by Cindy Dees
Gunner dropped to his feet and took off after Spencer, who was already running away from him. It was gratifying to finally move fast like this, and the sprint burned off some of the excess adrenaline that had been clouding his brain function.
He’d never been on this property, but fortunately Spencer and Drago had been running exercises on it for months while they trained the Brentwoods’ security staff. Spencer angled off to the left as the trees thinned and a massive mansion came into view. It was a brick-and-stone castle that looked as if it had been lifted straight off some grand British estate.
Muzzle flashes came from several of the downstairs windows. Which meant the hostiles hadn’t made it into the house. That was good. Bad news: there were multiple tangoes shooting back at the house from the edge of the lawn.
“That place got a panic room?” Gunner bit out.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure the Brentwoods and Poppy are all locked up bank-vault style.”
Drago growled, “They had better be locked up or heads are gonna roll on the security team we trained.”
“So we’re hunting?” Gunner asked.
Spencer’s wolflike smile was all the answer he needed. Excellent. These fuckers were trying to hurt his baby girl. He had no compunction about killing every last one of them.
The three of them fanned out, moving more slowly now. They eased through the trees, steering clear of the rolling expanse of manicured lawn. Drago muttered that they’d taught the security team not to bother trying to shoot at anyone beyond the grass.
That made sense to Gunner. The security staff’s odds of hitting targets in the woods would be too low without sniper training and weapons, and the goal was to keep intruders out of the house, which meant said intruders would have to cross the lawn to get to the main structure.
It didn’t take them long to see muzzle flashes ahead of them. Four of the Oshiro gang members were lying at the west edge of the lawn behind a low brick wall. Unless they were sitting there shooting at the house for the hell of it, Gunner figured they were supposed to give someone cover as that someone tried to reach the house. Which meant the incursion would probably come from the north or south, at right angles to these yahoos.
He and Spencer and Drago had discussed their rules of engagement at the kitchen table yesterday, and they’d agreed that if the Oshiro boys were using lethal force, they would match it. Which meant the men in front of them were dead and just didn’t know it yet.
Spencer indicated that he would take the shooter on the far end, Drago would take the nearest guy, and Gunner should take the two in the middle. They crouched no more than twenty feet behind the targets, weapons at the ready. After a few quick clicks on their primary radio frequency to verify they were ready to roll, Spencer gave the go signal.
Gunner exhaled and double-tapped two shots into the back of his first target’s head, then shifted quickly to his second target. The guy had rolled onto his side to look behind himself, and Gunner sent two rounds into his neck above where body armor would end.
It was quick and brutal. But then, that was a nature of the job. He raced forward to check his kills while Spencer and Dray did the same. And then they were off, sliding toward the south end of the estate in search of the next team trying to capture or kill Poppy.
They’d been moving forward quickly for perhaps three minutes when Gunner’s earpiece came to life, startling him. Once they’d engaged the enemy, SEALs rarely spoke at all. They relied on hand signals and their superb training to know what to do next and what their teammates would be doing.
Except it wasn’t Spencer talking in his ear. It was Chas, talking on the secondary frequency in the headset Gunner had given him.
Chas asked low, “Gunner, did you guys just come back to the house?”
He clicked the radio twice. He’d taught Chas yesterday: one click for affirmative, two clicks for negative.
Chas whispered urgently, “Oh God. Then there’s someone in the house.”
Gunner’s entire being exploded with tension. He reached up and touched his throat, transmitting back a single word. “Hide.”
Spencer whipped his head around to glare at him as he broke operational silence.
There was no help for it. Gunner murmured, “Chas says there’s someone in the house with him.”
Spencer hesitated for no more than a millisecond. “Go.”
Gunner nodded and spun, taking off running at full speed, silence be damned. Chas was in mortal danger.
Chapter Twenty
CHAS LOOKED frantically around the bedroom. Where to go? They’d talked about it last night. Think. What had Spencer told him about where to hide? His panic was so bad, he couldn’t remember anything past the overwhelming urge to run and keep on running.
Laundry chute. There was an old laundry chute in the house that Spencer thought was big enough for him to climb inside, but Drago had been against him using it. He’d said it trapped Chas and gave him nowhere to run. Something about shooting fish in a barrel.
Think.
It sounded like the person or people had come in the kitchen door. He’d heard the distinctive squeak of the old hinges perhaps thirty seconds ago. Since then he’d heard nothing. They could already be upstairs. He raced over to the door on bare feet and locked it. Not that the old-fashioned lock would slow the bad guys down for more than a second or two.
He turned to face the room. Closet? Too obvious. Under the bed? Same. Behind the curtains? He’d be visible. Could he squeeze under the dresser? Probably not.
Out of options, he ran over to the window and heaved the old wooden sash open as he looked outside. It was a solid twenty-foot drop to the ground. Knowing him, he’d break his leg if he tried to jump down there, and then the bad guys would find him and kill him anyway. He glanced left and right and spied a rain gutter overhead. He probably shouldn’t try to hang from that. They weren’t usually attached that firmly and were made of flimsy aluminum. But it gave him an idea.
