Harriers

Adam ran ahead of me, low and fast as some exotic jungle cat. He navigated the wreckage like a professional, and as well he should be after twenty years at this game. We covered the distance as silently as we could until we were a mere three hundred meters away. Adam slowed and crouched behind the rusted out hulk of a ancient semi; I pulled up beside him as he surveyed the scene with a pair of field glasses.

"Two on bikes behind the trailer and another two in front. One is trying to climb the overturned cab..."

I swung my rifle - a Russian military grade Dragunov with extended ten round clip - off my should and brought it to bear. I saw the scene Adam was describing through the scope as I calculated range and windage and adjusted accordingly.

"...the cab slid windshield-first into another truck so they have to go through the passenger door window. "

"There's movement at the read of the trailer, maybe someone trying to get the door up," I said.

"Six in all, good odds I think," Adam replied.

"So, normal plan?"

"Yeah. I'll try and take out the guys on the bikes behind the wreck first so they can't get away for help." And with that Adam ran ahead again, closing the distance between us and the harriers.

While he ran I moved into position, down on one knee behind the wheel of a car while resting the rifle across the hood. Adam was almost in position when there was a commotion - the man climbing up the underside of the overturned cab had reached the top, or rather the side, and was looking in the window. He tried to push away, to slide back down the undercarriage, to pull his pistol all at the same time in a confused, desperate movement. The decision on what to do was made for him as glass erupted from the window of the truck and the mad fell to the ground. His face and upper chest were a mangled, bloody mess and I doubted he was alive. The harriers all moved at once, one running to his fallen comrades side while the others all reached for weapons.

This was the best diversion I could as for and I hoped Adam was ready when I opened fire. Three hundred meters was not a particularly difficult shot with a Dragunov. It's semi-automatic, the action similar in design to an AK-47, so it doesn't have the extreme range of a true sniper rifle, but most of the shots I took were well within it's 600 meter effective range; and the semi-auto nature combined with removable scope and iron sights and a ten round capacity more than made up for it's more limited range.

I dropped the man closest to me, hoping the others wouldn't see him fall; whether the men behind the truck did or not I wasn't sure, but the other guy on my side of the semi turned. He dove for cover, leaving the man who fell from the shattered window in the road. He was experienced, but dumb, and I heard the rapid fire repots as Adam lit the man up.

Two of the bikes behind the truck gunned their engines, apparently willing to leave their friends to bake in the afternoon sun. Adam jumped from cover to the overturned truck, hunting the last man. I ran up the middle of the road, figuring Adam had him covered; I needed to take out the two escaping bandits before they could alert any others.

I reached the semi and braced against it. The bikers were almost of of range, weaving in and out of the wreckage along the highway; there was no time to adjust the scope and I shot as best I could, as much by instincts and luck than skill. The first two went low, throwing up sparks as they ricoched. I used this to judge my shot and fired. A blood red rose blossumed in the back of the closest biker. He went down as I drew a bead on the final harrier. Just as I squeezed the trigger a six inch long stick twirled down onto the road in front of me, sputtering as I came. A bright flash blinded me a half second later. I dropped my rifle (dumb I know), my hands to my eyes when I realized I couldn't hear either. I was amazed, I didn't feel any pain. And then it hit me like a brick wall, a fire that raged along my left arm. I reached for my arm as the vision swam back. I heard more shooting, but it seemed far off and distant. Adam was at my side then, leading me to sit on the ground. He cut the sleeve off my shirt and was was examining my arm. Then I felt a sharp slap across my face. I blinked a few times before Adam was fully in focus, a dour look upon his face.

"You're lucky," he said as he rummaged through his bag for a bandage. I looked down at my arm. Blood seemed to be running from it. "None of the major veins or arteries were hit. It looks bad, but is mostly superficial. A few stictches and you'll be fine." He looked up to where I'd been standing. "Had it bounced a few more inches you would'd have been so lucky."

A flurry of thoughts boiled to the surface: we needed to check the harriers for any kind of identification or supplies; we have their bikes, but fuck how am I going to ride with my arm like this; one had gotten away, we need to be getting gone before he brings back friends.

And then I heard a sound, perhaps one of the most distinctive sounds known to man. It was the sound of a pump shotgun chambering a round. Adam and I turned up to look to the side of the semi cab and saw the driver, blood trickling down his brow, staring down at us over the barrel of the shotgun we'd heard. "You boys have some explaining to do," he said in the most wonderful Canadian accent.