Delta Force: Cannon: Wayward Souls

by Norris, Kris

  She couldn’t see their faces, the low light cloaking them in darkness. But she recognized one of their silhouettes. Had spent eight years watching his back. Keeping him safe. And, now, he was there to kill her. Kill them.

  Fuck that. She wasn’t about to let him hurt anyone else. Defile the badge she wore with pride. Honor. She wasn’t sure if she could pull the trigger—kill him outright—but she’d defend her team with her dying breath.

  She nudged Six, gaining his attention. “Stop worrying about me and go help Colt. I can hold my own.” She sighed when he gave her a curt shake of his head. “Six. I’ll be fine. I can cover my own ass. And we’ll have a better chance of actually making it out of here alive if you and Colt can thin their numbers. I know I’m not up to running around, eliminating them. But…I can handle a few threats. Handle Dave. Go…I’ll be fine.”

  Six leaned in close. “Do not make me sorry for trusting you.”

  “I could say the same thing. We’re not here to trade lives.”

  “Stubborn. I’ll be close. Don’t engage unless you have to.”

  Then, he was off. Gone. Slipping behind the car and vanishing. No footsteps. No loud breathing. As if he’d simply disappeared into the shadows. Become part of the darkness.

  “I know you’re in here, Jericho. You can’t hide forever.”

  Jericho snapped her head around. God, his voice. It sounded normal. Like every other time he’d talked to her. As if he wasn’t currently hunting her. Trying to kill her. As if they were still partners. Still friends.

  She shifted, got a better sightline. The other two men split off, heading in opposite directions. Like Six and Colt, disappearing into the shadows. Only Dave stood near the exit, his silhouette openly mocking her. She’d grieved for him. Had been ready to convince herself she’d been wrong. That he’d died a hero. And, now, this.

  He took a step off to his right. “Come on, Jer. Are we really going to draw this out? Play hide and seek? Let’s talk.”

  Did the man really think she was that naïve?

  He held up his gun. Made a point of showing her he was holstering it. “We’ll just talk. This doesn’t have to end poorly. We can make a deal. One that doesn’t involve those you care about dying. Like Cannon. He’s not here, is he? Sorry, but the man’s too good. Too devoted to you. I had to make sure he wasn’t close enough to help. But, he doesn’t have to die. Just…talk to me.”

  Shit. Had Brown been in on this, too? Asked for Cannon just to get him out of the picture? Was he walking into an ambush, right now?

  He’d risked everything to save her. And she knew she couldn’t offer him any less. Besides, she had her team with her. Something Dave wouldn’t anticipate, even if he knew she wasn’t alone. He’d underestimate their skill. Their determination. And that would be his downfall. All they needed was a chance. A distraction so the attention was on her. Then, they could work their magic. Clear the board. And she knew just how to play it.

  “I put my gun away, Jer. And the others are out scouting around the garage. It’s just you and me.”

  Jericho took a calming breath, then stood. Gun drawn, aimed at Dave’s head. She smiled when he turned toward her, keeping most of her body hidden amidst the vehicles. “Hello, partner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Twenty minutes. That’s how long it had been since Cannon had forced Brown to talk—confirm Cannon’s worst fears. And he hadn’t even reached the courthouse, yet. Was still a few minutes out. Still couldn’t reach Six, Colt or Jericho.

  Cannon hadn’t been as quick as he’d hoped. They’d met with some resistance on the way to the office. Two vehicles had skidded in behind them. Tinted windows. No license plates. They’d followed for a few blocks before opening fire—pelting the car with a barrage of bullets. Cannon had managed to keep moving—prevent anyone from getting shot—until Rigs had made his move. Taken out their tires and left their vehicles in smoking heaps on the side of the road.

  They hadn’t stopped to apprehend anyone. Art had made it clear that their main objective was getting Brown somewhere safe. Art hadn’t been pleased with the change in venue. Was obviously accustomed to doing everything by the book. But Cannon had discovered long ago that being a good soldier meant being able to adapt. Make split-second decisions based on current intel, and not worry about whose feelings were bruised in the process.