He punched out the screen and winced as it hit the ground with a faint metallic clang. Quickly, he climbed up onto the windowsill, sitting first and then reaching up to grip the top of the window frame. It was precarious as hell, but he managed to gain his feet standing on the open sill and reaching up to grip the rain gutter for balance. Carefully, he slipped his fingers behind the rain gutter, which was in fact quite loose, to grip the edge of the roof itself.
Using his right foot, he reached up and caught the edge of the open window with his toes and stepped down on it. Fortunately, the window was in good repair and slid shut until it rested on top of his left foot. That was as closed as he was going to get the thing. Hopefully, it would disguise his mode of exit from the house from a fast search by a bad guy.
From inside the house, he heard movement. A stair tread squeaked.
Oh God. No time to go slow.
He eased to his right until his left foot stood on the very last bit of the exterior sill, his fingers gripped the edge of the roof, and his right foot braced against a downspout at the corner of the house.
If he could just extend his right foot around the corner, he should catch the edge of the front porch roof….
It was right at the limit of his ability to stretch his body, and adrenaline probably gave him the last few centimeters he needed, but the toes of his right foot touched solid horizontal wood.
Okay. He was spread out against the wall, his body forming an awkward X. He might or might not have the foot strength to hold his body weight in this position long enough to move his hands farther to the right along the roofline.
A tremendous crash on the other side of the wall decided for him. The bad guys had just kicked in the door to his bedroom. Any second they would come over to the window and look out. He had to be off this wall by then!
Straining with every muscle fiber in in his body, he pushed his feet against the edge of the porch and the edge of the windowsill. Then, moving carefully, frantically, he edged his fingers to the right, one hand at
a time. Right, left. Right, left.
His toes could no longer maintain contact with the windowsill, and his left leg swung down alarmingly, nearly pulling his left hand off the roof.
His left hand cramped with the effort of hanging on. His fingers slipped a few millimeters, and it felt as if all the skin was being scraped off his fingertips by the rough asphalt roofing. Grimly ignoring the burning pain, he pulled with all his strength on his left hand and inched his right hand to the right.
Reversing the process urgently, he pulled with all his strength on his right hand and lurched his left hand to the right. Oh God. It felt like his left hand was on fire. He thought he felt blood begin to drip down his left wrist.
He repeated the procedure one more time, and the entire ball of his right foot was abruptly able to plant on the sloping porch roof. He pushed hard on the foot, taking weight off his arms and giving them a much-needed rest.
He only allowed himself a few seconds, though. He had to get around the corner before the bad guys got done searching the bedroom.
He heard a shout from inside the house and a grunted reply in a language he didn’t understand. Spurred on by the bad guys feeling bold enough to yell back and forth, he inched his hands the last few feet along the roof until he was able to crouch on the front porch roof, breathing so hard his chest hurt. He lay down flat on the surface and commenced low-crawling across it.
A big old crepe myrtle’s branches overhung the other corner of the porch, providing decent cover from anyone who might glance up here.
The wood beneath him gave a loud creak and he winced, speeding up his frantic crawl toward a hiding spot.
At last. He huddled in the fine branches of the crepe myrtle, praying they hid him. Enough leaves blessedly clung to the branches to provide reasonably thick shadows beneath the overhanging boughs.
He looked down over the edge of the roof. He could jump down from here, but there was precious little cover in the yard. He would have to run for the trees and make it to the woods unseen, and then he would have to play commando with whoever was inside the house. He was barefoot and had no coat. Not to mention, he had no weapon and no fancy heat-seeking night vision gear.
Nope. He had no interest in playing hide-and-kill with the bad guys. He was safer up here.
“I’m coming,” Gunner grunted into his ear. “Where are you?”
“Outside,” he dared to whisper, praying the microphone was sensitive enough to pick up the bare thread of sound.
“Outside?” Gunner echoed. “Where?”
“Porch roof, near the tree.”
“Brilliant. Stay put. I’m going to go in and clear the house.”
He clicked the microphone twice. Emphatically. In fact, he repeated the double negative click for good measure.
“Don’t worry,” Gunner muttered. “They’re dead men walking.”
Chas flinched. The cold violence in Gunner’s voice was unlike anything he’d ever heard from him.
It was cold out here, and Chas began to shiver. He hugged his knees to his chest and lay on his side on the rough roof shingles. The angle of the roof was uncomfortable as hell, and when the wind blew, he shivered harder and crepe myrtle twigs poked him painfully. But he was alive. So far.
He tried to distract himself by attempting to spot Gunner coming. But he never saw even a hint of movement. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed at how good Gunner was or depressed at how bad he was at doing the whole Special Forces thing.
He listened intently, expecting to hear gunfire inside the house at any second. But as the minutes ticked by, silence reigned. Did he dare ask Gunner what was up? Or would transmitting give away Gunner’s position?
He opted to remain silent and just wait, but it was hell. Was Gunner lying only a few feet away from him, hurt or maybe even dying? Should he be brave enough to check on Gunner? The thought of just cowering here while something happened to him—
It was unbearable. He reached for the button on the headset to transmit. Maybe just one click to see if Gunner reacted.
