XII
Dylan stood in front of a set of metal doors. Behind them, a handful of Russian gangsters waited for him. If Dylan had had more time, he could have rigged something to blow the doors. He released the magazines in his guns, reloaded, and cocked the slide guns. He took a short breath before slamming his foot into the doors. The doors swung open and crashed into the wall. He stepped into the waiting room.
Dozens of people sat in the waiting room. Eight were armed, the rest shaking civilians. Two red dots appeared on Dylan's chest. He followed the lasers back to two AK-47s. Many of the other Russians pointed smaller guns at the hostages. Only one man pointed his weapon at the ground.
"Drop your weapon."
"You must be the man in charge," Dylan said.
"I said drop your weapon," the man repeated. "The name is Albert Vasiliev."
Dylan lifted his gun at Albert. "Tell your men to back off."
"Or what? You'll shoot me?"
The leader of the Russians reached over and grabbed a blonde girl by her ponytail. He took a long silver revolver and placed it against the side of her head. Tears flowed down the girl's face as she shook back and forth. He crouched down, hiding most of him behind the girl.
Vasiliev pulled the hammer back on his revolver. "Holster your weapons, or I shoot this girl in the head. You have until the count of five."
Dylan didn't move. He locked his eyes on Vasiliev's. "One." He slowed his breathing. "Two." Dylan's arm steadied. His target small, his margin for missing none. "Three." A gunshot rang out.
Albert's revolver fell from his hand. Smoke flowed from Dylan's pistol as a bullet casing hit the ground next to him. Albert fell to the floor. The right side of his skull was gone, with a bullet hole where his eye was. The girl dropped to her knees.
"OK," Dylan said. "Put the guns down, boys."
The men didn't move; they just stared at Dylan. Their eyes were wide.
"Do any of you think you're still getting paid? You can put a bullet in me, but you still have to find the prosecutor. She's more than likely left the building."
"That was our boss's youngest son."
"Really?" Dylan said, "his youngest son?"
The men all nodded. "You're a dead man."
"Well, it was a good try."
They all raised their guns and shot. Dylan ran to the admissions desk and dived over it. Bullets tore into the desk; some shot through only inches from Dylan's head. He waited, eyes closed, breathing in and out, and counted. The gunfire paused, and his eyes opened.
Dylan stood and shot. He ran through the magazine in his pistol in moments. Russian after Russian fell bullet holes tearing apart body. He switched guns and continued firing.
His guns emptied he ran to the nearest Russian. The man swung to fire his AK only to find Dylan in front of him. The men struggled for a second until Dylan elbowed him across his face. Dylan stripped the gun from his hands.
Others readied to fire. Dylan grabbed the now unarmed Russian and pulled him in front of him. The two forces pointed their weapons, but neither fired. The Russian gangster didn't want to fire on their comrade. For Dylan, a few of the civilians were attempting to crawl away.
One stepped forward. The shield Dylan used shook as he struggled, but Dylan's forearm across his throat stopped him from moving too far. The standoff ended when a Russian fired into their friend three times.
Dylan squeezed his trigger. His AK fired as the Russians returned fire. Dylan's human shield ripped to shreds, and Dylan fell back. He ran out of ammo, and his rifle stopped. Dylan pulled the carcass across him making his body look as bloody as possible. He reached into his jacket and wrapped his fingers around one of his throwing knives.
Three of the eight Russians remained. They walked up to the blown apart carcass. Dylan lay on his side, his body covered in blood. One of them bent down to flip him over to confirm the kill.
"Not so tough now." He touched Dylan's shoulder.
Dylan rolled over and stabbed the man through the heart. The last two men pointed their guns and prepared to fire.
A loud boom and one of the Russians fell to his knees, his back and chest ripped apart. The last Russian turned around. Miles stood at the entrance to the ER, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. He pointed the gun at the last Russian and fired. The Russian's head ripped to pieces as the pellets traveled through him.
Miles walked farther in and offered Dylan a hand up. "Getting rusty."
Dylan took Miles's hand and rose. He stumbled over to where the silver revolver lay and put the hammer back down.
He turned toward the blonde girl. "Are you OK?"
She grabbed Dylan and hugged him. "Thank you." Small tears ran down her face.
Dylan broke off the hug and turned to the door.
