Scott took off at a run behind Jan as soon as the Pole gave them the nod to move and the smoke grenades began to billow their cloud into the crisp morning air. Like his team-leader, he too shouldered through the already-cracked glass, entering the lobby in a storm of shock and violence. The screaming civilians shook him a little, but at least they had the common sense to stay low for the most part, and stick to the walls. Nonetheless, the scene was a chaotic one. Gunfire thundered through the enclosed space as AK's went full rock-and-roll, and the black-clad SAS trooper dived for cover, rolling on one shoulder into the shelter behind an ornamental planter. He squeezed off a volley of well-aimed shots from the .45 at a pair of gunmen, hitting each twice and collapsing them into sagging heaps, dead or wounded beyond effectiveness.
Jan's fire took more down, and he could hear and see the others moving up quickly. As he turned back, he realized he'd lost sight of Jan in the chaos of sound and movement. He heard more gunfire and picked himself back up, driving forward with the Mk.23 held at firing position. Another double-tap, another man down; he was burning through rounds quickly. He'd never even used his sidearm this much, and while he was glad of the .45's stopping power, the single-stack mags didn't leave much room for error. He only had two rounds in the mag left, and at this rate the four spares on his vest wouldn't last long either.
He heard a shout from Jan to move, and stepped out, moving forward in a low, loping run towards a ground-floor doorway. Pressing himself against the frame, he slid around it with the big handgun raised, the LAM unit under the barrel beaming its' red death-dot ahead. His nerves tensed as the muzzle slid across a human shape; but the blond, pale-skinned man in civilian dress quickly held his hands up, babbling and crying. Scott motioned him to the ground and pressed a finger to his own lips, urging for quiet as he moved through the room, doing the same to a pair of women who huddled on the ground. As he swept around another corner, his head snapped to movement; a door built virtually into the wall cracked open and as he whirled to face it, the muzzle of an FN-FAL poked out, blasting thundrous fire into the room in a full-magazine burst. Office fittings, christmas decorations and fake plants were shredded, and as Scott attempted to duck for cover, the line of rounds intersected his vest in the middle of his back. The 7.62 NATO rounds hitting him felt like sledgehammers in the middle of his back, and he sprawled to the ground, choking on his breath as he struggled to draw it in, spots dancing in front of his eyes. The vests' trauma plate had done it's job and kept him alive, but still; catching two hammerblows to the spine wasn't a cozy feeling on the best of days.
He drew in gulping, wracking breaths as he struggled to make his limbs work. He heard the hostile drop the empty mag out of the rifle and fumble to load another he dragged himself around. The Mk.23 had fallen from his hand during his sprawl and he had no time to pick it up. Instead, Scott launched himself forward, pulling his knife from its' sheath on his belt and reversing it in his hand. He grabbed the muzzle of the FAL, forcing it away and down as he stabbed the knife up, aiming for the tangoes' chest. He reared back and the wound was only minor, catching on the terr's shirt and jacket and only nicking the skin. Still in pain, Scott staggered as he was pushed back, before slamming a fist into the enemies' mid-section and this time ramming the knife into his opponents' neck. He pulled it free as the man ranted and hissed at him incoherently, pain in his eyes and disbelief as red, hot blood bubbled from his ragged neck-wound. Scott stabbed again, almost unnecesarily, and the weakened, bloody hands clutched at his vest as he slid to the floor, the FAL clattering to the carpet.
Shaking and grimacing, Scott wiped the knife on his pants leg and staggered to his pistol, picking it back up as he lurched into the next room. Jan's message to eliminate the hostiles came through, and he headed back for the lobby, breaking into a faster sprint as he heard the clatter of gunfire intensify. He caught more hostiles rushing from adjacent rooms to join in repelling Lima's assault, their eyes wide with fear and anxiety. Instantly they fired on him as he bought the big H&K pistol up to fire. He caught one between the eyes with the fire shot and his head snapped back with his finger on the trigger. The rounds from the Browning HP in his hand flew high, and one tore through Scott's bicep, and another whacked off of his helmet, jerking his head to one side. The man behind the one who'd taken the .45 to the braincase stumbled back as his comrade fell into him and struggled to force him aside, both he and Scott indisposed for a moment. Scott regained the momentum first and bought the Mk.23 back into aim, one-handed as his other arm went limp from the ragged wound across his arm. The tango panicked and tried to raise his stubby SMG for a shot, firing wildly as Scott fired with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes amidst the storm of 9mm rounds, one nicking his calf.
