Djinn: a War on Terror supernatural thriller by Craig DiLouie

Author:Craig DiLouie [DiLouie, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ZING Communications, Inc.
Published: 2023-06-15T16:00:00+00:00

Kill Zone

As Holly mounted the stairs, the battle’s chaotic roar gained in volume like an angry monster that desperately wanted inside to eat.

Killinger turned to block her path. “Dawn’s coming.”

“Get out of my way,” Holly said.

“The Talibs aren’t waiting us out. They’re going to take the fort now or die trying. I suggest you grab Karzai and find a place to hide.”

She pictured Byrne and Seaberg facing the monster alone.

Screw that.

“There’s a window on the fourth floor,” Holly said. “I’ll be there, pitching in.”

He stared at her. Then he shrugged and went up.

In the vestibule, Seaberg kept his fire hot. The muzzle flashes strobed on his night-vision gear and the dust and smoke swirling in the air around him. He hurled an endless string of random obscenities at the Taliban as he pivoted left and then right.

Then he stopped shooting. “Reloading!”

Kalashnikovs crackled in reply like a giant popcorn maker. The noise was louder here, more ominous and real, its vibrations thudding in her heart. Rounds smacked against the stone wall outside.

A bullet hummed through the air like a supersonic bee to punch a jagged hole in the strand board partition.

In the distance, a man let up a ghostly howl, Yalla, yalla!

Other voices joined in: Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!

Holly pushed past Killinger and mounted the stairs. Impatient to reach the last place she wanted to be, but this part she could do. Race from point A to point B, while her legs remained willing. She could at least do that.

One thing at a time.

By the time she arrived at the tall rectangular window carved into the wall on the fourth floor, her legs wobbled. She was in good shape. Strength and endurance weren’t the problem.

She was scared shitless.

But she’d done it. She’d reached the window.

An accomplishment. Good.

Now what?

Fighting to control her breath, Holly took stock. She gripped a brand-new, freshly oiled M4 with a magazine in the well and two spares bulging in her side pockets. If the Taliban’s AKs were shooting, she was in range to shoot back. She had the advantage of height, from which she could throw plunging fire.

The only problem was she couldn’t see much of anything. She didn’t have night vision optics. Her M4’s scope offered only red dot targeting.

Shoot at the muzzle flashes, she told herself. At least it’s something.

Holly positioned herself on the window ledge and peered into the cold night. For a relatively small firefight, it looked like World War Three down there.

On the left and right, muzzle bursts flared like paparazzi cameras. Green tracers flashed toward Fort Jedi’s defenders. Red tracers streamed back as Seaberg and Byrne suppressed or zeroed on targets.

A grenade whooshed to strike the ground near the entrance, hurling shrapnel crackling and thumping against the pockmarked stone.

Propping her elbows against the ledge, Holly planted the gunstock against her shoulder and peered through the combat optic with its luminous red dot.

Aim the rifle, safety off. Breathe out, easy on the trigger pull. Keep your eyes open, brace for the kick. Fire in short bursts, conserving ammo.

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