Booby-Trapped
1070 Words
Mid-segment, Third Ring Road.
Four patrol cars dispersed, parking at corners. The multi-purpose van dropped a dozen officers at the mouth, then sped off.
Julian sat in the lead vehicle, radio in hand, voice low. “Target still inside. Groups as planned. Sentries in the alley—quiet entry, no shots if possible. We don’t know the interior layout.”
“Copy.”
“Understood.”
“…”
Teams acknowledged.
Julian stepped out, checked his sidearm tucked at his waist. As he moved, Sebastian jogged up, panting.
“Made it.”
“Done with your thing?”
“Yeah.” Sebastian caught his breath.
No time for chat. Julian rapid-fired orders. “Original plan—you take Vehicle Two. Park at Third Ring and Maplewood intersection. Success—I board your car. Runners show—you report position.”
“Got it.” Sebastian grateful. “Thanks for looking out, boss.”
“Later.” Julian no chit-chat, walking as he keyed the radio. “Victor—close on the alley. We hit front.”
“Copy.”
…
Three minutes later.
Victor—in Kevlar helmet, pale-green tactical gear, chest plate, leading ten-man element—crouched near the alley, teams split on both sides, awaiting go.
Street side, Julian quick-walked, radio. “High ground?”
“Negative. External stair only—should see second floor.”
“Good. That group—second floor overwatch. Primary cover.”
“Roger.”
Julian finished comms, reached the alley entrance, glanced at the empty street, slapped Victor’s shoulder. “Zabby and I go in. Hold.”
“Copy.”
“Go, Zabby.”
Zabby in plain clothes followed Julian into the alley.
Shoulder to shoulder, casual pace deeper in, Julian asked quietly, “Nervous?”
Zabby grinned. “Used to it.”
“Relax.” Julian slung an arm around his neck, staggered drunkenly, slurring loud. “Find me a place to party.”
“You’re drunk,” Zabby played along.
Mid-alley, a middle-aged man rose from a rickety wooden chair, squinting.
Julian stumbled thirty meters, arm around Zabby, then spat. “f**k—this life sucks.”
Phlegm landed on a sentry’s shoulder.
“You motherfucker—” the man’s partner stood, cursing.
“Whoa—people here?” Julian feigned drunk, slow turn. “Sorry, brothers… directions to Blossom Club?”
The sentry first thought drunk. But as Julian neared, he frowned, hand sliding behind his back. “Don’t know.”
Julian dry-heaved, lurched toward them.
“s**t—you don’t smell drunk…” The sentry reached for his gun, partner for earpiece.
Thud.
Julian’s leg snapped out—boot to chest.
Thud.
The sentry slammed the wall.
Crack.
Julian yanked the arm, spun him down. Knee pinned head, left hand seized waist gun, low growl. “Quiet—or dead.”
“Hel—” The sentry fearless, throat opening.
Julian clamped his mouth. “Behave.”
The sentry bit hard—blood poured.
Meanwhile, Zabby grappled the second dealer. Same ferocity—bit when mouth covered.
Julian saw both fighting for life, hard to control. He signaled.
Thud-thud-thud.
Victor’s team rushed in. Gun butts rose—blood sprayed. Both dealers unconscious.
“Clear.”
Julian stood. “Breach.”
Crash-crash.
Remington shotguns racked crisp.
Bang-bang-bang.
Three blasts shredded the iron door. Victor waved. “Tactical stack—advance.”
Julian led the frontal assault team inside—but froze.
First floor corridor long, dim. Faint outline of iron stairs at the end.
“s**t—fast advance. No one on ground level.” Julian scanned layout, commanded instantly.
Teams pushed forward without hesitation.
Three seconds later—from the iron stairs above—two men with automatic rifles opened fire, no warning.
“Don’t climb—suppress.” Julian hugged stair corner, dodging rounds, fist clenched. “Group Two—fire support?”
“Engaging.”
“Stair landing—two autos.”
Bang-bang.
Snipers rare in the department—no pure marksman support. But veteran field officers accurate close-range with rifles. The external stair group—through glass—two shots dropped the landing defenders.
Bodies tumbled down.
Julian waved. “Go!”
Rush.
Julian led the assault team up the stairs, into second floor.
Living room pitch dark—only moonlight outlined shapes. Julian sweated, advanced three steps, whispered. “Empty? Group Two—anyone bail out window?”
“Negative. Our angle blind to interior.”
Julian frowned.
Clank.
Left side—faint sound.
Victor—fresh up—tensed. “Julian… Julian… I hit it. Trip mine.”
Julian turned. One of Victor’s men already crouched, probing for wire.
“Don’t—don’t…” Victor leg shaking. “Not wire. Pressure plate.”
Brief freeze.
Team backed to living room mouth—fearing more hostiles.
Julian flashlight on waist, crouched, illuminated bathroom door mine. “Victor—step back, lose the leg for sure. Or lift—I shoot it clear.”
“Accurate?”
“Can’t say. Might be modified.”
“Play? Can’t say? Miss—I’m gone…” Victor wide-eyed.
“Will clear the plate—leg stays.” Julian steady flashlight grip. “Call it.”
Victor silent, face grim. “Save the leg.”
“Three count—lift.” Julian raised rifle. “Others—back!”
“Three!”
“Two!”
“One—lift!”
Victor yanked.
Julian swung butt like golf club—c***k—knocked the mine out.
Crash.
Mine shattered glass, flew outside.
Seconds—no boom.
Victor slumped. “f**k… why no explosion?”
“Dud.” Julian gritted. “Fake. Group Two—scan perimeter anomalies…”
Clatter.
Left-side assaulter brushed a cabinet—odd metallic sound.
Freeze.
“s**t—this one’s real.” Victor pale. “Down! Shields up!”
Two shield bearers knelt, raised—
Boom!!
Massive blast. Flames erupted.
Three officers too slow—shredded by fragments. Dead instantly—no chance to cry out.
Julian flat on floor, ears ringing, roared. “Room clear—hostiles fled outside. Group Two—eyes on perimeter…”
…
Outside.
Silas Hart ran with one partner through the yard, cursing. “f**k—dogs followed Elias. Sloppy bastard.”
“Could he sell us?”
“No—he eats from my hand.” Silas waved. “Call Vincent Hale—pickup fast. Or we’re trapped.”
- Writer
