She was breathing normally, which was good. And at least one of them was conscious. Mack had attempted to open the rear doors, but they were too damaged to open easily.
Mack vacillated, in a panic. He needed all his strength to break through the rear doors, but he couldn’t let go of Caroline. If he did to force the doors open, she would drown. “I can’t make that choice,” he whispered quietly, looking down at her. “I promise, I will never let you go.”
“I hope I smashed your ugly head into a million pieces!” Moretto screamed into the wall of flames, seconds after he had crashed the Hummer into the side of the gray sedan.
He thought for an instant he’d crushed the bastard, then thought blood loss was causing him to hallucinate. Gabriel flew from the roof of the sedan through the flames onto the hood of his Hummer. Blue-white flashes emerged from the 9mm in Gabriel’s right hand, which was pointed in the direction Moretto had last seen TJ. Gabriel wasn’t looking in that direction, though. He was looking directly at Moretto—down the barrel of his other 9mm.
The detective stared into the black-eyed snake gaze as Gabriel mouthed “It’s time to fly away, little birdie.”
The gun in Gabriel’s left hand flashed twice, and Moretto went numb as two hollow-point bullets ripped through the windshield and into his chest. A sudden, thick gout of blood spurted out the side of Moretto’s mouth. He struggled to say something, curse out this killer who had murdered him, but his lips only twitched silently as Gabriel sprang off the Hummer hood, both guns blazing.
98
“Moretto!” TJ watched Gabriel fire two shots into the Hummer’s windshield through the wall of flames. He erupted out of a squatting position, like a sprinter at the starting gun, behind the second van and charged toward the fire, unloading his clip at the assassin.
The last shot hit Gabriel in the left shoulder, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. TJ jumped headfirst at him.
He straddled Gabriel’s chest. The man had lost both of his guns in the skirmish.
Gabriel thrust his arms at TJ’s midsection, trying to throw him off. An All-American wrestler, TJ knew there was no way Gabriel was getting him off as he centered his two-hundred-pound frame right on the bastard’s chest.
“I’ll gonna kill you!” TJ screamed, raining down a flurry of lefts and rights onto Gabriel’s face. This assassin wasn’t leaving Shepard Ranch in cuffs, he was leaving in a body bag.
TJ swung with such force he tore the skin off his knuckles as he landed blows. Gabriel’s skull recoiled repeatedly off the ground.
Loud horns and flashing red-and-white lights appeared out of nowhere. Squad cars and fire trucks raced down the long driveway.
Something tore into his midsection with searing pain. Instinctively, he grabbed for the blade with both hands, stopping the cold steel from plunging past his thick stomach muscles. TJ groaned as he fought to not let the knife go in any deeper.
Gabriel pushed harder, fighting TJ’s strength and the lack of leverage from being pinned.
He needed to disengage, but found himself trapped—he had been paying attention only to the hand with the knife, but in the confusion, Gabriel had gotten him in half-guard with one leg. If the bastard was able to wrap his second leg around him, he would gain the leverage needed to bury the blade in his stomach.
TJ yelled as Gabriel twisted the knife in his guts. He clenched Gabriel’s wrist with all his might, fighting furiously not to allow him to sink the blade in any further. The pain in his midsection flared like a bolt of lightning, threatening to sear away his consciousness.
Through a haze of agony, he saw that his opponent had freed his other leg and had it wrapped around him.
Quickly, TJ released his right grip and buried his thumb inside the bullet wound on Gabriel’s shoulder.
Gabriel howled something unintelligible as his body recoiled from the pain. TJ pulled himself off and rolled rapidly across the ground away from him.
Two firemen quickly ran up to him. One dragged him about twenty feet away from the burning vehicles, while the other threw a heavy silver blanket over his legs. It was only then that TJ realized that his lower half was on fire. He pointed to the Hummer, and screamed at the firemen to save Moretto.
The firefighters rushed to the burning vehicle and pulled Moretto out. The instant TJ saw the dangling, lifeless arms, he knew his partner was dead, and his rage suddenly reignited. He kicked the blanket off and stood. Ignoring the stench of his own burnt flesh, looking around for a gun.
He had only one thought in his head: he was going to put a bullet right in the middle of his head.
“Where’s that bastard who was trying to kill me?” he yelled to the three officers who emerged from the other side of the Hummer.
“He’s gone,” one of the officers replied.
“Someone give me a weapon,” TJ demanded as he flashed his badge at the three officers. “He couldn’t have gone too far.”
One of the three officers reached down to his ankle and pulled out his backup gun, extending the butt toward TJ.
“Hey,” one of the firemen yelled at TJ as he stalked off, checking his weapon for ammo, “the 911 call was from two people trapped inside a burning van!”
99
Mack wasn’t sure if his foot was broken yet from repeatedly slamming it against the rear doors of the van. He was still holding up Caroline, but it didn’t seem to matter—the doors wouldn’t budge.
He shined his flashlight and saw there was only about a foot of air left in the top of the cargo area of the van. He was doing his best to hold Caroline’s mouth above the waterline. She was still unconscious, and Mack was about to suffer a fate worse than death right before he died: he would have to watch her drown.
Mack held her close and whispered into her ear, “I’m not afraid anymore. I’m done suppressing my feelings to protect myself—you’re perfect, and I don’t care if one day you might leave me. I’m madly in love with you. I need you to know that.” As Mack finished, he gave her a gentle goodbye kiss on the lips.
Caroline’s eyes fluttered open. The instant Mack saw their fiery green color, his energy returned a hundred-fold.
“I’m guessing we’re not doing too well here,” she muttered, her eyes darting in several directions.
With the waterline up to both of their chins, she closed the gap and kissed Mack. The deep, quick kiss was filled with a passion that Mack had never felt before.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
“Get ready—when the door opens, we’ll instantly flood.”
She nodded.
He sucked in the biggest breath he could and went under. The van was almost completely flooded now, the pressure between outside and inside would be almost equalized.
Mack positioned himself horizontally in the water. He grabbed onto the desk with both hands. He then thrust both legs into the rear door. He repeated the thrust several times, but the door didn’t budge.
Mack came up for air and spoke to Caroline. “I’m going to kick the door. As I do, you need to pull the handle.”
“Got it,” she replied.
They both took a couple of deep breaths and went under the water together. Mack wedged himself between the desk and the rear door. He gave Caroline the thumbs-up and she pulled on the door handle.
Mack thrust his legs into the door with everything he had. A dull thud echoed from his feet at impact. The door still didn’t budge.
With his shoulders and back now wedged against the desk, he pushed against the door with all his strength. The veins in his neck popped out like steel cables. With his strength almost gone, he gave a final push. The door popped open about two inches, and a crushing tide rushed into the van.
Caroline tried to push the door open further, but she couldn’t. Nearly out of breath, Mack swam up to the door and saw, through the crack, that the padlock was still intact. With his lungs tightening and his brain screaming at him for oxygen, he fevero
usly pushed and pounded at the door.
This reckless action wasted what little oxygen he had left. Feeling as if he were about to slide into unconsciousness, he looked to Caroline for his last conscious thought.
She had retrieved the MP5 off the floor and was headed his way. Pushing past him, she wedged the barrel of gun into the two-inch gap between the two doors, and they both pushed, using the weapon as a crowbar.
The barrel bent as they pushed so intensely, but the doors only moved another inch.
Suddenly, they both stopped trying. They locked hands and gazed into one another’s eyes to embrace the end.
Death was coming, and all he wanted to do now was tell her he was sorry he had brought it to her.
She pulled her Glock 17 from her underarm holster, put the end of the barrel flush against the shackle toe of the padlock and fired.
The report sent its shockwave slamming against his eardrums.
