Badge of the Death Game

Chapter 026

Out in the open, a sniper with the high ground could reshape a battle entirely. But Tullane Township was no longer open ground. It was a maze of stone walls, narrow alleys, and blind corners, and Soren intended to use every inch of it.

He led the assault team into the nearest building at a run, coming through the door fast and low. The Ivory Army soldiers inside had no time to react. The rooms were cleared in seconds.

Soren shoved the Chauchat M1915 into Thomas's hands and unslung the G98 Mauser rifle from his back. "Get two fire teams on those clock tower windows. I need that sniper's head down. Don't let him breathe."

Thomas nodded and moved. Soren took the stairs three at a time.

On the third floor, he pressed himself against the wall beside the window and eased the rifle barrel onto the sill. Below, Thomas had already split the force into two elements, both pouring sustained fire at the upper windows of the clock tower across the street. The volume was enough to keep any shooter pinned.

He didn't aim at the top-floor window. He aimed at the stairwell window one floor below it. If he were in that tower under that kind of fire, he wouldn't stay put. He'd move to a new position, and to get there, he'd have to use the stairs.

"Come on," he murmured. "Show me where you went."

Several seconds passed. Then a shadow crossed the stairwell window, fast and low, there and gone in less than a heartbeat. Soren fired on instinct. A brief red mist, and then nothing. He checked the kill count on his HUD. No change. The round had connected, but it hadn't been enough. The sniper was wounded and still moving, which made him more dangerous, not less.

Soren slung the rifle, drew the Luger P08 pistol that Caleb had pressed into his hands before the assault, and went back downstairs. Two spare pistol magazines, eight rounds each.

He found Thomas at the northern edge of the crossroads. The clock tower was directly across the street, but the road between them was a continuous exchange of fire with no sign of letting up.

"You're going in there?" Thomas asked.

"Someone has to." Soren looked at the street and calculated the distance. "When I signal, ring the bell. That's the order for the final push."

He looked at Thomas, who raised a hand. Both machine guns opened up simultaneously, hammering the Ivory Army positions across the street.

Soren ran.

Ten meters. It should have taken two seconds. It felt like ten minutes. He could hear rounds going past him, feel the displaced air against his face, his own heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else. Then his shoulder hit the stone wall beside the entrance and he was there, back pressed flat, chest heaving.

He pulled the last M1915 stick grenade, kicked the door open, threw it through without looking, and drew the Luger P08 pistol. The blast shook dust from the doorframe.

The ground floor was laid out like a small chapel, stone benches along the walls, a simple altar at the far end. Empty. A spiral staircase wound upward through the center. He cleared the second floor just as quickly, then paused at the base of the stairs to the third level. His hand went to his bag by reflex. The last grenade was gone.

He stepped onto the wooden boards and moved toward the upper staircase, trying to keep his footsteps quiet. The old floorboards made that impossible, producing a long creak with every step that carried through the whole structure.

He was three paces from the staircase when the shot came down through the ceiling, punching through the boards directly in front of him and spraying splinters across his boots. Half a step faster and it would have taken him in the chest. He threw himself backward, firing upward through the boards in a tight cluster, then retreated to the landing and held position.

The sniper had fired blind by sound alone and nearly hit. Soren filed that away with appropriate respect.

On the third floor, the Ivory Army sergeant crouched behind a wooden crate, his left shoulder wrapped in a soaked dressing, his rifle propped one-handed on the crate and aimed at the floor in front of the staircase. One German, he'd determined from the footsteps and the pattern of fire. One man who had already done considerable damage today. He wasn't going to underestimate him.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pocket watch, and tossed it to the right onto the bare floorboards.

The watch clattered on impact. Two shots came up through the boards instantly. The sergeant had already swung his barrel to the muzzle flash and fired.

Below, the round clipped the stone wall beside Soren's ear. Fragments hit his left cheek like gravel, sharp and immediate. He registered the sting distantly, already returning fire at the angle the shot had come from. The Luger P08 pistol's toggle locked back on an empty chamber. He stripped the spent pistol magazine, slapped in a fresh one, and when the next round came down he didn't expose himself to take it. He counted to one, then went up the stairs at a full sprint, bursting onto the third floor already moving laterally, putting distance between himself and where the sergeant expected him to appear.

The sergeant saw the shadow and swung the rifle. One round chambered. One shot. He took it.

Soren was already moving when the muzzle flashed. He emptied the pistol magazine in a wide arc across the room, firing as he ran, and then his back hit the far wall and he stopped.

Silence, except for the distant fighting in the streets below.

The Ivory Army sergeant had slid down behind the crate and wasn't moving. Two rounds, center mass. His eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling. Soren stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, before he was willing to accept it was over. Then he crossed the room and pulled the rifle free from the dead man's grip.

"I'll take this," he said quietly.

He looked at the left shoulder wound. If that arm had been functional, the sergeant's last shot would have tracked him through the turn. The outcome would have been different.

He looked up. The large bronze bell hung overhead, its striker rope dangling within reach. He grabbed it and pulled.

The bell rang out across Tullane Township, deep and resonant, three long strokes rolling over the rooftops and out across the plain.

Thomas's voice rose from the street below. "The bell! He did it! All units, advance! Final push, now!"

The response came back from every direction at once. From the third floor of the clock tower, Soren could see the Greyline Army surge forward along every street simultaneously, the last organized resistance of the Ivory Army collapsing under the weight of the charge. He braced one boot on the windowsill, raised the captured rifle, and went to work. From this height, with this angle, there was nowhere left to hide. Anyone moving to counter the machine guns, anyone reaching for a grenade, anyone trying to organize a last stand at a corner, Soren found them first.

The Ivory Army broke. The soldiers still standing turned and ran, abandoning their positions and everything else. The Greyline Army soldiers in the streets let them go, too exhausted and too relieved to pursue, and the shouting that followed was the uncomplicated kind that comes when men who expected to die find out they haven't.

Soren lowered the rifle and let out a slow breath. He stood at the window a moment, watching the last of the fog burn off, the sun dropping toward the horizon and painting the rooftops of Tullane Township in amber and grey.

He touched his left cheek. His fingers came away red. The stone fragments from the near-miss in the stairwell had opened a line of shallow cuts across his cheekbone. He drew the combat knife and angled the blade to use as a mirror. Messy, stinging, but nothing deep.

Footsteps on the spiral staircase. Thomas came through first, took one look at Soren's face, and went through alarm and relief in about half a second. Fisher was right behind him, and for once his expression had none of its earlier edge. He raised a thumb. "This one's yours, Snyder. When we get back, I think we're going to have to start calling you sir."

The laughter that followed was the loose, slightly unhinged kind that only comes out after a fight nobody expected to survive. Soren smiled and shook his head. "Maybe. Right now I need a count. How many of us are still standing?"

"Caleb is already doing a sweep," Thomas said.

"Good. Make sure every building gets checked." Soren started toward the stairs, pausing once to glance back at the dead sergeant on the floor. Then he kept moving.

He was halfway down the first flight when the notification chimed in his mind, quiet and precise.

[New skill acquired: Tactical Command. Current level: LV1.]