  So, talking Art into holing up in Cannon’s office hadn’t been too difficult, especially after they’d been shot at. Having a few ex-Spec Op guys around to shoulder some of the duty had definitely been a selling point. While Art didn’t know Cannon all that well, he knew what Cannon was capable of—what the past fifteen years of his life had most likely entailed—and the man was giving Cannon his trust.

  It came with a threat, but Cannon could live with that, even if he had to pass that part of the mission off to his buddies. Because there wasn’t a chance in hell he wasn’t going after Jericho. Wouldn’t break any rank to ensure her safety. Sure, she had Colt and Six with her—men he trusted with her life. But she was his. To protect. To die for. Period.

  Not that he could do anything until he reached the courthouse—knew what kind of forces he was up against. Brown had said there were two other deputies involved, and Cannon bet his ass one of them was that Andrews asshole who’d threatened to kill them in the restaurant. Cannon had felt something was off, then. That the guy had been too twitchy, even for a special ops division inside the Marshal Service. Cannon should have trusted his instincts. Investigated the bastard. Maybe, then, he would have unearthed all of this before Jericho had nearly died. Was facing death, again.

  But that was ancient history. And stressing over shit he couldn’t change wouldn’t help her, now. Better to shove it away and focus on what was ahead. How he’d infiltrate the building without getting himself or his teammates killed.

  He had the entry code—small fucking mercy. So, accessing either the garage or the main floor wasn’t an issue. Doing it without being seen, without attracting attention to himself was a bit trickier. It wasn’t as if there was a ton of available cover. It was a huge building in the middle of town. Surrounded by other large buildings. A concrete jungle. He’d have to take the extra time to do a quick recon—see if he could spot any outlying forces. Eliminate them, first, then proceed inside.

  It made sense. Was a sound strategy. Except where the thought of not getting to her immediately hurt. Actually fucking hurt. Right in the middle of his chest. He’d never felt like this before, and he’d done his share of rescues. Going in after captured or downed comrades. Men he’d gladly die for. But, he’d always been able to separate the man from the soldier. Push any emotions so far down they never resurfaced.

  But, he’d never been in love, before. In fact, he hadn’t felt much of anything since he’d enlisted. Since feeling made him vulnerable. To suddenly have his damn heart exposed was unnerving. It made him unpredictable. Irrational. Exactly the opposite of what he needed to be. What Jericho needed him to be.

  Which meant sucking it up. Steering into the hard. He’d done it all his life. Surely, he could be stone cold long enough to get the job done. Switch modes. It had been natural, before. Now…

  Cannon pulled over a couple of blocks away, wishing he’d had the fucking forethought to grab his vest out of his truck. But, he’d been on the Marshal’s dime—had been following their protocol. Which meant he didn’t get into a car armed for bear, with six different tactical knives and caches of C4. It also meant all he had was his M9, Glock 19, and the Walther stashed in his ankle holster. All were fully loaded, but if they had semi-automatics. AK’s or carbines. Fuck, it could get real ugly, real fast. And with the building mostly deserted…

  Yeah, not much to deter the bastards from laying down more gunfire than necessary. And Cannon knew far too well that, if you threw enough bullets at a problem, it usually solved it. Blanketing the garage or even just opening fire at her office—shooting right through the glass walls—wasn’t beyond a reasonab
le assumption. These guys were desperate. If they thought Jericho remembered everything—knew Dave was alive. Could prove it, not to mention out the other bastards on the payroll—they had nothing to lose.

  The thought got him moving. He’d do a quick circle of the block. Chances were that any exterior forces would be concentrated within sight of the building. The biggest threat was from snipers. There were apartments and some trendy hotel on the south side. Perfect place for one of these SOG guys to set up a nest. Cap anyone who made it out of the building alive. Sure, their view was restricted, but it covered the large main doors, and a couple secure exits—the ones they were probably leaving open in order to herd Jericho and the others out. The only other option was the garage entrances on the opposite side of the building—hopefully out of range and sight from the snipers—but which Cannon was convinced would be overflowing with tangoes.

  But, if his buddies couldn’t get out through an alternate door—one Cannon didn’t know about. Maybe in conjunction with the adjoining buildings—Cannon knew they’d never risk exiting down those huge stairs—leave themselves open. Which hopefully meant the snipers were essentially useless.

