The Enemy by Tom Wood Page A

pain and irritation, he wasn’t concerned about his eyes. He couldn’t see anyway. But he was fighting back coughing from the dust in his throat. He spat it out as quietly as he could.
    Someone started wailing and thrashing about, agony overriding the need for stealth. Krausse wasn’t trying to shut his man up this time. He didn’t want to give himself away and end up in a similar situation. Victor didn’t know if the other guy he’d shot at was dead or if he’d missed. He had to assume he was combat-ready. Shotgun had shown he could still shoot and Victor imagined Krausse now had a gun in his hands too. That made three enemies. The Glock had five rounds left. Not even enough for two shots at each. A slim margin for error, considering he was virtually blind.
    Victor kept low and moved away from the wall, found some more cover. His eyes streamed water. He kept his left hand out before him to feel his way around obstacles so he could blink rapidly to try to flush the dirt from his eyes.
    He changed position, proceeding slowly, conscious he was headingtowards the line of broken glass. With the shot guy’s screams masking every other sound, Victor needed to be careful not to collide with one of Krausse’s men. He didn’t know if they were stationary or moving about. If the stairs were on Victor’s side of the floor, he would have made a break for them, but the only exits were the far side of his enemies.
    Whoever was shot continued to scream, though the volume of his cries gradually diminished as the life drained from him. Another few minutes and he’d be silent. Hurry up and die so I can hear again, Victor silently encouraged.
    He managed to blink away the last of the grit from his eyes and could once more make out the Glock. The screams reduced to little more than a whimper until Victor could hear his own breathing. He held the Glock outstretched and waited for some indication of where Krausse and his men were located. He heard no movement, no panicked breaths, only the shot guy’s moans. Victor changed positions, moving towards the far side of the elevator.
    The floor creaked beneath his foot.
    In response two shotgun blasts hit a nearby stack of crates. Splinters of wood flew off in all directions. He felt some snag his suit jacket. He dropped prone as two handguns opened fire an instant later. Bullets thudded into the crates shielding him, zipped over his head.
    The firing didn’t cease. They were shooting at the general area, trusting to firepower and hoping to score a lucky hit. The noise was deafening. For Victor it was either stay put or make a break for it. Moving into the line of fire was a bad tactic, but lying still and hoping not to be hit seemed like an even worse course of action.
    Rounds continued to strike his position, hitting the floor, crates, and pillars. Shotgun pellets made a crater in the floorboards close enough for Victor to feel vibrations through the wooden planks. He knew he was running out of time.
    There was a lull in the shooting. A handgun stopped firing. At first, he thought someone was reloading, but he heard another sound between the other gunshots.
Water Music
by Handel.
    Victor didn’t let the advantage escape. He made his move, quickly peering around the stack of crates. He saw nothing. He tried the other side, and a split second before the phone went silent, Victor saw thefaint blue of the screen glowing through the thin fabric of Krausse’s cheap suit trousers.
    Victor angled the Glock and fired. Krausse screamed.
    Victor was up on his feet and moving before Shotgun returned fire. The huge flash from the end of the barrel briefly illuminated him and Victor shot back with a double tap. Shotgun fell sideways into an area of light near one of the windows. Very dead.
    The last gunman took a shot at Victor. The muzzle flashed on the far side of the warehouse, maybe sixty feet away. Victor fired, on the move, rushing closer. Too eager.
    He knew he’d missed before the returning