Flags of Sin (13 page)

Clashing
quite comfortably it seemed, against the ultramodern, with daring glass and
steel architecture that America seemed embarrassed to build, but its citizens
would ooh and aah over when they saw such structures in movies, usually not
realizing that they actually existed, just not in the greatest nation on Earth.

Why
are we so afraid to be bold?

He loved
the look of the new Freedom Tower in New York City, and hoped it would reignite
the passion of architects and city planners to dare once again. America would
never have a Great Wall or a Forbidden City, but why should it be the countries
that we buy our oil from that have the jaw dropping skylines like Dubai?

He
placed both hands on his hips, shoved his shoulders back, and raised his chin,
turning slightly away from the camera.

“Ooh, I
like that one!” laughed Laura as she snapped a shot of his superhero pose.

A
cracking sound, like thunder, ripped across the square, causing everyone to
stop.

“What
was that?” asked Laura.

But
Acton knew exactly what it was, and it filled him with dread, for he had heard
it repeatedly only weeks before.

Sniper
fire.

He
rushed over to Laura and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her toward a concrete planter
containing several ornamental trees. She followed him without resistance or
protest, their experiences together having taught both of them to never
question the other’s actions, to simply comply, and ask later.

“What is
it?” she asked when they were both safely behind the barrier.

“That’s
a sniper rifle.”

Another
crack, quickly followed by a third.

“That’s
too quick,” said Acton, poking his head up. The rest of the crowd didn’t seem
to be reacting, some even looked curiously at the pair as they continued about
their business. “There must be at least two of them.”

“Where’s
it coming from?”

Screams
answered her question, and suddenly those occupying the square began to run.

“We need
to get out of here.”

A body
flew past their position just as another shot thundered over the square, a hole
big enough to see through, gaping in the target’s back, as it skidded past them,
coming to a stop ten feet farther on. Another shot, this time with no obvious
victim, kept the crowds surging past them. Acton turned around and raised his
head slightly.

“Are you
daft?” exclaimed Laura.

He
smiled to himself at her unique British colloquialisms, and ducked. “I need to
see where it’s coming from. We might be safer just staying put.”

Laura
motioned at the body that had skidded past them, the distance it had travelled
indicating an extremely high powered sniper rifle. “If he went past us, doesn’t
that mean the shooter is over there?” She pointed toward the far end of the
square without actually seeing it.

Acton
nodded. “Yes, but there’s more than one.” Two more shots snapped through the
screams, then a burst of automatic gunfire. A flood of bodies rushed past them
and Acton took the chance to pop up and examine their surroundings. The crowd
had thinned enough that he could now see clear across the square. Bodies
riddled the concrete, its gray stone stained with bright crimson, a sickening
complement to the harsh red of the Chinese flags that ringed the park.

More
automatic gunfire.

He
turned slightly and could see three vehicles, one a limousine, stopped. Someone
was on the hood of the limo, holding some type of machinegun against the
windshield, firing.

Then he
noticed the flapping flags on the front corners of the hood. Stars and stripes,
fluttering in the gentle breeze.

“They’re
American!” whispered Acton.

“What?”

Acton
pointed toward the small convoy. “That’s a diplomatic vehicle.”

Laura
ventured a quick look then ducked as another shot rang out.

“Stay
here!” he said, then jumped up and sprinted along a row of trees housed in
concrete planters, most hiding cowering tourists and locals.

“James!”
he heard Laura yell as he dove to the ground behind one of the planters, the
trunk of the tree he had just passed exploding. He yelped in pain as something
jabbed him in the forearm. He felt a pair of hands grab his shirt and pants,
then haul him closer to the planter. He looked up to see a white man in his
sixties staring down at him.

“You
okay?”

Acton
looked at his arm and saw a splinter from the exploding tree, several inches
long, embedded in the skin, a trickle of blood rolling toward his elbow as he
held the arm up. He reached to pull it out when the man slapped his hand away.