Stumbling and staggering, he dropped the mag from the Mk.23 as he hauled himself back into the lobby, forcing his aching arm to work and pull another slab-sided mag out of his vest and slip it home into the butt of the pistol. The crashing cacophony of the lobby assaulted his ears and the strobing muzzle-flashes. Gunfire surrounded them on all sides, and Scott threw himself into the fight with clinical precision after taking stock of things. There; a machine-gunner on the first-floor mezzanine, pouring fire down into the lobby. His suppressive fire was allowing the other hostiles, despite their small numbers, to reload and take shots. Grimacing, Scott took a breath and stood up, taking a two-hand grip on his pistol and rattling off four shots at the RPK and its' operator. The first two smacked into the cement lip of the balcony, the third hit the gun itself and threw the aim off. The fourth hit true, catching him in the neck and sending him sprawling to the floor. Scott took the opportunity to slide forward into cover and allow the other team-members to regain the initiative, before he forced himself back to his feet, opening fire again at another gunman and sending him sprawling, then his neighbour. Then the mag was empty again, and the radio crackled to life with Jan's message.
"Priority, priority. I've taken down the carrier, repeat, carrier is neutralized. Team, this is my final order. You're going to get inside the lobby and throw down your weapons and any kit that you have. Just do it. It's the only way you're getting out of this. Put your hands on your head, and wait. When they ask you any questions, you were following my orders and mine alone. If any of you are wounded, just sterilize and clean the wound, you won't have time to recover any shrapnel before they raid you."
Scott paused, sitting in the lee of the staircase a moment as he analysed the message. The enemy gunfire had died off moments before; he had no idea if, now, they were all dead, or had retreated. In fact, he was finding it quite hard to keep track of anything, and as he looked down at his sleeve, he quietly realized it was quite soaked in blood, and that his trouser leg on the same side beginning to also take on a wet, dark sheen that was creeping lower.
"Bugger," he muttered quietly, heaving himself up. "Doesn't look like I'll have time to deal with mine," he groused to himself as he limped into the centre of the room, looking at the others, and his expression darkening further as Jan's further messages came through, his reaction much like Neil's. The australian looked to him, and the big SAS trooper shook his head solemnly, swaying slightly on his feet, before he pulled off his helmet and threw it to the floor as Neil did the same with his gear.
"Just... just do it," he said in a half-mumbled slur. "He's getting the device away. Must have some kinda plan," he said, yanking on the quick-release for his vest and letting it fall off of him, before tossing his pistol to join it with a sad look; the gun had served him well through the last handful of missions. Letting it go felt like another betrayal. His knife joined it, and he assumed a defeated position. Shame, anger, humiliation and resentment burned through him as he sat there, expecting the flashbang. He looked at the faces of his comrades around him. Among them, only really Zhenya and Jan had been the ones he'd come to know well; though he had nothing against any of the others, and would trust any of them with his back. That he still considered Zhenya to be that trustworthy after them ending up in this mess kind of surprised him, but it was too little too late of a revelation. Even if he'd wanted to disobey Jan's orders, he was in no shape to do so.
He wobbled on his knees as he heard shouts outside the door in a foreign language, and the shuffle and hustle of booted feet along with sirens. He realized he was feeling quite feint What a shitty ending, he thought to himself absently as his mind wandered in a way he realized, with detachment, was probably the beginning of shock from blood loss. How many pints are in the human body again?
Shadows fell across the shattered windows and doorway, the acrid smell of spent gunpowder and the smoke grenades tickling his nose.
Pints, he thought absently, his mind wandering as an arm appeared around the doorway and threw in a tumbling cylinder that he followed through the air with his eyes, vision swimming.
I could really use a pint.
The flashbang exploded, and Scott's vision blurred into whiteness and his ears rang.
Shouting voices. Stamping, running feet. Shoving, shouting, pushing. Then a crash of pain, and blissful, black unconsciousness.
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