  Of course, he wasn’t going to bet his life on it. That they wouldn’t recognize their limitations and move. Which was why he’d agreed to have Rigs back him up. The ex-Marine had a special partner along—his wife’s former guide dog, Blade. The animal had been a bomb dog in Afghanistan. Had proven, time and again, he was every bit a soldier the rest of them were. Rigs planned on searching the buildings—especially the roofs. It wasn’t much, but Cannon felt confident no one would get past the two of them. Not and live.

  That left Cannon to focus on the immediate threats. Anyone camping out in the green space by the stairs. Waiting in vehicles along the road. The men sent to eliminate any stragglers—maybe clean up any loose ends the Macmillans no longer needed.

  He headed for the main entrance, first. The street was fairly deserted, only the odd car parked along the curb. He checked each one—careful to stay clear of any sightline from the hotel on the corner—then moved on. A black van was parked near the end, a trail of smoke curling out of the window.

  Idiots. Giving themselves away. He didn’t miss the blacked out plates on the back, or the illegally tinted windows. This wasn’t someone making a call or waiting for a friend.

  Cannon approached slowly, staying low and toward the center line, away from the mirrors. The rear panel didn’t have any windows—which worked to his benefit. The only question was how many were inside.

  Chances were, the majority of the men were in the building—actively hunting Jericho. No way there were more than two in the van. And, if he was wrong, he’d deal. That simple. He wasn’t letting anyone hurt his team—hurt his girl.

  It took him three seconds to creep up on the driver—position himself to strike. Another two to smash the window—catch the guy in the side of the head with his elbow. His partner turned, cigarette hanging off his lip as he stared at Cannon. Frozen.

  That just made it easier to cold cock him with the back of his gun. Knock him out. Another minute, and he had both men bound and laying in the back of the van. Weapons rendered useless.

  A quick scan, and he was moving, again. Clearing the other streets, the doorways. Two guys hanging out by a tree. Armed. Gang tattoos on their necks. He didn’t worry if they were involved. Just took them out. Unconscious and tied to the tree.

  But that was it. All he could unearth before he was standing at the garage entrance. The fact he hadn’t come across his teammates, that they were apparently still inside, was unsettling. Meant they’d had to adapt. Maybe head to the garage for cover. Would there be any cover? On a weekend?

  No sense worrying, now. If his buddies were there, if Jericho was there, Cannon was going in. Full force. At least, he had on a Kevlar vest. Standard issue Marshal Service. Not as good as the one sitting in his truck—parked in the damn garage he was about to infiltrate. But it meant he could take a few hits and keep going. They’d bruise. Maybe break some ribs, but nothing he couldn’t push through. Keep fighting with. And knowing the kind of help he’d already faced, the bastards would go for the torso.

  Except the SOG guys. They were cocky. They’d try for the head. He’d have to be vigilant. Consider the possibility that they weren’t all stationed as snipers. That one might be on the offensive—hell, maybe both. They’d be armed with multiple weapons. The one true threat involved in this undertaking. Unless Dave was here.

  Fuck, Cannon hoped that wasn’t the case. Discovering the truth was one thing. Having to draw down on her partner… Cannon would do it. No hesitation. But if Jericho had to take the shot…

  He wasn’t sure she could. Not that he’d blame her. Killing scumbags was one thing. Killing her partner, even if he was trying to do the same—it wasn’t rational. And sane people clung to rationality. It could destroy her.

  Well, then, he’d just have to ensure she wasn’t put in that position. That he or his team did the dirty work. That she’d be free to grieve without the added guilt. Plus, Dave had stabbed Jericho. Cannon wasn’t about to let that go unpunished.

  He considered his options. Using the rolling door was out. Too much noise. Too slow. Instead, he made for the entrance beside it. Code-protected. Chances of men on the other side, but he was ready. Hit the numbers then went in diving. Rolling across the concrete then onto his feet. Gun sweeping the lot. His finger inside the trigger guard. A guy was off to his left. Pistol with a suppressor in one hand. Radio in the other. His attention focused on the other side of the garage. He barely turned before Cannon had dropped him, the soft whoosh from the suppressor drowned out by the thud of the body crumpling.

  No worrying about casualties, here. