PART THREE: THE LAST STAND
Chapter Three: The American Nightmare
I'd blown it big time. Still weak, still giddy, as good as dead. Nothing on my side but the gun, and next to their firepower I might as well have been armed with a Super-Soaker and a bottle of Perrier.
I'd made my way along the maze of tiled marble corridors that interlaced West's vast gothic manor, stumbling helplessly, my head swimming, my legs weak and fatigued. I'd met little resistance. So far, I figured, no-one had noticed I was out. If I was really lucky, I'd make it to West's office and be gone with the vaccine before any of them noticed. Back to Mona and then off into the sunset to safety.
No such luck.
I'd turned a corner into a short corridor with a huge pair of double wooden doors, flanked by a couple of marble pillars. There'd been a single goon, a shaky little rookie with an automatic twice the size of him. It should have been easy to bring him down.
Instead I'd turned the corner, fired the shot… and missed.
It socked home in the door behind him.
That was all he needed. As I lumbered into view, gun raised ready to get the next shot in, he had turned around and burst through the doors, screaming, "PAYNE! Holy Jesus, guys, it's Payne! PAYNE'S OUT!"
From behind the double-doors voices echoed back and fore. There was an army behind those doors, all fully armed, all now aware that I was a free man.
And now I stood on the other side, feeling sick, shaking like a dog, knowing full well the whole damn game was up. Soon as I stepped through that door they'd punch me so full of holes I'd look like a personal organiser.
Only one thing for it. I'd come too far to run away now.
Socked the bullets into the gun.
Stepped through the door.
"THERE!" a voice screamed.
There was an explosion of gunfire. I was in the main entrance hall of the manor, two storeys high, and both sides littered with fully armed goons. Behind me the wooden double-doors were blown to splinters, spraying flaming hunks of wood out into the marble corridor.
I rolled behind a marble vase stand, its piece probably priceless, and winced as gunfire shattered the ancient vase to so much jagged porcelain.
I had to fight back. I had to. Or I'd die.
I stood up, clutching the stolen Desert Eagles, and returned fire. Bullets ripped through one of the goons on the upper floor and he fell through the wooden barrier, hitting the tiles below with a meaty thud. Another behind him fell to his knees as a bullet took a line of flesh off the side of his mouth, splattering blood to the ground.
As I fell to my knees again, bullets whispering past my face, I let a few pot shots off into the nearest goon. I just caught a bullet rip through his chin and throat, shattering his spinal column and sending him slumping to the floor like a sack of meat.
The onslaught continued as I pushed up against the stand, the air around my head thick with smoke and cordite, the air a screaming symphony, a roar, a deafening scream.
And something else. Footsteps.
I glanced briefly behind me. Three adventurous goons were approaching, keeping me hidden by continuing to open fire on my spot. The marble stand was on the brink of collapsing.
No other choice but to turn around and face them.
I spun round again and opened fire like a madman, driving them back. The nearest goon gave me a look of utter horror as gunfire blew his intestines out through his back and he fell backwards, hitting a friend who registered unbelieving horror before a bullet terminated him as well.
The final goon continued firing, stepping aside nonchalantly as his comrades slumped dead to the floor, focussed now on nothing but my death. There were others, too – footsteps slamming hard down the stairs. Were they all about to fall for the same trick?
I slammed the marble arch backwards, using what little strength I had.
It hit the floor hard, breaking tiles. I spun round, shooting the nearest guard six times. The bullets ripped through his jittering body and wounded another goon behind him, his gun firing a brief coda into the air before he hit the tiles.
I was open now. I had to move, fast.
I ran for the centre of the room, firing now on nothing but instinct.
Around me guards fell in a giddying rain, bodies hitting the floor like rain, bullets flying past my head in a dream. I could have lived forever on those few seconds, slowing down, slamming hard on the trigger, watching man after man fall, watching the blood and the cordite and the smoke create a hideous fog.
As I came down, I fell to my knees in the centre of the room and threw up. Both gun barrels had clicked back nothing but dry emptiness. I'd emptied the clips.
The silence in the bright hall was deafening. At the top of the stairs, staring down at me over the corpse-littered floor with steely defiance, was a portrait of Senator West himself.
As I sat there on my knees in front of him I almost felt like laughing. Who was I kidding? This man, this baby-hugging millionaire politician with his loyal church support and his Young Republican fan-club, was busy putting the end of the world into action, and I was the only thing standing in his way – a stone-cold killer, a washed-up former alcoholic with nothing left but the gun. The American Nightmare come true.
I pushed up to my feet, fighting the urge to be sick again. The painkillers were starting to wear off. I could feel the first pangs of stinging pain in my wounds, brief flares that would be a prelude to what would follow them. I had to find something, anything to stave off the pain.
I staggered to the nearest guard, a young man with a neat goatee, a young man who might have gone on to be a doctor and to have saved lives, and plunged my hands into his blood-sticky pockets. Empty bar the few things that had probably meant everything to his short life – house keys, car keys, photo of his wife, driver's license. Worth nothing to me now.
It didn't have to be like this, I thought, searching another guard. I'd never wanted to kill these men. Fate had a pretty sick sense of humour. She figured it'd be a laugh to take away everything that had ever meant a damn to me, thrown me a gun and let me figure the rest out myself.
I'd have given anything to have been in bed with Michelle that night, staring at the smooth curves of her pale back, listening to her gentle breathing. With nothing to worry about but the mortgage and the groceries. No luck. None at all.
I promised myself I'd make it up to her. Promised her that, on my own life, I'd do anything to be redeemed for not saving her. Anything.
I hit gold on the fifth guard I searched. A small plastic beaker of simple painkillers, maybe a few the late guard had stashed for his headaches or a little toothache. With most of his guts painting the floor I doubted he'd have much use for it now.
I choked them back and walked to the stairs.
Raised my gun.
Put a bullet in the Honourable Senator West's grinning face.
And promised myself that this would end tonight, and on Michelle's grave that I wouldn't let him kill another. Not one more.
To be continued…
