cartridge was loaded into a vise there, where someone must have been working on it recently. One bullet, ready to go, if Chapel could reach it. No use at all, of course, without a rifle to load it into. Although—
“I can hear him wriggling around back there,” Michael called out. Chapel cursed silently as he heard men fanning out across the cellar, taking up firing positions, pinning him down. “There,” Michael said. “Behind those crates!”
There was no time left to lose. Chapel needed to move fast and fluid, just as he’d been trained. Even as he jumped up out of cover he was visualizing his moves, planning out exactly what he was about to do. The guards would have orders not to kill him. They would be jumpy, though, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation.
He was counting on it.
A row of conventional tools hung on hooks above the vise, including a standard ball peen hammer. Even as he ran forward, even as he heard the guards shouting and raising their weapons, he grabbed up the hammer and started to swing. If he missed—
The bullet in the vise was pointing toward the wall. The rear end of its casing was in front of him, a tiny little bull’s-eye of metal. The outer ring was the true casing, while the circle inside it was the primer, the initial explosive that would ignite the gunpowder propellant inside the casing. The primer was designed to explode when it was struck by the firing pin of a rifle.
In a pinch, a sharp blow from a hammer did just fine.
Chapel hit the bullet square on. The primer ignited the gunpowder and the bullet shot out of the casing, straight into the wall, harming no one. It did have the effect Chapel had intended, however. It made a sound exactly like a gunshot.
18.
“J esus, he’s armed!” someone screamed. The guards in the cellar dashed for cover, opening fire even as they scurried. Bullets whizzed around the cellar, striking chips of concrete off the walls, tearing through the wood of the crates. Chapel dove back into the maze of crates as bullets spun past his head and arms. The noise and the confusion were enough of a distraction. He hoped.
Working fast he kicked one of the crates over and then slammed the heel of his shoe against its lid until it popped open. Rifles packed in shredded newsprint spilled out onto the floor, their wooden stocks shiny with oil, their barrels dull with grease. He scooped one up and ducked low—the guards were still firing—as he headed for a row of shelves at the far end of the crate maze.
His luck ran out before he could get there. One of the guards, braver than the others, came skidding around the side of the crate maze, gun in hand. The man looked terrified but resolute as he started to raise his weapon.
Without thinking, Chapel lifted his AK-47 and pointed it at him. There was no clip in the gun. No bullets. The trigger wouldn’t even pull, but still he pointed the rifle as if he was going to spray the guard with lead.
He hadn’t even planned on bluffing like that. It had just been an instinctual motion, to raise one’s weapon in the face of an enemy. The Army had drilled that into him until it was a basic reflex.
The guard did what any smart person would do in that situation. He dropped his guns and held up his hands.
Chapel squinted at him, forcing eye contact. If the guard even glanced at Chapel’s weapon he would see it wasn’t loaded. Chapel couldn’t let that happen. He twitched the barrel of his rifle to the side, indicating that the guard should move away, out of the firing line. And the guard, mercifully, did, running back around the side of the crate maze and out of Chapel’s vision.
Chapel would have laughed if a half dozen people weren’t currently trying to kill him. He bent forward, straining against the improvised bandage on his midriff, and grabbed up the guard’s pistol. He checked the magazine and found it still had two rounds left. Better than what Chapel had had before. Still, he
“I can hear him wriggling around back there,” Michael called out. Chapel cursed silently as he heard men fanning out across the cellar, taking up firing positions, pinning him down. “There,” Michael said. “Behind those crates!”
There was no time left to lose. Chapel needed to move fast and fluid, just as he’d been trained. Even as he jumped up out of cover he was visualizing his moves, planning out exactly what he was about to do. The guards would have orders not to kill him. They would be jumpy, though, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation.
He was counting on it.
A row of conventional tools hung on hooks above the vise, including a standard ball peen hammer. Even as he ran forward, even as he heard the guards shouting and raising their weapons, he grabbed up the hammer and started to swing. If he missed—
The bullet in the vise was pointing toward the wall. The rear end of its casing was in front of him, a tiny little bull’s-eye of metal. The outer ring was the true casing, while the circle inside it was the primer, the initial explosive that would ignite the gunpowder propellant inside the casing. The primer was designed to explode when it was struck by the firing pin of a rifle.
In a pinch, a sharp blow from a hammer did just fine.
Chapel hit the bullet square on. The primer ignited the gunpowder and the bullet shot out of the casing, straight into the wall, harming no one. It did have the effect Chapel had intended, however. It made a sound exactly like a gunshot.
18.
“J esus, he’s armed!” someone screamed. The guards in the cellar dashed for cover, opening fire even as they scurried. Bullets whizzed around the cellar, striking chips of concrete off the walls, tearing through the wood of the crates. Chapel dove back into the maze of crates as bullets spun past his head and arms. The noise and the confusion were enough of a distraction. He hoped.
Working fast he kicked one of the crates over and then slammed the heel of his shoe against its lid until it popped open. Rifles packed in shredded newsprint spilled out onto the floor, their wooden stocks shiny with oil, their barrels dull with grease. He scooped one up and ducked low—the guards were still firing—as he headed for a row of shelves at the far end of the crate maze.
His luck ran out before he could get there. One of the guards, braver than the others, came skidding around the side of the crate maze, gun in hand. The man looked terrified but resolute as he started to raise his weapon.
Without thinking, Chapel lifted his AK-47 and pointed it at him. There was no clip in the gun. No bullets. The trigger wouldn’t even pull, but still he pointed the rifle as if he was going to spray the guard with lead.
He hadn’t even planned on bluffing like that. It had just been an instinctual motion, to raise one’s weapon in the face of an enemy. The Army had drilled that into him until it was a basic reflex.
The guard did what any smart person would do in that situation. He dropped his guns and held up his hands.
Chapel squinted at him, forcing eye contact. If the guard even glanced at Chapel’s weapon he would see it wasn’t loaded. Chapel couldn’t let that happen. He twitched the barrel of his rifle to the side, indicating that the guard should move away, out of the firing line. And the guard, mercifully, did, running back around the side of the crate maze and out of Chapel’s vision.
Chapel would have laughed if a half dozen people weren’t currently trying to kill him. He bent forward, straining against the improvised bandage on his midriff, and grabbed up the guard’s pistol. He checked the magazine and found it still had two rounds left. Better than what Chapel had had before. Still, he
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