Overwatch Page #4

A Tier One short story

• Fiction
• Short story
• Action and Adventure

								

“Get me a fucking drink,” Mason said.
“Magic word?” Scott said, in a high-pitched voice.
“Dickhead.”
Two seconds later, Mason smiled as a bottle of water was placed next to him, visible in his peripheral.
He unscrewed the cap and poured the water down his dusty throat, grateful. Mason then checked his watch, worn the wrong way round so he could see the time without taking his hand off his rifle. 
Five minutes, and he could have a break.

“Five minutes Hamza, get ready,” said his informant over the phone. He took a deep breath in attempt to steady his shaking hands. 
“It’ll be easy,” they said. “Just walk to the market and run away when the shooting starts.”
“Okay,” Hamza said, looking downwards slightly towards his guards who were lying prone on the floor, hidden from the sniper that he knew was out there somewhere. 
Two of the men were holding AKMS rifles, one was holding a shotgun and another was only armed with a Makarov pistol. They had steely determination in their eyes, unlike the wife and watery ones belonging to Hamza.
“Your men will take care of you, do not worry.” The informant said, before hanging up. 
He took another deep breath, before forcing his legs to the door.

“He’s on the phone,” Mason said, getting the attention of Scott and Leopard.
“Keep an eye on him,” Leopard replied, producing a pair of binoculars. Mason watched as Hamza hung up the call, before seeming to take a deep breath and making to leave the room. He seemed to hold the door open for a moment before walking through.
“He’s left the apartment!” Mason said, unsure of what the call was now. None of the assault or cut-off teams were there, it was just the three of them.
“Get Scott on the gun. Mason, you go and follow on foot; take your sidearm. Don’t make contact unless absolutely necessary, and don’t kill him unless he poses an imminent threat to you or any civilians.”
“Copy!” Mason said, throwing himself off the table and grabbing his shemagh and a grey jumper. The tan he’d acquired allowed him to blend in a little better, but he didn’t think he could pass as a local. He hadn’t had the time to grab his long Pashtun clothing, so he’d have to think on his feet to ensure he didn’t get compromised. 
He sprinted down the stairs, slowing to a jog while he placed his headphones into his ear, before ringing Leopard.
“Can you hear me, Mason?” Leopard said into his ear.
“Crystal,” Mason said, slowing as he exited the apartment and joined the busy pavement. He was immediately enveloped in the throbbing crowd and oppressive heat; sweat was already forming on his eyebrows. He started walking to the right, peering across the road to where he was sure Hamza would emerge. 
“He’s across the road Mason, by the parked minivan.”
Sure enough, when Mason found an angle through the busy crowd, he could make out Hamza on his phone. He also saw him pocket the phone and make to move out of sight of him and Leopard.
“I’m gonna follow,” Mason said, stepping into the road. A man on a rickshaw blew past him, leaning on the horn while gesturing wildly and nearly knocking Mason down. He stayed on his feet; and just about caught Hamza disappearing round the corner, towards where the local bazaar, or market, was. 
Picking up the pace, Mason bladed himself through the mass of people walking both ways down the pedestrianised street. The huge skyscrapers and motorway overpass above cast the narrow, bustling street into shadow. Mason’s eyes scanned down the street, gazing past people desperately selling their wares through shouting and waving things in his face. After Mason avoided a very enthusiastic carpet-seller, he refocused his eyes onto Hamza, who was now only fifty metres away. Hamza was looking left and right, quickly, jaggedly.
Anxiously.
If he was only out on a stroll, what was he worried about?
As he walked past a vendor selling mirrors, he cast a glance into a full body one. He saw his eyes, reflected back at him. And he saw the hard stare of a native Pakistani, looking straight into the back of his skull.
And he was pulling a gun.

 
Chapter Five

Mason turned around and jumped the ten feet in a matter of milliseconds, grabbing his assailant's right arm and holding it down as they produced the silver Makarov. The little pistol cracked loudly in the street as Mason fired out a punch to the man’s jaw, knocking him backwards. Mason wrenched the gun from his hands and fired twice into his chest and once between the eyes. 
Screams of terrified civilians blared into his ears; most sprinted away from him while some cowered. Mason scanned around him, trying to find targets in the blur of people. 
He saw one man moving low towards him, the shadows almost enveloping all of him apart from the wire stocked AK in his hands. Mason crouched behind the mirror stall, and AK rounds ripped through the air where he was a second later. 
“What the f*ck is happening down there?” Leopard asked Mason through the headset.
“Contact!” Mason shouted, before leaning round the stall and firing a pair of rounds at his AK wielding attacker, who was trying to flank him. The rounds struck him in the chest; he died before he hit the floor.
Mason left the cover of the stall, his pistol in front of him. Another burst of rifle fire, fully automatic, chattered to his ten O’clock. The bullets shattered a huge bookstore window, and Mason dived in, taking cover below the window.
The civilians inside stared at the terrifying man who’d started a gunfight, until Mason pointed the Makarov at them and forced them out.
More rifle fire kept him pinned down, not able to return fire for fear of getting struck by a stray round.
A shotgun boomed, another attacker in the fight. Mason heard the bell ring as the shop door opened, he aimed his pistol at the man who walked through and fired, hitting him in the arm that held an AK, while the other held a shotgun.
The Makarov locked back on empty.
Mason leapt at the man, slamming him against the wall and controlling the AK arm as more rifle fire tore up the inside of the book shop. Mason drove a knee into the man’s groin, making him squeal in pain and relax his muscles. Mason let go of the arm wielding the AK so he could pull his pistol; his attacker used this opportunity to smack Mason on the head with the rifle. Mason groaned as the baseplate of the magazine cut his forehead, before grabbing the AK as another two round burst was fired from the desperate man. 
Mason pulled them further into the bookstore, grappling to control the weapons the whole time. He let go to fire a punch to the jaw, which connected the with a sickening crack and knocked him backwards into the bookshelves. Mason drew his FNX-45, and it snapped twice as he shot the man, before pivoting to the right and firing at the rifle wielding attacker who had entered the bookstore, his weapon high.
The .45 round went wide, and his attacker turned tail and ran before Mason could get another shot. Mason picked up the dropped AK and took off in a dead sprint after him.

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