We were just pulling through the gate when some asshole rear-ended the Land Rover, pushing us clear us through clear the gate, I was about to say something nasty when the son of a bitch interrupted me by shooting the gatekeepers and firing through the rear window.

 I ducked, but not before I saw two pickup trucks pull up and disgorge a dozen nasty-looking assholes dressed like mujahideen.  Where was that old Muslim hospitality?  Obviously, these guys bore us no goodwill at all.  I guess I realized that because they were carrying automatic weapons and ammo bandoliers.

 I may be slow, but I’m not stupid.  “Shit, Tommy-“ We rolled out of the Land Rover and took cover behind the hood.  I pulled the Glock out of my belt and dropped the asshole closest to me with three rapid shots that walked up his torso as he charged me- damn, I was heeling.  Well, he dropped anyway.

 Tommy’s pistol was already in use.  Of course, he’s younger and faster than I am.  He double tapped a tango carrying and RPG.  Fucking show-off.

 “House,” he yelled at me. “You go, I’ll cover.”

 I didn’t have to be told twice.  I dodged and rolled left, zigzagged right-left-right, then hauled balls for the doorway.  Bullets kicked up dirt all around me.  A round went through the heel of my boot and knocked me over.  I flipped, tucked, rolled, saw somebody move to my starboard, picked him up in my front sight, and came up shooting.

 I was lucky and the sumbitch went down.  No, I wasn’t lucky- I practiced stress shooting.  I told my men that we had to be able to get it right the first time.  I hammered them again and again.  There would be no warm-ups, no target practice, when we went to war.  No matter how tired, how sore, how fucked up we were, we had to be able to kill the bad guy right out of the gate.

 But it worked.  We started with the basics, at a Virginia Beach shooting range.  We dry-fired, using the old sight-acquire-fire technique.  Then we worked with live ammo.  Then we went outdoors.  Rain, sleet, snow- we shot in them all.  We combined target work with real-life situations.  I called it stress shooting, because I induced stress, then we shot.

 It works.  I know, because here I was, under stress, and I was dropping these tangos.
 I rolled against the door.  It cracked.  Wonder’s face emerged.  So did his AK.  “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.”

 “Fuck you.”

 He laughed.  He rolled out and sprayed the trucks across the courtyard to keep the tangos’ heads down.

“Yo- Tommy…”

Tommy got the hint.  He sprinted, rounds kicking around his heels.  Tommy and I dove inside. Wonder had things organized for defense inside the villa.  But I wanted to take’em outside- I didn’t want to fight a holding battle.  Car bombs or not, the cops would be here soon, and I didn’t need to explain myself to them.  We were packed and ready to move out anyway- so we’d go early.  We could hole up at Dick Campbell’s until he got the plane ready and I had work from Mick about the target site.

I made the assignments in less than half a minute.  We’d KISS and kill.  Rodent and Howie would go out the back door and flank to starboard, Duck Foot and Tommy would do the same and go portside, and Nasty, Wonder, and I would go hi-diddle-diddle, straight down the middle.  We’d come back for the bags as soon as we’d straightened out the matter of these assholes.

I led the way out the front door.  The tangos had massed, using their trucks for cover.  Terrific.  I lobbed a Willy peter just behind the lead truck.  I heard the screams as it exploded.

 “Go.”

 Nasty took point.  On the run, he brought down a charging tango with a double-tap.  Now I came through the door, firing as I went.  Stevie had the AK burning- he actually cut one asshole in two.  We set up a deadly field of fire, which got the bad guys’ attention fast.  We charged toward the Land Rovers in the center of the courtyard, rolled behind them, and used them as cover.  It was like target practice: a tango would pop up, we’d pop him.
 So far so good.  The firing at us was both sporadic and unfocused.  Par for the course.  I’ve learned that tangos don’t practice a lot of fire discipline.  They like to shoot whole mags every time they pull the trigger.  We shot three-round burst- but we hit what we aim at.

 The bad guys were trying to withdraw. I guess they hadn’t expected such a violent reaction coming at them head-on.  Well, doom on them, because they weren’t gonna get off that easy.  The pincer was about to close.
 Rodent and Howie had gone out the back, jumped the wall, and come around behind the tangos.  I could hear the firing from the right.  Then I heard three-shot bursts from the left side- Tommy and Duck Foot had arrived, too.

 I winked at Nasty, who winked back.  The big squeeze was on, and we were about to have some fun.  He pushed forward, firing his AK from the hip.

 It was all over in a matter of seconds.  Which was a good thing because I heard sirens and horns in the distance.  That was the stage manager’s cue to exeunt left.  Translation: it was time to get the hell out of there.
 I backed the Land Rover against the truck that had rear-ended me and pushed it out of the way.  Tommy got behind the wheel of the other LR and swung around.  The rest of the guys hit the door and grabbed luggage.  We were clear in less than two minutes.  I wheeled in the courtyard, floored the accelerator, and came out of the gate, churning gravel as I threaded the needle between the tango pickups and swung into the street.  Tommy was right behind me.  We hadn’t gone three blocks when we saw two fire trucks and three police cars heading toward the villa, lights flashing and Klaxons blaring.  Good- they could pick up the pieces.