Mando Bk 02 Good Badass Bitch Ch 05

CHAPTER 5: THE RESCUE

Danny's story

Chuck dashes to the car when it screeches to a stop. His expression is grim and stressed as he quickly gives me my combination speaker earpiece. "Mando, we have ten minutes before he shoots the first child."

My guts tighten as fear and pressure threaten to cloud my judgment and slow me down. Nice try, but no caviar. I kick fear to the rear and tune in to my reality channel. "I'll get that son of a bitch! Killing kids! He's a disgrace to the human race. Chuck, the rescue will have to be fast, furious, and efficient. Station men on the west side of the building and keep the path from the window clear. I'll deliver the captor there. I'll handle this before news cameramen get stupid. They know he has a TV but would cover what I'm doing anyway."

The sound of a helicopter coming toward the school turns my toes to ice. It has a TV news logo on the side. Fuck! That news chopper will spook the kidnapper! That drops my deadline from ten minutes to two minutes ago.

I'm securing my weapon pouch for the run as I step off my lane for the pole vault when Chuck yells in my ear. "Mando, that hysterical son of a bitch swears the news chopper is a Trojan horse bringing a SWAT team for an assault. He's yelling: "You think I'm stupid? I'll show you stupid! You have two minutes to get the president on the phone or the first kid goes bang. One hundred sixty seconds starts now!"

"What's he doing?" I ask calmly, barely able to tame the anger boiling inside my veins.

"His gun barrel is against a little girl's head; He's counting down. He's at eighty seconds. Jesus, Mando. Jesus H Christ this bastard..."

"Patch me in to the hostage phone so I can hear what's going on." I shift into hyper drive. My helmet is on; shield down, my banana shaped carry all is slung over my shoulder hanging in front of my left hip for easy access to my ice balloons and gun. I grip the pole and bolt toward the building.

I have audio. The hostage-taker's voice is pushing the boundaries of sanity. He's losing all touch with his human side. "Fifty! Forty-nine! Forty-eight! Forty-seven! You better have that bastard president call, or so help me god this innocent kid will die and it's your fucking fault! Forty-three! Forty-two! Forty-one!"

A child's shrill piercing scream hurls the captor over the edge. The frazzled rope holding his sanity snaps; he cracks, and his temper explodes. The smacking sound of hard metal against a skull, followed by the rough tumble of a body hitting the floor stops the screams. The bastard's gun-clubbed a kid. He's going to kill next!

He yells into his phone "You fucking bastards! You fucked up and killed all these hostages! I warned you by god but you didn't believe me did you?" Sounds like he yanked something loose. I remember the grenade hanging around his neck.

Fuck! Move your ass Danny.

"Click!" He's pulled the pin!.

He screams like a banshee and shouts louder than a space shuttle launch. "You sons of bitch SWAT-ass sniper mother fuckers want to take me out? If you shoot me, you'll take us all out! Save me the mother-fucking trouble!"

His pitch and volume goes higher on each word. "When this grenade explodes, it'll detonate a dozen! Then it'll blow up my mega bomb and your school will be a massive graveyard and you're to blame! Your fault god damn it." Machine gun fires erupts. No screams, so I guess that was a demonstration.

"Fuck it! I've had it! I gave you your chance to save these kids, but you fucked it up!" I picture him directing his weapon at the crowd of hostages as he yells. "I'll kill every god damned one of them, you assholes! Then you'll know you can't pull that fake news helicopter shit on me! I know what you're doing and it damn sure ain't going to work! I'm not fucking stupid and this ain't no bluff! It's your fault it ends like this!"

I stop breathing, but I'm still hauling ass. Just one second separates the children and teachers from extinction. My legs and feet churn faster than a blender making a frappe.

I only had a few seconds to neutralize the gunman upon arrival, but now I have none.

I yell at Chuck just before my vaulting pole anchors in the hard ground. "I'm going in!"

"Move your ass! He's gone berserk. He's about to go on a shooting spree, damn it."

I jab the fiberglass composite pole into hard ground and my pole bows low under my weight before my momentum snaps it straight up shooting me skyward.

Once airborne I swing my feet forward and high to propel me into the window. He's between thirty-five to forty feet from my entry point, and I'm coming at him from the side.

I sail toward the closed window like a boulder slung from a catapult. The thunderous volley of shots from his automatic weapon floods enough adrenaline through me to fuel a fighter jet. He's shooting kids!

