The elevator doors opened onto the security line packed with departing passengers. Sheremetyevo is Russia's second-largest airport and a crucial aviation hub; its annual passenger throughput reaches 40 million.
A massive crowd had formed several snaking lines before the X-ray machines, with airport police posted behind to maintain order.
Makarov stepped out of the elevator with his four men, calm as could be. No one noticed them. The five fanned out in a line, raised their guns. Someone in the corner sensed something off, glanced over and cried out, drawing more eyes—even the cops at the end of the line turned their heads.
Rat-tat-tat-tat
Before the police could even shout, chaotic gunfire erupted. The five were no more than five meters from the crowd. Metallic tracers crisscrossed the confined space; blood burst into sprays.
Joseph Allen squeezed the trigger, the M240 bucking in his hands. He did his best to steer the muzzle away from the densest clusters of people—without making it too obvious.
The others at his sides were madly raking the unarmed passengers. The path of the bullets was visible to the naked eye. Wherever the arc swept, screams rose, then bodies dropped into pools of blood—life gone from their eyes.
Allen noticed Makarov beside him, sweeping left and right and laughing wildly. With every flash at his muzzle, more people fell.
The burst lasted about ten seconds. Not a single person was left standing at the entrance. At Makarov's command, the five moved toward the concourse, and along the way they coldly finished off anyone they found writhing and moaning on the floor.
They advanced while firing. Anyone who crossed their path died—civilian or the airport cops rushing out of the police kiosk. In Makarov's eyes there was no difference. What he wanted was slaughter—to kill everyone in the airport.
They entered the main hall. Passengers there were already like birds spooked by a bow—bolting in all directions. Some begged, some ran. It was useless. The five stopped at the escalators, spread into a fan, and swept the area again. The entire first floor was soon butchered. Every now and then a cop popped up; he'd be turned into chum by the heavy machine-gun fire before he could shoot.
Alarms blared through the airport, but only a few got out. Glass separated inside from outside, two worlds. Beyond, the vast apron held several widebodies parked in plain view, but scarcely any people. Inside, it was hell. Some tried to smash the glass to escape, but no amount of effort worked—the terminal's panes were all tempered. They could only watch the reapers approach and then be killed. Most died in despair right there in the concourse.
With the first floor cleansed, the five took the escalator up. A head popped up at the top to look—Makarov's man stitched him, and the body tumbled down the steps.
They reached the second floor—the shopping level, lined with duty-free stores behind transparent glass.
By the time they got up there, chaos reigned. The five raked down the corridor. One guy spotted people hiding behind shelves inside a shop, stormed in, and carried out a massacre.
Bullets leveled the entire store. Clerks and travelers alike—anyone cowering behind a rack—became corpses.
When belts ran dry, they yanked open ammo cans and fed in fresh ones. Each man carried four belts this time—for a total of 600 rounds apiece.
Screams and groans were everywhere. Some crawled on the floor; others tried desperately to save someone else. Allen never stopped firing, but he consistently avoided dense clusters, aiming at storefronts instead. For all the noise he made, the number of people actually falling to his gun was not many.
Ahead, someone was straining to drag another person toward cover. Allen pretended not to see and swung his muzzle aside—but the next instant both the rescuer and the wounded he was hauling were chewed into pieces, the M240's rounds opening ghastly wounds in their bodies.
Some people ran; some curled up on the floor and sobbed. Everyone reacts differently to danger, but their fates were largely the same.
Up ahead, a police officer suddenly jumped out, pistol leveled at Allen. Allen had no choice—he pulled the trigger and dropped the cop. Only then did he notice Makarov watching him.
A chill ran through Allen. If he hadn't shot—or had shown even a hint of mercy—Makarov might have shot him instead.
Another officer was doing his duty, firing to protect travelers while directing them toward another exit. Good men die young—the man's head exploded under bullets from someone else while Allen watched.
At the police post, several officers sheltered inside and returned fire. One of the five took a hit, but they all wore body armor; the round wasn't fatal.
Moments later, the kiosk was raked by concentrated fire. Its flimsy construction offered no cover. All the officers inside were cut down, bodies riddled with wounds—horrific ends.
To the side, a glass observation elevator rose, two responding officers inside. Allen admired their courage but fumed at their stupidity. In these circumstances, they'd be pulped before the doors could open.
They were doomed, but Allen didn't want to do it himself. He pretended to change belts. As the doors parted, a grenade Makarov had palmed rolled low into the car. One officer panicked and tried to bolt—only to be mowed down the instant he stepped out. Seeing his partner's fate, the other stayed put—and got canned inside.
The grenade blew. The elevator's glass walls shattered to pieces, and the officer inside was killed. Then the car's cable snapped and the box dropped into the shaft.
They descended from the second floor back to the first. The concourse had been emptied by the slaughter. No screams, no cries—only the crackle of damaged wiring.
Sirens wailed outside; rotor thumps filled the air. Makarov gestured, gathering the men at the doorway.
Russia's counterterror units had arrived fast. Allen craned his head for a look. A helicopter hovered outside as operators in combat gear fast-roped down one after another.
Allen didn't know if it was Alfa, Vympel, or an FSB-direct unit. At Makarov's order, he and the others charged out.
Allen ran after Makarov. They fired as they moved, tossing grenades and pushing toward a single objective. Allen did the same. The special operators across the way had no idea who he really was—and even if they did, they wouldn't hold back.
More and more operators appeared around them, but at this distance there was no way to pin down Makarov's group—for now.
The operators used the big jets' landing gear as cover, edging closer to Makarov's position. Makarov's men braced against a wall, set the M240s on their tripods, and let them roar.
The two operators who'd pushed farthest forward were cut down. A storm of gunfire answered. Under covering fire, teammates dragged the wounded back behind cover.
Makarov forced a door; the two prone gunners got up to withdraw, tossing two smoke grenades onto the floor as they left. The area was quickly swallowed in white. Makarov led his men into a service corridor.
At the end of the passage, an ambulance sat waiting. Before they could reach it, the rear doors swung open. One of Makarov's men jumped down, waved them on, and urged, "Move, move!"
"You stay and cover…"
Makarov looked at him. Allen turned and fired back into the smoke. Makarov and the others sprinted past, clambered into the ambulance.
Seeing the last man aboard, Allen pulled back his gun and moved to climb in, too—when Makarov suddenly drew a pistol and shot him in the chest.
Agony exploded in Allen's sternum. One thought flashed through his mind: "He's figured out who I really am…"
The bullet punched through his vest and hit something vital. His consciousness began to dim. In his fading vision, the ambulance's lights flicked on and it tore away. After a while, a squad of Russian special operators in full kit edged closer. Then everything went black.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
Every 100 Power Stones = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.
Every 5 reviews = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.