Wraith

Chapter 31 - The Storm, Reaped

Chapter 31 - The Storm, Reaped

A heavy wooden beam slammed down into the floorboards a mere five feet away, splintering with a deafening crack, but Redcliffe was already on the move. Chancer grabbed Hamish roughly by the shoulders, swinging him out of the way of another falling ceiling beam moments before it would have crushed his lower back. Taking a quick glance out through the window on his way to what was left of the door, he spotted the Wraith holstering the handheld grenade launcher to his side before drawing a sleek SMG from the opposite holster as he broke into a brisk jog.

Thinking fast, Redcliffe sidestepped a collapsing section of roof as he ripped the stun grenade from his belt, pulling the pin and tossing it with one smooth action. The small grey cylinder flew perfectly, bouncing against what was left of the broken doorframe and sailing out into the night directly into the Wraith's path. Redcliffe averted his eyes briefly as he moved into position beside the doorframe, waiting until just after the deafening crack and flash before spinning out, barrel first.

Scanning for movement through the thin haze of smoke and rain, he caught the barest glimpse of a figure rolling into cover behind the large stack of firewood alongside the wall of the cabin to his immediate left, twenty feet away.

"Chancer, on your four o'clock!" he shouted, firing a few rounds into the stack of wood to try and keep the killer pinned in place.

Moments later, Redcliffe heard the deafening booms as Chancer unloaded Hamish's shotgun into the side of the cabin over and over, spreading her shots in the direction he'd indicated. A little over half of the rounds punched into the wood and didn't penetrate, but a good number of the shells found thinner planks and ripped straight through. Redcliffe watched as a grey canister flew high over the cover, arcing up into the air and dropping into the cabin through the large hole torn in the roof just as the shotgun ran dry.

"Grenade" Chancer shouted, but there was no explosion.

A deep hiss sounded from inside, followed by a sharp acrid smell that burnt Redcliffe's nostrils. His heart sank as he recognised the smell, realising what the Wraith had just done. Tear gas.

"Move!" he shouted, flicking his rifle onto full-auto and letting rip onto the file of firewood as he broke cover.

Even from the brief contact, he felt the prickling onto his exposed skin, tears welling in his eyes. Shortly behind him, coughing heavily, Chancer stormed out with her gun held loosely by her side, holding onto the back of Hamish's jacket as he staggered out ahead of her, barely managing to stay on his feet.

As Redcliffe advanced, swinging wide and maintaining fire in short bursts to get a better angle on the Wraith, a sharp crack of thunder sounded overhead. A brief flash of lightning lit up the clearing momentarily as the rainfall picked up, whisps of white gas curling out through the bullet holes and destroyed roof of the cabin. In that brief flash of light, Redcliffe levelled his gun at the small space behind the firewood, now empty. The Wraith was gone.

Maybe it was luck, maybe pure instinct, but Redcliffe dived for cover behind the far side of the same pile of firewood just as a hail of bullets ripped through the clearing. Three slugs impacted into his flak jacket, stinging painfully as he slammed shoulder-first into the cabin wall. Two of the bullets impacted his ribs painfully, and he knew that he was going to be heavily bruised tomorrow. The third punched directly into his stomach, knocking all the wind out of his lungs and leaving him gasping for air. Pushing past the pain, he roughly ejected the clip from his rifle, jamming in another from a pocket on his vest.

Whatever the Wraith's inclinations were before about killing law enforcement, he seemed to have gotten over it. Real bullets had replaced rubber, and the shots were aimed to kill. From his position behind the wood stack, he could see Chancer leaning around the corner of what was left of that side of the cabin, putting slow and measured shots into the treeline over Redcliffe's head. He could see the tears streaming down her face, coming down from underneath the night vision goggles. Tear gas was a bitch, and as accurate as Chancer normally was, even brief exposure was going to throw her aim off.