cops show up. There’s no way in hell a neighbor didn’t call this in.
I kneel down in front of the wounded man. He’s gasping for air. The bullet must’ve hit a lung. Red foams at his mouth, but he seems relatively stable. For now at least.
I shove my knee against his sternum. His eyes go wide as he starts to choke.
“Who told you to come here tonight?” I wait a moment before easing the pressure.
He wheezes, letting out a sob. “Please. Help.”
“Who told you to come here tonight?”
“Please. I don’t. Know. Nobody. Tells me.” He holds out a hand, slick with blood. “Please. Help.”
“Why did you come here? What was your plan?”
“Stop. You. Get. The book.” He groans when I push my knee down again. This time, I don’t let up. I hold it there, staring into his face as panic takes hold. He struggles, flopping, but there’s no strength left in him.
I give the bastard a slow, painful death. I watch him slow, slow, slow, and fade, until there’s nothing left.
Just a van filled with meat.
I jump out, shouldering my rifle. All told, that took five minutes. I walk back to my car, throw my gear in the back, and get behind the wheel. I’ll have to dump this vehicle at a friendly shop and have it cleaned and flipped.
But I don’t pull out.
In the distance, the wail of sirens. Cops really are on the way. I stare straight ahead, rage bubbling in my stomach.
Rage and an ugly despair.
“Fuck.” I slam the steering wheel. “Fuck. Fuck!” I hit the wheel over and over again.
That don’t make me feel any better.
“Fuck.” I lean my head back and let out a long breath. “Fucking fuck.”