I crash through the rectangle of glass sending glass shards in all directions. His human shields panic from all the gunfire and light out as fast as their little legs can carry them. Two are almost sawed in half by the bastard's machine gun. The barrage of bullets lifts them off their feet and sends them sprawling face down. Their bloody, riddled bodies jerk and spasm as if high voltage surges through them, but the others make it to safety. Their exodus distracts the villain the milliseconds I need to gain the upper hand.

I hurl an ice bomb at the gunman while in flight. My feet smack the floor and take me into a forward roll. I spring straight up and reach for the sky with a second ice balloon gripped tightly in my left fist. I throw the bomb like a pro baseball pitcher sailing a sizzling fast ball across home plate for the winning strike.

A burst of bullets drill into my chest and midsection, propelling me backward with such force I land ass first near my landing spot. Some wayward stray bullets go for my pitching hand nanosecond after the slush- balls fly from my fingers. They rip through my left hand, shattering bones and severing tendons.

Wheelchairs and walrus hair! It's David and Goliath time, because I am a one armed challenger with a paintball gun challenging a mad man with assault rifles and enough ammo to open a Brinks armored truck as easily as a can opener rips the lid off a can of beans.

I'm leaping to my feet when an object flying overhead catches my attention. A grenade. Oh hell!

But Goliath has problems of his own. When the unexpected shock of ice water hit his face the shock of the impact and sudden fifty degree droop in skin temperature switches his central nervous system off line for several seconds. The dude is sky diving without a parachute. When the ice ball crashes into his forehead and nose, two things happen, Hos head is engulfed in ice slush, and impact snaps his head and shoulders back so hard and fast, whiplash is a foregone conclusion. When the sudden backward motion jerks his arms toward the ceiling his trigger finger clamps down and locks the trigger down until he bankrupts his two hundred round drum magazine. The continuous recoil ratchets the barrel skyward leaving me out of its lethal path. "Thank you.

As he stumbles and staggers backwards, flapping hos left as left arms furiously trying to maintain balance, his hand flies open on the first upward swing, launching the grenade toward the hostages. I realize what it is at the apex of its flight, , or rather, what it's not. It's not a standard time delay fragment grenade. It's an impact grenade similar to the ones grenade launchers shoot that blow everything to shit when it hits. However, there is a second pin for hand-tossed impact grenades as an added safety feature. One pin in, you win; both .pins away, you pray.

My eyes search in vain for the pins.

One at least.

I'm shit out of luck.

No pins.

The grenade is live and ready to spray shrapnel in all directions when it hits a solid surface. Now I can choose how to die. Get shot or blown to bits. Fuck that. I choose option C. None of the above.

Like a tennis player leaping and reaching high above the net to spike the serve, I leap and reach. My right arm stretches its limit and my eager fingers claw the air to prevent a gunman's final and fatal home run.

My fingers fail me by falling a fraction short.

In three seconds the gunman will recover and transfer the lead in his gun to my ass.

The steel ball bounces off my fingers tips low enough for me to catch it left handed. Pain shoots through my broken bones and pierces my brain when the cold steel ball slaps my open palm. Agony! Fire! Pain upon pain within pain. UGH! Pain off! Rescue now. hurt later. I dive under it while flipping over onto my back to use my body as a catcher's mitt.

It burrows into my stomach and I trap it in my armpit.

. Be still racing heart!

Not a time delay fragment grenade. Good. I slip it into my pouch. Now I'm a human bomb. Fucking hell!

My hand comes out of the bag gripping the paintball gun. I fire six rounds of nite-nite pills from my paint gun before I leap to my feet and make a mad dash toward Goliath. Kill the kid killer now! If he recovers...

One second left.

I charge like a hungry cougar after a frightened zebra firing my gun one handed as I run. The nite-nite pills follow the laser dot dancing from his nose to his gaping mouth. I continue firing as I zip and zoom toward my nemesis, dodging the fallen children. Twelve shots pack the sopping wet anesthesia soaked cotton so tight from the bridge of his nose to mid chin breathing is impossible. Looks like Goliath's wearing a surgical mask. The face painting is sloppy, but it looks good on him. VERY GOOD.

The few globs of cotton he slaps or brushes away give him no quarter. I plant two for each one he dislodges because my extended magazine holds twenty-four nite-nite rounds and I have back-up. He's off to sleepy town; that kid killing monster is going down.

His grip on daylight, consciousness, and the gun is going slack. God bless fluothane anesthesia.