“Let me
look at that, I was a medic in ’Nam.” The man took Acton’s arm and examined the
wound, then gently pulled the sliver out. “Not even half an inch in. You’ll
live.”

Acton
smiled his thanks. “Stay down,” he said, then sprinted several more planters
until he was near the road, less than thirty feet from the rear vehicle in the
convoy. The opposite side of the planter exploded into a cloud of dust, the
clap of the shot following close on its heels. Hugging the ground, he peeked
around the planter at the black SUV behind the limo. Two men were huddled near
the rear bumper, weapons drawn, taking occasional glances at the limo, with
apparently no idea where the snipers were located.

Another
hit to his planter, and the tree it contained collapsed, the entire root system
shattered.
What the hell am I doing?
It had been instinct to run toward
the gunfire, to help his fellow Americans, but it was also idiocy. He had no
body armor, no weapons, nothing. What did he expect to do? Give the snipers a
good stern look with a wagging finger through their scopes?

Peering
around the planter he watched as one of the men hiding behind the rear vehicle
took a bead on something in the distance, and opened fire, rapidly emptying his
clip. Acton took the opportunity to stick his head out a little further to see
what he was aiming at. It was a van, parked at the far end of the square,
perpendicular to the road where the targeted vehicles were. Its side door was
opened, revealing nothing but a dark interior from this distance. A muzzle
flash briefly illuminated the interior and a moment later the security agent
blew past Acton’s position, a gaping hole in his chest.

And his
weapon clattered within reaching distance of Acton’s position.

But
completely in the open.

His hand
darted out but another crack of the sniper rifle and he jumped back. He peered
around the corner, and found the remaining agent behind the rear SUV had taken
up his now dead partner’s position. The gunman that had been standing on the
hood of the limo was down, apparently shot by one of the security personnel,
which meant there was still hope for those inside.

He heard
the pounding of boots closing in from behind him, and turned to look. Five
Chinese soldiers, in their winter gear, Type 80 machine pistols at the ready.
They’re
going to get themselves killed!

“Get
down!” he yelled, waving his hand toward the ground. But they kept coming, at a
crouch. Acton looked into the eyes of one, determination on his face, the
dedicated soldier rushing toward the danger, not away from it, to try and save
his fellow citizens. Then the eyes widened, their expression turning to fear,
and pain, as a hole blasted through his chest and sent him flying away from
Acton’s position, as if a cable had yanked him back to where he had just come.

His
comrades continued their charge as the crack from the first shot was heard,
then a second of the small unit was hit, splitting him in two, sending the top
half of his body tumbling away. Acton didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help
it. He continued to yell for them to get down, but they kept charging, as if
automatons following an order regardless of the consequences.

Two
finally heeded his warning, dropping to the ground, the third began, but was
hit in mid-fall, his head seeming to disappear into his torso for a moment, before
he dropped like a sack of potatoes in a heap. Acton tore his eyes away from the
sickening site, and urged the two soldiers forward, waving to them as they lay
frozen on the ground, the fear the situation accorded showing in their eyes.

“Come
on!” he yelled, and one of them finally looked at him, then started to crawl
toward his position, soon followed by his partner. Two more shots ripped across
the square, one hitting his planter, the other impacting directly in front of
one of the soldiers, the concrete exploding in his face, his cry revealing the
pain he was now in.

He
stopped, grabbing his face.

Something
in Chinese was yelled by his uninjured partner, who turned back and grabbed him
by the jacket, pulling him forward. The man began moving forward again, his
eyes squeezed shut, his face covered in blood.

As they
neared, Acton scrambled out the few remaining feet and grabbed the other
shoulder of the wounded man, and pulled him to safety. All three of them lay
gasping for breath, their heads against the concrete of the planter, their legs
curled to the side, trying to keep as little as they could exposed.

Something
moved out of the corner of Acton’s eye and his head whipped around to see the
old medic crawling toward their position.

“Stop!”
yelled Acton. “We’re pinned down here!”

