Texas Blood
"Oh shit! Duck!" shouted Andrews as the flying scrap of aluminum shrapnel flew over their heads.
"I don't even know where in the hell these guys came from," his partner Benitez exclaimed, "This place was almost empty. There aren't even any other entrances."
"Whatever. Just focus on shooting these dicks for now. We'll worry about where their greasy asses came from later."
"Right. Split. You move East, I'll cover."
"Got it."
Benitez turned from behind the crates they were hidden behind and began to fire his Beretta 9mm as rapidly as possible towards their attackers as Andrews made a run for the support beams of the old warehouse. Everything seemed to happen so slowly to Benitez; he could see the casings of the bullets fall to the ground; he could even read the stamps around the bottoms of them. As soon as his clip emptied, he retook his cover behind the crates.
"Benitez!" Andrews called to get his attention. Benitez looked over towards his partner. Andrews held up three fingers, patted his watch, and held up one finger on each hand to indicate to Benitez that there were three attackers at his 11 o'clock. Benitez knowingly nodded and motioned that he was going to flank. A quick glance from Andrews communicated understanding. They both knew what to do. Seven years of work in the FBI was more experience than most people realized. After two years in the field, they'd seen it all.
Andrews took a brief assessment of the opposing gunfire to best pick his time to cover Benitez's maneuver. Time. He turned quickly from behind the support beam and fired four times. Two enemies down. One a certain kill with a shot to the forehead; the other a likely death with two to the ribs. Quick spin behind the beam as returning gun-fire pelted the area around him. He glanced over to see Benitez give the thumbs up from his new position as he pried a shotgun from a fallen enemy's hand.
Benitez motioned to Andrews to ask if the three enemies were still in the same place. Andrews nodded. As fast as Andrews blinked, Benitez was standing, moving, and firing the shotgun into the group of three that he was flanking. Perfect maneuver. They hadn't even seen it coming before they were wasted. Returning fire from the catwalk across the warehouse pinned Benitez back into hiding.
"Shit..." thought Andrews as he fired two shots towards the catwalk. They didn't have anything that could fire accurately at something as far away as the catwalk. Backup from local police department was still five minutes away, and that wasn't even counting the time they would take to assess everything before making their slow, careful entrance. They were fucked and Andrews knew it.
They hadn't been expecting this anyways; this was supposed to be a torture-pornography ring bust. These guys never packed firepower, or manpower like this. Something else was going on, but neither man knew what. Andrews heard a click next to him. Grenade. No time. Stay and die, run and get shot. He knocked an old oil-drum over in front of it, clenched his eyes shut and hoped.
Down. Can't see. Blurry. Can't breathe. Ringing in ears. Shell-shock. As the noise of the situation slowly came back to Andrews, he realized he was bleeding from somewhere. He couldn't feel it; he could only see that his hands were covered in blood. Everything was turning black.
"Andrews!" Benitez shouted from across the warehouse floor. He stood and opened fire on everyone he could see. Benitez took down three enemies with the shotgun, ran out of shells, pulled out his Beretta and fired without pause only to have a bullet rip down the forearm of his shooting hand and exit at the elbow. Bone fragments, flesh, and blood splattered everywhere as he screamed and crumpled to the floor unconscious.
Benitez was the first to wake in the dark, bare room. He looked around and found Andrews lying in a fetal position a few feet away from him. As Benitez began to move across the cold, concrete floor, the pain shot through his arm, into his head, and down his spine. He winced, gritted his teeth and inched over to Andrews. After checking his pulse and realizing Andrews was still alive, he began to look him over to see where he had been injured. There was a wedge of jagged metal stuck in between Andrews' ribs that looked like it had sliced his diaphragm, but missed his lungs. Each breath was a tremendous pain to Andrews. The agony kept him mercifully unconscious.
A door opened suddenly. Benitez saw the outline of a tall man wearing a cowboy hat standing against the incoming light.
"You fellas sure made a hell of a mess," said the figure, "I asked you boys to leave before. You should have listened. I even tried to provide you an arrest to close the case, but I guess our Texas hospitality ain't enough for you."
"Sheriff?"
"Well shit boy, you don't catch onto things real fast in the FBI do you? Of course it's me. Who the hell else could it be?"
"What in the fuck..." The Sheriff shut Benitez up with hard kick in the mouth with his steel-toed boots.
"Watch the language you god dammed bitch. Jeezus-Christ. We've got enough of your sorry, dirty, poor asses crossing our border into our town and interruptin' things without the FBI sending more of you spiks out to do their work for them." The sheriff paused to light a cigarette. The flame made his whiskered face seem more sinister in the dim light. "Heh. Do they pick you up in front of the Home Depot to do FBI work too? Where does it end?"
Benitez was bleeding profusely from the mouth. His lips were completely busted opened and there were a few pieces of tooth embedded into them. He couldn't bring himself to speak despite the insults.
"Y'see," the sheriff continued, "there ain't much here in our town. Ever since the mines were stripped, most of us've been without jobs. We gotta make a livin' somehow, right spik? So what if a few kids disappear here and there. Nobody notices anyway since most of 'ems illegal here anyhow."
Benitez looked up at the sheriff and the blood flowed from his mouth like a faucet that wouldn't shut off all the way. The sheriff crouched down in front of him and grabbed his hair to pull his face in closer. "Now," the sheriff began before Benitez spat blood all over his face. The sheriff paused and closed his eyes.
"Whoa there son. You didn't mean that now didja?"
Benitez prepared to fire another bloody mass from his lips when the sheriff slammed his face into the floor. Benitez looked up at the now standing sheriff only to have his face kicked again. The sheriff stomped on him repeatedly; calmly though. His face never showed anger; it only showed indifference. When he finished, he turned slowly and stepped outside the room.
"Go ahead and cut the bastards up. They didn't even know what the fuck was going' on. We ain't gotta worry 'bout nobody else knowin' nothin'." He said to a man standing just outside the door with a machete. The sheriff looked at the crowd of neighbors who had gathered in concern around the warehouse.
"It's alright folks. They didn't know nothin', and now nobody else will neither." A wave of relief came over the people. The sheriff took a small Mexican girl by the hand and began to walk back towards his squad car with them.
"We'd just as soon get back to work. Mrs. Polson? Could be a doll and bring some of your delicious apple pie down to the studio? I reckon we'll be working up quite an appetite today."
Credited to Linkotan
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