Click.
A long, long pause.
Click.
Oh, thank God. Gunner had clicked back. Reassured, he hugged his knees more tightly to preserve his meager body heat. His toes were never going to feel warm again.
Without warning, gunfire exploded nearby and he lurched violently.
Sweet baby Jesus. Was Gunner hurt?
GUNNER DIVED under the dining room table just in time to avoid being shot. It had taken him longer than he’d wanted to creep across the lawn to the house, but he dared not rush in like some unthinking idiot and get himself wasted without knowing how many hostiles there were and if they’d posted a lookout outside the house.
He’d finally low-crawled all the way to the back door, which had conveniently been left open. He didn’t even have to oil the damned thing to get past the squeak. He’d just slipped inside low and scanned the kitchen quickly. Clear.
He considered the door to the basement, but he doubted the hostiles had started there. They’d be double-checking to make sure Poppy wasn’t really hidden somewhere upstairs and likely be planning to kill anyone who got in their way.
He’d cleared the half bath and butler’s pantry beside the kitchen and was just turning into the dining room when a hostile rounded the corner from the living room. It was a close thing to double tap the guy and then dive for cover.
His target went down but squeezed the trigger of his weapon as he toppled over, spraying lead all over the damned room.
So much for the element of surprise. Dammit.
A male voice called out from somewhere upstairs.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Gunner grunted, “I’m okay.”
The voice called back, “Keep searching.”
He moved quickly to the downed hostile and checked for a pulse. The guy was dead. He crouched beside the corpse for thirty seconds or so, and nobody came rushing downstairs on the attack.
Okay. He’d gotten away with his ruse. Better, he knew at least one more hostile was upstairs.
He spun low and fast into the darkened living room. He avoided the soft spot that creaked in the floor by the front window, and quickly cleared the room. After a quick check of the big office, it was time to head upstairs.
He took each step with care, easing his weight onto the tread slowly enough to prevent the casual squeak. He skipped the first step above the landing that always squeaked, and crouched lower and lower as he approached the second floor. The landing in front of him was empty.
He stopped a few steps from the top, almost lying on his belly to peer through the railings down the central hall. He saw a shadow move into the right rear bedroom—Spencer and Drago’s master bedroom.
He pushed upright and ran lightly down the hall before pausing beside the doorway. All at once he spun inside. The man across the room, currently peering in a closet, turned in surprise. Assuming that the bad guys had control of the house was the man’s last mistake. Gunner double-tapped his weapon into the guy’s torso.
On the assumption that the guy was wearing body armor, Gunner charged forward immediately after he shot, while his target was still flying backward and slamming into the wall. Drawing his Ka-Bar knife from his ankle sheath as he leaped, he jumped on the hostile’s chest and drew the blade under the guy’s ear and across his throat fast and deep.
He leaped back as the hostile went limp beneath him, shoved the blade in its sheath, and spun out into the hall, kneeling on one knee, waiting for a response to the gunfire.
The house was eerily silent.
He began a methodical search to clear the house. He cleared the bedroom across the hall and worked his way back toward the stairs. He’d almost finished with the second floor and was getting ready to head downstairs when he heard a click in his ear.
It took him a second to figure out what it was. Chas. On their private frequency. He had no doubt heard the gunfire and was scared shitless. Gunner clicked back. He hope
d that held Chas for a few more minutes. He wasn’t willing to break silence until he’d cleared the entire house.
He headed downstairs and, in an abundance of caution, cleared the ground floor again. Then he headed down to the basement, which was dark, damp, and blessedly empty.
Now to make a circuit outside.
But first, a quick call to Chas. The guy was probably losing his mind if he had to guess.
“Hey, babe, it’s me. The house is clear, but now I have to check around a bit in the woods. Are you gonna be okay holding your position on the roof, or do you want me to come get you first?”
Chas sounded scared but in control of himself, whispering, “As long as you’re safe, I’ll be okay up here. Do your job.”
“Love you, Chas.”
“Love you too.”
Sonofabitch. They’d finally managed to tell each other they loved each other at the same time like normal people did. Of course, they’d had to wait until the middle of a shootout to pull it off.
Nope. Nothing normal about the two of them.
CHAS WATCHED the yard and surrounding woods intently while he waited for Gunner to come get him. It was quiet for several minutes, but then he thought he saw someone moving toward the house in the woods along the driveway.
Horrified, he reached for his throat microphone button. “Incoming,” he breathed. “Paralleling the driveway.” He thought quickly about the compass directions and added, “East side. In the trees.”
A single click was the only response.
Satisfied that he’d been helpful to Gunner, he lay still in his odd little hiding spot, praying harder than he’d ever prayed before. He prayed for Gunner to be safe and for himself to live through the night. He prayed for Poppy and Spencer and Drago, and for Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood, who’d been kind enough to take in Poppy and protect her.
He had no idea how long he’d been up on the roof—a while—when he heard what sounded like the entire Maryland police force coming down the road, sirens screaming. From his vantage point on the roof, he saw the glow of what had to be dozens of light bars illuminating the main road.