Mack threw his shoulder into the door with all he had, and it swung open.
100
At 8:36 AM on Sunday morning, Bic cruised by the Spanish-style mansion of Guy and Lindsey Braddick in Palo Alto, California. The sprawling two-story house, with its red-tile roof, was served with a patterned-brick horseshoe-shaped drive with a massive stone fountain centered in the middle. To Bic’s surprise, there were no signs of extra protection anywhere around: no squads in the driveway, no suspicious vehicles on the street or in any neighboring driveways. Unless the FBI had set the perfect trap, number nine had no idea he was coming.
Unlike everyone else on the list, Braddick was young, only thirty-seven years old. Despite his youth, Guy Braddick had founded the largest social media company in the world. After successfully navigating his company for the last fifteen years, he had been rewarded with an $82 billion net worth.
Comfortable with what he had observed, Bic was in position ten minutes later. A row of bushes that ran along the side of the house up to the first of six garage doors provided perfect cover. With the Braddick’s home spread over five or six lots, he wasn’t worried about the neighbors seeing him.
Bic knew from his intel that Guy and Lindsey went to church every Sunday morning, leaving their house around 8:45AM. He watched through the hedge as, right on schedule, the leftmost garage door slid silently upward.
He heard car doors shutting. Not wanting the vehicle to back out, Bic sprung out from behind the bushes and ducked under the rising door into the garage.
Bic could see both Guy and Lindsey were in the car. He tapped on the driver’s side window with the silencer on his Glock to get Guy Braddick’s attention.
The man looked up in utter disbelief. Bic couldn’t tell if he was scared, or just shocked that someone had had the nerve to come into his garage with a gun.
“Roll down your window,” Bic rasped.
The man did so calmly, which was strange enough. Stranger still were the actions of the man’s wife, who made a reaching motion toward the back seat.
He was about to squeeze the trigger when a sight made him freeze.
Guy Braddick’s wife was reaching for her children. It had been a reflexive act. The unthinking motion of a mother’s instinct.
Bic’s mind reeled. His intel hadn’t said anything about kids. Since everyone else on his list was above fifty-five, kids had not been an issue.
With the gun still pointed at Guy’s head, Bic peered into the back of the vehicle to see a little dark-haired boy—about ten—and his blonde-haired, blue-eyed little sister. Rage flowed up Bic as he wondered why his employers’ intel hadn’t told him about the kids. What the hell did they expect him to do?
“Please don’t hurt my babies,” Lindsey pleaded, with tears welling in her eyes. Bic looked at the woman, recalling the thump, and then the iron pan hitting his mom in the face. He couldn’t leave these kids like he had been left.
He took a deep breath as he looked toward the open garage door. The quiet tranquility outside seemed so peaceful—to walk out of this garage, let these good people live, might just be his only chance at redemption.
But then he thought of Gracie. He might never be free of this employer, but regardless, he had to finish his job.
He said carefully, “I’m not going to hurt your children if you do exactly as I say.”
A couple of minutes later, the crying kids were locked in the theater room, the boy pounded on the door screaming out for his parents. Bic had led Guy and Lindsey to the opposite side of the house, where they sat together on a couch.
He tried to harness the rage from his father to finish this job, but he couldn’t. Even fifty years of fury couldn’t justify this hit. He pointed the gun steadily at Guy Braddick’s head as his eyes burned under the cover of his dark sunglasses.
“I’m sorry,” Bic said softly as he squeezed the trigger twice. They died no differently than any of the others. But Bic was now a maker of orphans.
For the first time, he truly felt like Clarence Green. For the first time, he felt like a monster.
101
Caroline woke around 9:00 AM. “What happened?” she groaned.
“You don’t remember?” Mack asked, rising from the comfy chair in the corner of the single-occupant hospital room.
He leaned over her. “Welcome to the concussion club. We’re having buttons made.”