The old
man shook his head. “Covering fire!”

Acton
looked at the wounded man, gasping in pain, shards of concrete protruding from
his face. If the vet was determined to help, he knew there was nothing he could
do to stop him. But how to help him?

“Do you
speak English?” he asked the soldier beside him.

“No.”

Well,
you obviously speak some.

Acton
pointed at the vet, jabbing the air with each syllable. “Doc-tor. Do you
understand? Doc-tor.”

The
young man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, raised himself slightly to
look over Acton’s chest then dropped back down.

“Doc-tor,”
he repeated. “Understand.”

“Good.
We need covering fire”—Acton made hand motions indicating machinegun
fire—“over that way”—he jerked his thumb over their heads, toward the van he
had spotted earlier—“so doc-tor can come”—fingers walking on palm.

The man
nodded and rolled over onto his stomach. Acton patted him on the back to get
his attention.

“Shoot”—machinegun motions—“the van”—steering wheel motions, then finger jabs in the
direction.

The
young soldier poked his head up, then dropped down again, nodding.
“Understand.”

Acton
turned his head toward the vet. “Ready?”

The vet
was hiding behind an untouched planter. “Ready!”

Acton
slapped the soldier on the back and he rose to one knee, squeezing the trigger.
The distinct sound of the Type 80, so different from the American made weapons
he was used to firing, rattled in his ear. He flipped over to his side as the
old man struggled to his feet then stumbled toward their position. In his
attempt to keep low, he never succeeded in gaining his balance, and tumbled to
the ground several feet away, completely in the open.

“Shit!”
Acton jumped up and rushed over to the man and grabbed him by the collar,
hauling his heavy frame to cover, as the last of the young soldier’s clip was
emptied.

They all
dropped to the ground, Acton gasping from the exhaustion of hauling the
two-hundred-plus-pound man, the soldier reloading, and the sack of heroism that
had just been hauled to safety rolled beside the wounded soldier, lying at his
side, expertly extracting the shrapnel from the poor kid’s face, the vet’s obvious
experience shining through.

“Get me
his weapon,” said Acton.

“Paul.”

“Huh?”

“Paul
Burns,” said the vet as he removed the weapon from the young man’s hands,
whispering to him reassuringly. “Here.”

Acton
took the weapon. “James Acton.”

“Why
does that sound familiar?”

“No
idea,” lied Acton. With the shit he and Laura had been through the past couple
of years, they now had followers on the Internet. They were part of conspiracy
theories, fan clubs, Facebook pages, Twitter feeds. He was now his own verb
amongst his students, and if what was going on right now wasn’t being “Actoned”,
he didn’t know what would qualify. He and Laura tried to ignore it the best
they could, but apparently more than just their classes were popular.

He
rolled over onto his stomach and looked at the other soldier as two shots
slammed into their planter.

“We
can’t stay here!” yelled Acton, pointing at the ground and shaking his head.
“We have to move!” Finger walking.

The man
nodded.

Acton
raised a finger. “Wait!” He rolled over the surprised Chinese soldier, and
poked his head out so he could see the security agent.

“Hey!
You!” he yelled.

The man
looked for the voice.

“Behind
the tree!”

The man
made eye contact with Acton.

“Where’s
the second shooter?” yelled Acton.

“One’s
in the van!” yelled the man, “end of the square. Scope glare from that roof!” he
yelled, pointing at the top of Mao Zedong’s tomb to the south of their position.

Acton
looked at the soldier. “Two shooters”—he held up two fingers—“one in the
van”—he pointed—“one on the roof over there!” The young man’s eyes opened wide
at that, it obvious he didn’t want to fire on the revered man’s tomb.

The
young soldier flipped on his back and seemed to think for a moment, then his
eyes shot open and he smiled. He reached down and pulled a radio off his
partner’s belt, and rapid fired some Chinese into it. A few moments later there
was a reply, then a quick exchange. He dropped the radio and looked at Acton.

“Help
coming.”