They were using different weapons now, and if her dulled hearing could be believed, they were the MP-5 submachine guns that the men and women in the SUVs on the way out to Barstow, as well as the ones on the pier, had used.
Parkowski snuck a peek out and confirmed visually through the hazy green light of her NVGs. She saw a man with an MP-5 with a long, distinct banana-shaped clip run from one boulder to a small rise on the hill surrounding the complex just twenty yards from the house.
Well, that confirmed it. All three groups were related, if not the same. But, who were they?
She fired again, and again, and again.
Her shoulder burned with a white-hot pain, as intense as anything she had ever felt.
This time there was no response. Were they trying for another grenade attack? No, Parkowski thought quickly, they wouldn’t. The windows of the house had all been shot out, at least on two sides.
The incapacitating gas would just leak out and leave DePresti and Parkowski slightly woozy at the worst.
She understood why DePresti had described it as he had, as an urban legend rather than something used on a day-to-day basis. It was hard to get enough of the knockout agent together in a large volume to cause that kind of impact on a person’s nervous system.
But, what did that mean?
Then it dawned on her. That’s why they were moving in. They were going to try to pin them down and then sneak into the house and grab them while they were otherwise occupied.
Shit.
Parkowski fired twice, then got back down on her hands and knees and crawled back under the window towards the entryway and the front door, holding her one extra magazine in her hand.
She made it to the other side, and then pulled her right earplug out.
There was a rustling noise outside.
Parkowski put the barrel of the rifle out of the window and blind-fired in the direction of the sound and then pulled it quickly back.
No bullets came back in response.
She was about to call out to DePresti when the door slammed back into her.
Her night vision goggles slipped off of the top of her head.
Parkowski dropped her rifle and staggered back.
A dark figure rushed through the entryway and crashed into her.
They tumbled together towards the cheap, old wooden floor.
Parkowski struggled against the invader, who was definitely more skilled in hand-to-hand combat than she was.
She — Parkowski instantly realized she was a woman — expertly grabbed Parkowski’s good arm and twisted it to the side.
It hurt like hell.
Parkowski had no advantage, no strategic edge, and no training.
The only thing she had was her rage and will to survive.
She fought like a tiger, rolling with the assailant’s twist and surprising the woman into letting go of her grip slightly.
Parkowski went on the offensive.
She brought her left arm — her bad one — back and hit the woman square in the face
It was an error. Parkowski’s arm was too weak, too damaged by the bullet passing through it just a few days ago. She gave the woman a weak blow, hitting her just below her eye.
Her opponent grabbed her arm and twisted, putting her whole weight into it as she rolled away towards the living room.
Parkowski cried out in pain.
The other woman started to pull her left arm to Parkowski’s back.
She was going to try to handcuff or otherwise disable her arms.
What could she do?
The assault rifle was four feet away, just out of reach. But, her right hand could feel the dropped extra magazine. It was plastic, but it was better than nothing.
Parkowski wriggled her right arm free and slammed the magazine into the woman’s head, right on her ear.
She felt the grip slack off again.
Parkowski hit her again, then rolled away towards the interior of the house.
DePresti was still firing. It hurt her ears, but that was a good sign. He hadn’t been captured yet.
The woman sprang to her feet.
Parkowski did the same.
They squared off, the other individual in some kind of martial arts stance, Parkowski in what she thought a boxer looked like.
The woman started circling to her left, barely visible in the scarce moonlight.
Parkowski matched her step for step.
Her opponent tensed for a strike.
Then, through her unplugged ear, Parkowski heard a strange high-pitched whistle.
The other woman heard it too.
She looked right at Parkowski, though the Aering engineer couldn’t make out her features in the darkness, and then dove through the broken window to the cold desert outside.
Parkowski stood there in shock.
Then she remembered she was in the middle of a running gun battle.
DePresti had gone back to the assault rifle, its thunderous report echoing throughout the old house.
She grabbed her rifle and plastered her body against the wall, then used her foot to move her NVGs close enough for her to pick up and put back on.
Parkowski peered outside of the front window.
There was movement, but it was further back to where she had first shot at the oncoming enemies.
She fired a couple of shots and paused, waiting for a violent response.
None came.