His eyes go wide as I barrel toward him with death on my mind and blood in my eyes. To his blurry vision I'm probably a giant bumble bee thanks to my bright yellow tactical gear, black boots, belt, and helmet.

He's helpless.

I land a lightning blow to the bridge of his nose using my left hand to shatter the bone, forgetting my own shattered bones in that hand. I'm so pumped up my adrenaline overrides the pain. For now.

The heel of my right hand slams against the broken bridge bone like a pissed off Gorilla crushing skulls. The brutal force drives the jagged bone fragments deep into his brain. Death is instant. Change nite-nite to bye-bye.

The cracking sound of his nose breaking and the loud crunch of splintered bone daggers shutting him down is a fantastic sound. The sound of over a hundred kids and their teachers staying alive. It's also a warning sound to future hostage takers. It is a liberating sound. A satisfying sound.

Until I glimpse the toy box. The bomb! Hurry!

I step beside him and simultaneously keep him upright between my forearms and frisk him for bombs or other dangerous shit. No explosives or surprises. No trap doors or claymores.

I slam my right shoulder into his waist to fold him like a wallet. He jack-knifes over my shoulder head first and wads of dope soaked cotton fly off his face and smack the floor. They sound like wet spit-wads shot from a sling shot at a gym locker.

. I weave around the fallen weapons and haul ass toward the opposite window. I bark a warning to Chuck. "Make way for outbound Bogie! Stand clear!"

I hurl the dead killer at the window like I'm dumping a sack of shit off my shoulder. I am. He crashes through the window butt first to go sky diving. He's airborne. He's free! "Bye, bye, dead guy."

The shattering glass shower of flying shards grabs the attention of the waiting police officers below. As one person their eyes lock on a two hundred fifty pound body plummeting toward them in a cloud of shattered glass. They jump clear to give him room to crash land on the hard ground like a skydiving hippopotamus. He hits the ground with a thud and a thump, bounces twice, rolls three feet and comes to a shaky halt. He goes from drop dead to a dead drop, and rolls to a dead stop.

Twenty police officers point drawn weapons at his head and heart while forming a tight ring around him as he rolls to a stop. One of them shouts: "Freeze motherfucker! Hands behind your head!"

Chuck stops the young officer from cuffing the culprit as he recites the Miranda Act. "Stand down, son. It's too late to worry about legal rights or last rites for this prick. That mailman doesn't deliver live packages."

I shout into my mike. "Activate the signal jammers now!"

Chuck relays the message. "Done!"

One good look at the bottom of the chest and I shiver. Retractable wheels. Not good. Not good at all. My design is being used against my own country. The low hum of a compressor confirms it's refrigerated. I gingerly open the lid and peer inside. A giant bomb is staring back at me. To my right is a gray pad pressure switch for him to stomp on. Or me to step on or trip over. Oh, god! If I'd stepped on that...

A separate charge in the left corner increase ways to trigger the bomb. Manually, by the pressure pad, or wireless by a phone call. The phone call is my enemy number one because when an accomplice realizes his man is down, he'll dial the number and detonate the small explosive on the inside wall. In turn the exploding charge detonates the bomb and bye bye cruel world. Good world too. I designed the box with a false bottom for propane gas. Its construction creates a nightmare of destruction.

"Backup man, please be taking a piss and miss what just happened," I whisper a plea to the signal jammers. "Jammers, don't fail me now."

I slip my tool kit from the bag and examine the detonator. It's fortuitous that the detonator, box, and interlocking canister system is my design. That saves time. I snip the hot wire to the mini-charge and tie it back a hare's breath before the detonator clicks. The phone call! One second two slow, and BOOM! Fuck! The jammers didn't stop it!"

The bastard didn't have to piss after all. My turn though. I survey the canisters. Twenty with individual, separate detonators. TWENTY detonators. Suck a donkey's dick! Fuck Fuck fuck!

I shudder. It's like a miniature dirty nuke without the radiation. I won't glow, I'll vaporize. Small consolation.

Sixty seconds to shut down the top detonator one handed. My stomach is tied in more knots than a fishing net and the bitter bite of fear gnaws my entrails, and then a frantic sense of urgency puts all nerves on alert.

This many canisters will not be live . An easy-to-remember pattern is common for easy recall for emergency shut down. Which pattern?

I go for the five middle ones that form an inner star first, and then the four corners.. My right hand's fingers move at top speed, but the left one doesn't move. Period. Even two hands can't meet that deadline. Shit-a-walking! I hope that pattern gets the live ones.

