Nuclear Winter Whiteout Bobby Akart (love letters to the dead .txt) 📖

sights. He studied the column slowly making its way across the concrete surface of the bridge. The pickup was flanked by two men, who each carried a hunting rifle. When the driver gently tapped the brakes for a brief second, Hank was able to make out a second truck with two more men flanking its front fenders.

They couldn’t be more than a hundred feet away from the gate and in the center of the bridge when Hank slid his finger onto the trigger. The group was disciplined, resisting the temptation to storm the gates and crash through them with the front bumper of the pickup.

He steadied his aim but stopped short of pulling the trigger. Did it make sense to fire on the guys on foot when the truck was likely to accelerate toward the gate and breach their security? The suppressor might keep his position concealed long enough to take additional shots at the truck as it passed. Eliminating the men with guns was a tempting thought, but the greater risk to the rest of the compound was the speeding pickup barreling past him toward the main house.

He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see his backup emerge from the trail. When they didn’t, he realized he was on his own. He’d only get one or two shots before he’d come under return fire. If the sound of the air horn couldn’t bring the cavalry, gunfire certainly would.

Hank adjusted his aim toward the driver and steadied his nerves. The magazine had thirty rounds, and he’d need them all. He quickly squeezed off two shots; the spitting sound emitted by the suppressor allowed the bullets to reach the windshield at supersonic speed. They both found their mark, obliterating the windshield and embedding in the upper body of the driver.

The truck swung wildly to the right and crashed into the concrete guardrail before stopping. The man on the truck’s left flank was pinned against the concrete and screamed in agony as he attempted to free his leg from the bumper, which continued to push forward as it idled.

Then the night exploded in a hail of gunfire. One round after another careened off the steel gates and the concrete underneath them. One round sailed well over Hank’s head, but it was a reminder that there was a lot of work to be done.

“Move the truck!” a voice ordered from behind the bed.

“I’m on it!” a man responded.

Hank fired again, sending two more rounds toward the back of the pickup in an attempt to shut down the men who were firing upon him. They’d all scrambled for cover after Hank took away their battering ram. For now, at least.

“Hank! Hank!” shouted Jessica.

“Are you all right?” asked Sonny as they could be heard rushing along the trail leading to the main house.

Their questions were answered with gunfire from the attackers. The bullets ripped through the palm fronds and embedded in the trunks.

“Stay low and take cover!” Hank yelled instructions to them.

The tires of the pickup truck began to squeal as the driver forced it into reverse. The man it pinned groaned over the racket as he was released from the front fender’s grip. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air and reached Hank’s nostrils, giving him an idea.

“Shoot out the tires. Now!”

Jessica and Sonny joined him in immersing the pickup in a variety of bullets ranging from Sonny’s shotgun pellets to Jessica’s .45-caliber hollow points from her Kimber 1911. The truck was being pelted by the shotgun blasts, but it was the expert shooting of Jessica that took out the front two tires. Each time a bullet penetrated the outer wall, the tires exploded from the sudden release of air pressure. Now it sat in the middle of the bridge, a disabled hunk of steel unable to breach the gate but providing excellent cover for the attackers.

A gun battle ensued that could be heard for miles, as the unusually quiet conditions coupled with the low cloud ceiling kept the sound confined near the ground.

Hank and Sonny took up positions behind the granite blocks holding the gate in place. Jessica crouched to keep a low profile and rushed to Hank’s side. She patted him on the back.

“Trade guns with me,” she whispered with an urgent tone in her voice. Hank didn’t hesitate as he took her handgun, a weapon he was far more familiar with. “How many rounds have you fired?”

“Ten or twelve, I think.”

She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and handed him a full magazine. “Don’t waste these. I need you to give me some cover. Try to skip the bullets under the bed of the pickup truck. This will distract them and maybe even find a leg or two. With a little luck, you’ll breach the gas tank.”

Hank muttered, “Okay.” He raised the weapon and rested it on the granite block to keep his aim steady. “Ready.”

Jessica tapped him on the back and whispered, “Now.”

Hank fired. She raced off to his left as the .45-caliber rounds careened off the pavement, creating sparks underneath the truck. A man screamed in agony as one of the bullets found his shinbone, shattering it as the hollow-point bullet expanded.

Jessica moved away from the gate to get a different angle at their attackers. As Hank’s bullet hit the man’s leg, she was able to get her bearings. Then she got some help.

There was a reason criminal conspiracy laws had become so effective in taking down any form of crooked enterprise. Most criminals will roll over and snitch on the others to reduce their own punishment. Or, as they say, there’s no honor among thieves.

On the bridge, the attackers in the second pickup truck decided to cut their losses and flee. Jessica heard the truck’s doors slam. A second later, the driver threw the truck in reverse and turned on his headlights so he could have a better view as he drove off the bridge. As a result, he left his partners in crime lit