Sextus Gradus

“Sector One Delta, go to ad board.”

“Contact.”

“Go to 5 o’clock, approximately 3 MOA.”

“Contact.”

“Go to glass.”

“Target has a black suit, tan tie, red cap. Three targets surrounding. Armed.”

A red van tears through the street. The driver’s teeth are clenched tight enough to cause pain, but he doesn’t feel it. He is too focused on the road, on the obstacles. He cranks the wheel left, then right, then left, scraping other cars and nearly missing pedestrians. His greatest fear is striking a pole or a vehicle that would bring him to a dead stop or destroy his van. His neck aches with tension as he leans into the wheel. The traffic fades out, leading him into a mostly-empty street that’s been gated off with official cones and signs. He smashes through a wooden barricade, sending splinters flying among the shabby men who guard the street. The tires squeal in protest as he accelerates to great speed, making up for the loss after striking the gate.

Four men stand in the distance, motionless against the speeding van. One has a red cap.

He closes in on them in moments, crushing the brake and skidding the van so that its broad side, its sliding door, faces the man in the middle. The murderer, the thief, the plotter, the extortioner; the man he is about to rescue.

The bullet strikes the hood of a red van.

“No good, no good! Who the hell is that?”

A large shell casing is expelled from the rifle. A fresh one is forced into the chamber. 

The rubber is ripped off the tires in thick mats on the pavement. The van groans as it peels away behind a group of buildings, then back onto the busy city streets. This time, the driver is concerned with his new cargo.

“Where are they?” The driver screams. “Where are they?”

The man with the red cap rubs his head, aloof. Turning, the driver flails a free arm behind his chair, striking the man with the red cap. Made sensible, the red cap asks, in return, “who?”

“The CFO and her children! Where are you keeping them?”

The man with the red cap is silent at first, then he begins to chuckle.

“Rounding 47th, southbound—” the sniper’s shoulder pushes back slightly with a thunderous bang— “Target is in a red van. Driver unidentified,” the spotter rattles into his handset. And the van is gone. “Authorizing lethal force. Take the target down at all costs.”

“You’re a brave one. I hope you die that way.”

The driver jerks the wheel, sending the van into a desperate drift around a tight corner. The man with the red cap is thrusted into the wall of the van, striking with a sickening crunch. When the van straightens out, he coughs. The driver feels flakes of spittle, or blood, or both, spattering onto his neck.

Two white sedans emerge in the van’s mirrors. The windows are tinted black. They pick up speed as they careen as recklessly as the van they’re chasing through traffic. 

“Get down!” The driver shouts, “and stay down! We’re about to take fire!”

The passenger window of the first sedan glides down smoothly, almost coy. The thick, black barrel of a sub machine gun reveals itself to the public and sprays a controlled burst at the rear tire of the van. The shots ping against the red paint, narrowly missing the rubber. The van’s erratic pattern is enough to save the tires. Another burst, then another, then another. 

A shooter from the opposite sedan joins in. Each of the chasing drivers attempt to close the gap between them and the van, but the flow of traffic chokes their options down. People scream and dive for cover on the sidewalks, tires screech and horns blare up and down the street as drivers desperately swerve away.

An ornate glass entryway slips into the driver’s view. His fingers whiten as he clenches the steering wheel, veering toward the building. There’s a shallow incline of stone stairs, but as the van reaches them, the front bumper is crushed upward and threatens to fall off entirely. The driver sees nothing but a blur as the van shatters the entrance and begins to roll into the atrium. Metal and glass are flung everywhere, becoming deadly shrapnel. The windshield is blown out, placing cuts along the driver’s face. 

The sedans skid to a stop at the base of the atrial staircase. The occupants, including the drivers, pour out of each, totaling eight armed shooters. They storm up the stone stairs toward the eviscerated glass entrance, stunned at the destruction they had just witnessed.

The driver scuffles out of the window, dragging the man with the bloody suit down a flight of marble stairs. The stairwell is enclosed, and apparently leads down three stories. The driver plucks a card out of a suit pocket before leaving the mangled man at the first landing. He proceeds to stumble down the remaining stairs alone. 

The fire team steps into the atrium, carefully navigating through broken glass, watching every angle. The building is incredibly empty. Save for crackling glass, the only noises are from outside; police sirens slowly but surely approach.

The team reaches the van. A smeared trail of blood leads down a staircase. Carefully, they make their way to the stairwell. As the agent at point notices dressy shoes, he points his weapon at them and draws it up along the body. It’s the target.

Gunshots ring down the stairs. The driver shivers.

“Target eliminated. Should we proceed to find the driver of the escape vehicle? Signs indicate he is in the building.”

A crackling voice comes over the radio, “affirmative.”

He waves the key card in front of a terminal. A lock snaps, the door floats open.

The fire team descends, following a trail of bloody handprints and muddy footprints. Down a flight, then another, into a corridor. The blood stops at a door which is ajar. They flick on their flashlights. The point man enters, pointing the light—his gun—at a group. A man with torn clothes and ripped skin has his arms wrapped around a woman and children, who sob with him in the dark room. The point man motions to the others. Fall back. They turn, rushing back to the atrium.