Normally I wouldn’t dedicate an entire post to a book release but this one is special to me. The author, William H. Weber, contacted me a few months ago and asked if I would like to receive a beta copy of the book so that I could provide my input. I was honored to do so and thankfully only provided slight bits of input based on personal experience. The book is a fun read and packed with survival lessons throughout. Easily read in a weekend, I highly recommend this book and it can be picked up on Amazon (Kindle Edition) for a mere $3.99!
I asked William to provide a teaser which I could publish here on the blog and he graciously accommodated my request. Enjoy!
Leaning against the apartment complex with the open door, John swung his AR over his back and removed his S&W. Of course, it didn’t quite have the firepower or magazine capacity of the AR, but tight spaces required maximum maneuverability. Swinging the barrel of his rifle from room to room as he cleared them would add precious seconds to his reaction time.
A group of men wearing black cargo pants and carrying AK-47s ran across the street barely thirty yards from his position. John lowered himself. Their focus seemed to be on the battle raging just out of view and he hoped none of them would turn in his direction. When they were out of sight, he peered into the open doorway and went inside.
Moving purposefully and listening for voices or footsteps, John analyzed the layout. A narrow hallway with a row of apartments lay on his left. Before him stood a stairwell that circled up all three levels. Following the railing with his eyes allowed him to see all the way to the top floor.
That was when he caught a woman’s voice. She sounded afraid. Above him, hands gripped the railing along the second floor as the two men pushed Diane forward.
John crept up behind them. The key to freeing her would be to ensure the element of surprise. The stairs were a cheap imitation marble instead of wood. That was good, because it meant his combat boots wouldn’t make nearly as much noise.
By the time he reached the second floor, they were already on the third. He didn’t know what they were doing or where they were bringing her. But the thought of what might be about to happen gave him chills.
He would need to kill both men at once or the situation could get ugly. That was why Special Forces teams often stormed a building from multiple entry points. Converge and neutralize before the enemy knew what had hit them.
John wasn’t a one-man army. He was a father and a former soldier, but mostly he was alone and doing the best he could under the circumstances.
A silent prayer echoed in his mind as he rounded the stairwell and onto the top floor. Ahead of him the two men were moving briskly down a dimly lit hallway, Diane sandwiched between them. On either side were apartments. At the end of the hallway was a push door that read exit.
“Diane, get down,” John yelled. The risk of shooting his wife was too great and so he had taken the chance of exposing his position.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Diane dropped to the floor, curling into a ball.
John fired at the man closest to him the minute she moved.
Three shots rang out. The first two aimed at center mass, the third at his head. All three hit their mark, killing the man instantly.
One down.
John got off two more shots, both striking the next man in the chest, but with no noticeable effect. A result that could only mean he was wearing body armor.
The other man returned fire with a MP-443 Grach.
John felt two blows to his chest that knocked the wind from his lungs. He rolled out of the way toward the stairwell.
Diane screamed when she saw John get hit.
The man in black fatigues fired off three more rounds. John wasn’t in his line of sight, but the bullets still ricocheted off the stone floor and into the wall nearby.
“We go now,” the man shouted in a strange accent.
John pawed at his chest, looking for an entrance wound. A misshapen pistol round protruded from his vest. That was when he remembered the saw blade armor. It had felt like little more than a hack job when Moss had first handed it to him, but without it he certainly would have been severely wounded or worse.
John peeked quickly around the corner just in time to see the man raise his pistol for another shot. He ducked his head back as the gun went off and the round passed inches from his face, exploding into the wall behind him.
This was precisely the situation John had dreaded. Now the man could take shots at him and John couldn’t fire back or risk hitting Diane.
A second later he heard a metallic clang, like someone using a push-bar door. Peering down the hall, he saw Diane being dragged into the emergency stairwell.
Rushing down the hall, John followed close behind.
They were heading up a final flight of stairs instead of back down toward the street. The move puzzled him at first, until John realized the gunman would be vulnerable to overhead fire if they’d tried to descend the emergency stairs.
Another door opening and slamming shut told John they were on the roof. He followed cautiously, not wanting the man to feel too desperate or he might shoot Diane outright. John wanted him to think he still had the upper hand.
Scanning out the tiny rectangular roof door window let him know the gunman wasn’t in sight. John made his way out, gravel crunching under his boots. That would make it hard to approach quietly, but at this point there was no better option.
The roof was a perfect square, with this opening in the center. That gave him the option of going right or left. With still no sight of them, John chose right. Statistically, since most of the population was right-handed—the gunman included, John had noticed—the majority of people, when given equal options, tended to head right.
Sure enough, John found both of them near the roof’s edge. With tears in her eyes, Diane was telling John to get back.
The man in black fatigues had his left hand gripping the back of Diane’s neck and the pistol aimed at the rear of her skull. In the action movies, they always showed villains nestled up to their victims with the gun to their temple. But this guy knew better. The movie way still gave John a clear shot if he was a skilled enough marksman. By keeping Diane’s body directly between the two men, the man had left John without a shot.
“Set your pistol down and we can all walk away from this,” John told him.
The man didn’t answer.
“I don’t want to hurt a fellow American,” John said, trying to ease him. The truth was, the minute John had heard the man’s broken English, he’d known he was probably Russian. Perhaps one of the Spetsnaz men Marshall had mentioned. That also meant he was well trained and not to be underestimated.
This row of buildings looked over onto the lake and into the woods and hills beyond. It was also high enough that he couldn’t jump without risking serious injury or death.
“What do you say we talk about this?” John said, reaching out with his free hand.
“There’s nothing to—” the man started to say when blood sprayed from his wrist.
The pistol fell to the ground as he stared in agony at his mangled hand. Diane rolled to the side as John fired four rounds, hitting the gunman repeatedly in the face and neck. He fell backwards and tumbled off the roof where he landed with a wet thud.
“How did you do that?” Diane asked, amazed that they were both still alive.
“We had a little help,” John answered, scanning the hill that overlooked Oneida for any sign of Reese’s sniper nest.
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