“How long was I out?”
“About eight hours, give or take.”
Her eyes searched the room, as if answers to shadowed areas lay there somewhere hidden. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, knock wood. A couple of bruises and scrapes. I’ve sustained worse on the court.”
She looked at him then, and there was a smile in her eyes. It was the glint of shared intimacy. She remembered. Thank God, she remembered that kiss.
The door opened, and Bender entered the room.
Mack stood up quickly.
“Well, look who’s up,” said Bender.
“Not one for clichés, are you?” said Caroline.
“And I hear you’re in pretty good shape,” he said to Mack.
“Could be worse.”
“I’ve already visited TJ,” said Bender.
“TJ’s here too?” said Caroline.
“He and Moretto came in like SEAL Team Six,” said Mack. “TJ’s got third-degree burns on his legs and a stab wound.”
“Moretto?” she asked.
Mack looked to Bender, who shook his head slowly. “He didn’t make it.”
A heavy silence overtook the room.
“Dammit,” Caroline said softly.
Bender put a hand to his forehead. “And I hate to be the one to compound bad news, but about twenty minutes ago, agents discovered Guy and Lindsay Braddick dead in their home.”
Mack was speechless for a moment. “Hold on… what are you saying? Gabriel made it all the way to Cali from Denver? I mean, after the display we saw last night, I wouldn’t have doubted anything about that man. But that kind of speed is just impossible. Am I wrong?”
“Apparently so. Or we’re looking for someone else.”
“Or we have a copycat,” said Caroline.
“What about Ralston Templeton?” Mack asked quietly.
“Interesting you should ask.”
“Not him, too.”
“No, he’s fine. I spoke to him personally this morning. Formally requested he let us take him and his family into protective custody. He refused, of course. He said, and I quote, ‘No one can force me to leave my own home.’”
“Who does he think he is? Davy Crockett?”
“He said he’s hired a professional security team to protect his family.”
“He obviously doesn’t realize who’s coming after him. Gabriel will tear through any rent-a-cops like wet paper towels.”
“Assuming Gabriel’s actually gunning for him,” said Bender. “At any rate, he’s hired an elite team of ex-military special forces. They’re probably already on site.”
Mack shook his head. “This is bad.”
Bender nodded in agreement. “Templeton’s living up to his reputation as a control freak. It took me five minutes for him to agree to let even one FBI agent come assist with his protection.”
“Well, he’s a fool if he thinks—”
“You’re the one he agreed to.”
Mack looked at Caroline, who shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, sir, I may have damaged an eardrum underwater. Come again? He wants me?”
“He knows you’ve encountered Gabriel twice now—and of all the agents in this investigation, you’re still standing. No offense, Caroline.”
Caroline held up her hands in absolution.
“I assured him that you’d be an asset to his team.” Bender looked at his watch. “A car’s waiting for you outside, Mack. You have a flight in forty minutes to Seattle. A chopper will then take you from the airport to Templeton’s estate.”
“Sir, I appreciate this, but I—”
“I’ll want a full briefing when you arrive,” Bender said, then exited the room.
102
Once Bender was out of the room, Mack plopped back down into the chair and slumped.
“I can’t do this,” he said to the ceiling.
“Do what?”
“I’m a fraud.”
She paused. “Mack, what the hell are you talking about?”
He looked at her. “Come on. You know I froze up in the van. If you hadn’t pushed me out of the way, I would have taken a bullet in the head.”
“It all happened so fast. You can’t fault yourself for that.”
Mack shook his head in disgust. “You don’t understand, Caroline. I choked when I saw him on the sidewalk, too. I had the draw on him, but I hesitated. Just long enough for him to turn around and shoot me.”
Caroline looked at him sympathetically. “Mack, I know I’m one to talk, but you can’t dwell on the past.”
“It’s not just the past,” he said, looking away. “I’m... broken. Just like my father.”
Black Ghost Page 22