Denver, Colorado, USA 12 July 2017 1849 Hours MDT I jumped into the driver’s seat of the tan Ford Fusion and pulled smoothly away from the curb.
Michael had positioned the car a quarter mile from the plaza earlier in the evening before we met with the Asset.
I’d pick Michael up a few blocks down the street before taking off for our rally point, where we’d link up with Frank.
I pulled up to the curb just as a panicked herd of people charged out of the alley coming from the plaza.
I saw Michael drifting along on the periphery of the stampede before neatly slipping from the rush and dropping into the passenger seat.
It took a few seconds before the road cleared, and we drove off.
“I got the two from the south. You okay?” He asked as he dropped the magazine from his pistol and replaced it with a fresh one.
“There were two at the end of the alley. I got both of them, Frank saved my bacon with the two chasing me.”
Michael smiled slightly. “His accuracy is damn near preternatural. I swear, he turns into a machine when the bullets start flying.”
We made several turns, maneuvering away from the narrow streets surrounding the plaza and onto the larger streets where we could increase our lead.
I noticed a grey Toyota Camry pull into traffic a block ahead of us. “Speak of the devil, there he –“
That’s when the car hit us. A quick glance to my left revealed the black sedan that had rammed our rear quarter panel.
I had noticed the car parked along the street to our left, but I hadn’t seen anyone in it. Bastard must have been crouched down until we passed.
“Go, go, go!” Michael yelled, just as another black sedan slammed into the front of our car.
“Contact front and rear!” Michael yelled into his Bluetooth as he yanked a short barreled AR-15 from the foot well and brought it to his shoulder.
“Cover our six!” he yelled to me as he started pumping rounds through the windshield at the thugs emerging from the car in front of us.
“Bailing!” I screamed, kicking my door open and rolling out, Glock extended. The airbag had deployed in the car behind us, and the driver was still fighting to exit the vehicle.
I didn’t count how many times I pulled the trigger, but I know that I hit him at least a dozen times, my bullets starring and spider webbing the windshield and driver’s door.
As he fell limply to the street, I turned and stepped backward, bringing my Glock to bear on the second vehicle, though I couldn’t see any targets.
I grabbed the Scorpion Evo and my go bag from the backseat of the Fusion as Michael called out.
“Reloading!” He dropped into a crouch behind the open passenger door as I snapped the stock of the Evo into its fully extended position. I covered the bullet ridden car and called back.
A black suburban slid to a stop fifty yards behind us, the traffic jam caused by our accident preventing them from getting any closer.
Half a dozen black clad men bailed out of the vehicle and quickly spread, seeking cover as they advanced on us. “Contact rear!” I screamed.
Michael popped up and opened up with his rifle even as I tried to pin down two advancing operators.
A series of gunshots, even louder than the cracks of Michael’s AR-15 and my own Evo, thundered from behind us and I saw one of the gunmen’s head disintegrate.
I heard Michael call out just as my magazine ran empty.
“Moving!” I turned and sprinted away from the gunmen as Michael fired another barrage.
I saw Frank crouched behind the engine block of his Camry, his AR-10 booming as he too laid down cover fire.
Slapping a new magazine into the magwell of my carbine, I darted past a car abandoned in the middle of the street, and slid to a stop behind its engine block.
I screamed at the top of my lungs so Michael could hear me over the cacophony of gunfire.
“SET!” I started pulling the trigger.
“MOVING!” Michael screamed back.
Michael was up and racing down the street, hunched low as he tore a magazine from his harness and rammed it into his rifle.
We repeated the process, leap frogging as we retreated towards Frank. I reached the Camry first and took a knee at the front corner and resumed covering Michael’s final dash.
In seconds, Michael had dived headfirst into the back seat, while Frank and I jumped into the front seats. Frank threw the car into reverse and gunned the engine.
We hit forty miles per hour in reverse before Frank juked the wheel and pulled the hand brake. The car spun 180° and Frank wrestled it into drive, before speeding away.
“Status report.” Frank stated as if he was asking about the weather. Michael replied first. “Red, green, up.” I burst into a fit of giggles.
“What, is it Christmas?” I continued to giggle harder and harder. Frank glanced at me.
“Ammo, gear and physical condition. Red means low on ammo, green means gear is okay, up means he’s not seriously injured.” He glanced at me again. “You’re a giggler, huh?”
This made me laugh even harder. “Wha.. what?” I managed between the fits of full on laughter that were making me convulse at this point.
Frank had already turned back to the road. “Parasympathetic backlash. Payback for all the energy you just expended during the firefight. It can take on different forms with different people. Michael gets the shakes.”
I fought to get myself under control, though a final manic giggle trickled out. I glanced back at Michael who was slumped in the rear seat.
He held up his hands, which sure enough were trembling.
“So I giggle, he shakes. What do you get?” I asked Frank as the laughter threatened to bubble forth yet again.
“He doesn’t get anything. He just keeps running like a machine.” Michael said with a tremulous laugh.
Frank glanced at him in the rearview mirror and answered in a terrible Austrian accent.
“Shaking is not a part of my programming.” I couldn’t help it. I doubled over and laughed until I cried.
We dumped the Camry about ten minutes from the site of our crash and firefight. We split without a word, each of us heading in a different direction.
We ran short SDR’s to make sure that we weren’t followed from the Camry. We met a mile away in a parking garage.
Frank was standing outside a Toyota 4runner, stowing his go bag and the guitar case with his AR-10 in the cargo area.
He lifted an electronic device with a short wand attached to the end of a cable and beckoned me over.
“Arms out like you’re going through airport security.” I complied and he wanded me down. He nodded with satisfaction. “You’re clean."
He handed the device to me and I swept him, mimicking what he had just done. The device stayed silent. “I take it you already dumped your phone, since the sniffer didn’t go off."
I nodded in reply.
“Soon as we ditched the Camry.” I stowed my gear behind the passenger seat, and we waited for Michael.
Michael showed about five minutes later, and after another quick electronic sweep, we rolled out of the parking garage and headed for our black site.