you’re crazy.”
“What can I say? It’s part of my charm.” Dorian replied, as he jumped up with his gun ready, facing the enemy.
He opened fire, and the front line of hostiles collapsed. Bullets whipped over Dorian’s head, and slammed into an old team car. They were like insects blackening the air.
Shells burst on the ground, instantaneous blossoms of fire and shrapnel. Henry ran, shouting at the others to get back, get under cover, but the vast train yard was the size of a professional football field, open and flat and broad, and there was hardly any cover.
Sniper teams were taking roof positions around the train yard. Each team included two shooters one of which was armed with a thermal scanner. The scanners came online, and thermal images of three people appeared.
“Target is the tallest one in the middle.” Henry said to Dorian.
Dorian muttered profanities to himself. If some damned sniper dispatched the mark before Dorian had a chance at him.
As for the rest of the assault force, Henry knew then they’d lost the element of surprise. No more time for subtlety. Time
DORIAN GRAY
• 70 •
to shift into overdrive and apply brute force, to take down the headman before he could muster sufficient wits to resist.
“Suppressing fire!” The leader shouted.
“Yes, sir!” Came the response.
“Yes, sir!” Another trooper shouted. He signaled to the others and all the troopers let loose.
The other hostiles fired, hitting Dorian’s advancing forces in all direction.
As the three kept firing, holding back Dorian’s teammates, the leader turned to him.
His subordinates had finished reloading, slamming magazines home onto their weapons.
“Set!” A trooper shouted.
“Advance in teams!” The leader called. He reiterated the command in hand signals.
The aide-de-camp ordered, “Alpha team forward!”
They began to advance—and as they went they opened fire, ripping the place apart with long automatic-weapon bursts.
“We’ve got movement!” A trooper shouted, peering out a heads-up on his night-vision goggles. “Behind the compartment! Two targets!”
The leader signaled a halt, and ran to the trooper. “Identify!”
There was a moment’s hesitation as he touched the goggles, zoomed in on the figures.
“It’s Dorian Gray and Henry Lord,” he said.
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 71 •
The leader frowned under his mask. Two targets behind the car?
So Gray and Lord were running, while the remaining members of their team stayed behind to keep the squad busy.
Okay. One kill at a time.
He pointed at the decommissioned car.
“Take those bastards out!”
Dorian and Henry ran through the flank, hoping to surprise the insurgents in a sortie. Dorian’s youthful complexion showed a gleeful smile. Whereas Henry was wracked with fear as he constantly looked over his shoulder.
“You see, Henry,” Dorian assured him, “smooth sailing all the way.”
Before they could turn a corner, an urban commando stepped out in front of them.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” The man said, cocking his rifle.
Dorian and Henry both stopped in their tracks, while two of the man’s comrades materialized behind him and leveled their weapons at the perplexed youths.
Dorian was unaware that a sniper was lining him up in his gun sights. The one on the right got off a round, the bullet striking Henry in the chest, knocking him back.
Henry felt like a truck had hit him as he lay on the asphalt, the night sky above him, the stars twinkling their gentle laughter as he tried to draw a breath.
DORIAN GRAY
• 72 •
“You okay?” Dorian asked, kneeling over him.
Looking up at his friend, his vision slightly burring from the painful jolt the bullet delivered smashing into his body armor, Henry said, “No, thanks to you.”
“I’m supposed to thank you, right?”
Henry clutched his chest, putting pressure on the wound. Bright red blood was smeared all over his shirt.
“A hero has but one life to give to his country.” Henry laughed.
Their assailants had them surrounded. Laser pointers from their guns beaded on them. As the insurgents stepped into the light, Dorian and Henry discovered they didn’t look like the run of the mill terrorists. They were a gang, but only wearing gear one might buy at Wal-Mart or any sporting goods store. They didn’t wear any camouflage fatigues, but tattered jeans and oversized hooded sweatshirts.
The foot soldiers wore helmets that shrouded their faces all the way to the deep dark holes where their eyes should be. They were all armed the same way—with nasty-looking rifles whose snouts promised very big paydays. Affined to their barrels were bright lights that could see out through the night.
The leader came forward. He was dressed in black—all the way from head to toe. His face was covered with a protective helmet, but the only feature that was exposed was his eyes. He also wore combat boots, weapons and an equipment harness, and a pair of night-vision goggles rested on the top of his
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 73 •
helmet. Dorian could see his eyes smiling and he was ready for that the man to start gloating.
“So you think you can just come right in and take me out, huh?” The man chortled at the ridiculous idea. Then he looked down to Dorian, who had a sour look on his face. “I heard you’re the best there is, Gray. Yeah, I know about what happened at the woods, but if you were any of what everyone else is talking about you would be the one smirking right now. You disappoint me.” Then he waved over to his men. “Waste’em!”
Henry leaned over to Dorian and gave him a sly smile. “Sometimes two.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out four solid metal balls that had to be no more than at least two inches round. Then he threw them at the firing squad like they were ninja shuriken.
“Look out!” Screamed an urban soldier. “He’s got a weapon!”
The group scattered and took cover. The small metallic spheres rolled on the ground before them. The terrorist leader looked at this display and scoffed.
“Get your asses up!” He ordered his men. “He’s playing us for chumps.”
His minions slowly got back to their feet; their guns were still trained on the intruders. The leader bent over and picked up one of the spheres. He expected them to be very light, but he felt something was rattling inside.
“Careful, sir.” Said one of the gunmen.
DORIAN GRAY
• 74 •
But the boss waved him off and gave a small sneer. He looked over to Henry who was still bleeding from his wound and laughed in his face.
“Toys,” the masked man chuckled, “you fight me with pathetic little toys. You think marbles are gonna safe you? This ain’t no Tom & Jerry cartoon, boy.”
Dorian groaned inwardly, whether by design