Like that over there. I spin to the left and up comes my H & K. But before I can even bring the gun to bear, the running figure—another Eighty-Eight, presumably—gets chopped down by someone else. From somewhere to my right—the warehouse office where Team B was headed, I’d guess—there’s the distinctive ripping sound of a Uzi III on full-auto. A hostile, obviously—none of our guys were packing Uzis. Then the whole fragging place echoes with the brutal ba-ba-bam! of Bart’s auto-shotgun, and the Uzi doesn’t speak again.