My mouth is so dry It feels like cotton. My face and palms are covered with sweat. Slippery fingers and only five of them. Damn!

Thirty seconds to go and only seven down.

Fifteen seconds left and nine to go.

Five seconds and six to go. I'm not going to make it.

My fingers are flying at fighter jet speed, but not fast enough. I'm drenched in fear and sweat. I force my hand to stay calm and steady. A single mistake and Boom!

Stop thinking about boom!

Three seconds and five canisters to go.

One second and...is it bye-bye Danny?

Zero!

I freeze.

No explosion. I made it!

Click.

What was that? The timers have reset. Shit! Removing the top detonators set off a second set. Fifteen are live and anxious to explode. These are simple detonators, and only fifteen. But still, with only one hand...BO-No boom! .

I finish with five seconds to spare, but there's still the bottom detonator that'll blow the case when canisters are removed.

That one can wait. I glance at the pressure pad and shudder. One step on any corner gets a big KA-BOOM! Right. That ka-boom would vaporize much of Baltimore and wipe out Washington DC. And me. No more monster cock for me. No more Gino . Fuck that! NO BOOM OR KA-BOOM!

Wham! Pressure from the last two minutes sneak up and clobber me and hammer me into the ground. I couldn't feel worse If a hundred car freight train hauling number nine coal ran over my sweaty ass.

My hands shake. My body trembles. My lunch rumbles before it exits, followed by dry heaves. I touch my face. Clammy. I'm a wreck. Visions of the two shot children come unbidden. I retch again.

Get a grip, Mando. You're not done.

I wipe my mouth, and mobilize the SEAL team before glancing down at my chest and belly. Fake blood is oozing from my shredded bullet-riddled clothes. Real blood is drying on my hand. Son of a bitch! No wonder those bullets blasted my ass backward and my hand became pain central along with several ribs Damn! Those bullets hit hard. I'm not dead, but a rib or two might be. Had to be full metal jacket ammo. Sheee-it.

Chuck's voice comes through the earpiece. "My god, Mando, how did you neutralize the situation and snuff the hostage taker so fast?"

I pause and get a white-knuckle grip on the side of the boom box to steady my shaking hands and trembling body. Hope my voice is steady. Chuck heard me curse and vomit, but he doesn't know I came unglued. Maybe a flippant response will cover my distress. "My deadline for canceling the kid's morgue visit was tight. And I'm allergic to formaldehyde, so morgues are no place for me either."

Chuck chuckles. "Good call. I take it from your lighthearted response you disabled the bomb?"

"Roger that. You'll live to tell the tale to your grandchildren if you retire tomorrow," I wink even though he can't see me, glad that the tension is over.

"Don't tempt me. That was a lot of gunfire. Were you hit?"

"He messed me up a little. Listen, Chuck, there are three people down. Send the medics in alone and fast. Two emergencies and two bodies to remove before the kids open their eyes. Bring morphine for one. I don't know if other hostages need attention. Oh, and turn off the TV camera jammers.

Allow no one else in so I can check for booby traps and remove all weapons out of the children's reach. And Chuck, this is important for the hostages. Give us time to calm the kids and reduce the traumatic effect of being hostages. Five minutes is all we need. Inform the parents the children are out of danger.

I sprint toward the terrified hostages. They're hunched into groups on the bare floor with heads down, ears covered, and eyes shut.

When I speak they jump. "Everyone, you are safe." I speak loud and clear. "The immediate threat is over but remain like you are with eyes closed until we verify all weapons and munitions are accounted for. The bad guy is in custody. You are safe. You can open your eyes soon. I'll let you know when." They're holding together pretty well. I continue. "You are safe but the weapons must be removed and the room checked for explosives before you can move."

I hustle to the girl closest to me. A head gash. Good. No apparent gunshot wounds. I check her pulse. Weak and still unconscious. I examine the cut over her eyebrows.. Pistol whipped. That heartless motherfucker. I kiss her on the top of the head. "I'm so sorry he hurt you."

I move to the next one. The unfortunate child is practically ripped apart by gunfire so close together it could pass for a zipper to his organs. I hold him and kiss his head and rock him back and forth. "I'm so, so, sorry I was too late." Tears slip down my cheeks and trickle onto his forehead. Grief rushes through me like a raging river. It's hard to hold back wails of remorse and sobs of guilt. "I let you down. I'm so sorry."