The concrete stairs felt cold and gritty under Quinn's boots as he ascended, pistol held high, Marco following close behind, equally tense. Above them, the sounds intensified – heavy thuds against the barricaded kitchen door, splintering wood, angry shouts muffled by the thick steel. Richter's men were moments away from breaking through. They had maybe a minute, tops.
Quinn reached the top step, risked a quick glance back into the kitchen. The scene was unchanged – bodies sprawled, the steel table wedged against the door, which was now visibly buckling inwards near the handle. No time to waste. He jerked his head towards the office door, still slightly ajar.
He kicked the office door fully open and swept into the room, pistol tracking, Marco entering right behind him, covering the opposite angle.
Richter was there, behind the cluttered desk, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. He hadn't expected Quinn back, certainly not this soon, and definitely not armed and ready. The two thugs who had been lounging against the wall were scrambling, reaching for their own pistols, caught completely flat-footed.
"You!" Richter roared, grabbing for a heavy shotgun leaning against the desk.
Quinn didn't give him the chance. He fired twice – bang! bang! – the shots echoing like cannon fire in the small office. Richter jerked, hit in the chest, surprise replacing the fury in his cold eyes. He stumbled back, clawing at the desk, scattering papers and bottles, before collapsing behind it with a heavy thud. The shotgun clattered uselessly to the floor.
Simultaneously, Marco opened fire on the two goons against the wall. His borrowed pistol cracked twice – sharp, distinct reports. One man crumpled instantly, sliding down the wall. The other yelped, clutching his shoulder, staggering back, trying to raise his own weapon. Quinn swiveled, firing once more. The bullet took the second man in the head, silencing him permanently.
Silence slammed back into the room, broken only by the furious pounding on the kitchen door and the ringing in Quinn's ears. Three more down. Richter was finished.
"The stash!" Quinn yelled over the noise from the kitchen, already moving towards a heavy steel locker standing against one wall. "Grab anything useful! Ammo, weapons, medical!"
Marco nodded, his eyes alight with grim purpose. He darted towards the desk, shoving Richter's body aside unceremoniously, rummaging through drawers and scanning the maps and radios scattered there. "Got radios! Looks like military surplus. And medkits!"
Quinn yanked open the steel locker. Inside, a treasure trove. Several high-powered hunting rifles with scopes. A military-style assault rifle – maybe stolen National Guard gear – with extra magazines taped together. Boxes upon boxes of ammunition in various calibers. Two sets of night vision goggles, older models but functional-looking. Grenades – wait, no, smoke grenades, three of them. Even better for a diversion. Medical supplies overflowed from a canvas bag.
"Grab the assault rifle! Ammo! Medical bag! Smoke grenades!" Quinn ordered, already stuffing magazines for his own pistol into his pockets, grabbing one of the scoped rifles. "Night vision!"
Marco worked fast, stuffing radios, medkits, and handfuls of ammunition into a sturdy canvas sack he pulled from under the desk. He grabbed the night vision goggles. Quinn slung the scoped rifle over his shoulder, clipped the smoke grenades to his belt, and took the main medical bag Marco offered.
CRASH! The kitchen door finally gave way with a splintering roar. Heavy footsteps pounded into the kitchen. "Boss? What the hell?"
"They're in!" Marco yelled, grabbing the assault rifle from the locker.
"Out the window!" Quinn shouted, spotting a large, grimy window behind Richter's desk. It was barred, but maybe the frame was weak. He ran towards it, Marco right behind him.
Quinn slammed the butt of the scoped rifle against the window frame. Wood splintered, but the bars held firm. Footsteps were rushing towards the office door now.
"No good!" Marco yelled. He pointed towards a section of the wall near the locker, where pipes entered the room from floor level. "Maintenance access! Behind that panel! Leads under the plant floor, comes out near the west wall!" As a mechanic, he'd probably noticed things others wouldn't.
Quinn didn't hesitate. He smashed the rifle butt against the indicated wall panel. Plaster cracked. He hit it again, harder. The panel buckled inwards. Behind it was darkness, and the glint of pipes. An opening, barely large enough to squeeze through.
"Get in!" Quinn ordered Marco, pulling one of the smoke grenades from his belt.
Marco shoved the canvas sack of supplies through the opening first, then scrambled in after it. Quinn glanced back. Three of Richter's men burst into the office doorway, rifles raised, stopping short in shock as they took in the scene – Richter dead, his men sprawled on the floor.
Quinn pulled the pin on the smoke grenade. "Catch!" he yelled, lobbing it towards the center of the office.
The grenade hit the floor, spewing thick, acrid grey smoke instantly. The men in the doorway choked, yelling in surprise and confusion. Quinn didn't wait to see more. He turned and dove headfirst into the narrow opening behind the panel, wriggling frantically after Marco.
He landed hard on dusty concrete in a cramped, dark tunnel just as the smoke grenade popped and hissed loudly behind him, followed by panicked, muffled shouts and sporadic, unaimed gunfire from the office.
"Go! Go!" Quinn urged Marco, clicking on his flashlight.
Marco grabbed the supply sack and scrambled forward into the narrow tunnel, which seemed to follow the path of the large pipes. Quinn followed close behind, pulling the broken wall panel mostly shut behind them, though smoke already billowed through the gaps.
The tunnel was low, forcing them to crouch, sometimes crawl. It smelled of dust, rust, and stagnant water. Pipes crisscrossed the space, making progress slow and awkward. Behind them, the sounds of shouting and gunfire from the office faded slightly, replaced by the closer, more immediate sound of boots pounding on the concrete floor above their heads as Richter's remaining men searched frantically.
They crawled and shuffled for what felt like an eternity, the heavy supply sack bumping between them. Finally, Marco stopped. "Here," he whispered, pointing the beam of his own scavenged flashlight upwards. "Grating. Should lead out near the west perimeter fence, behind the old storage tanks."
Quinn looked up. A heavy metal grating was set into the tunnel ceiling about five feet above them. Daylight filtered dimly through the slots. He listened. No immediate sounds from directly above.
"Okay," Quinn breathed. "Help me with this."
Together, they strained, pushing upwards on the heavy grating. It was stiff with rust and dirt. It groaned loudly, resisting their efforts. Above them, Quinn heard sudden shouts.
"Over there! Noise! Check the tanks!"
Footsteps pounded on the ground above, drawing closer.
"Harder!" Quinn grunted, putting all his strength into it.
With a final screech of protesting metal, the grating gave way, tilting upwards on rusty hinges. Fresh air flooded the tunnel. Quinn boosted Marco up first. Marco scrambled out, pulling the supply sack with him, then reached down to haul Quinn out.
They emerged behind a cluster of huge, rusting metal storage tanks, shielded from the direct line of sight of the main building and the nearest watchtower. But the shouts were closer now. Figures were running towards the tanks from the direction of the main building, rifles ready. They'd been spotted emerging.
"Move!" Quinn yelled, grabbing the scoped rifle off his back.
They sprinted away from the tanks, heading directly west towards the perimeter fence and the woods beyond – the same woods Quinn had used to approach the compound. The fence was maybe fifty yards away.
Rifle fire cracked behind them, bullets pinging off the metal tanks or whining past their heads. Quinn didn't look back. He focused on reaching the fence line. Marco ran beside him, clutching the precious sack of supplies.
They reached the fence, the same section near the crumbling brick wall where Quinn had entered. Getting out wouldn't be as easy as climbing the tree. They needed to cut the wire or find another way.
More shots kicked up dirt around their feet. Men were fanning out behind them, closing the distance. They were trapped between the fence and Richter's converging forces.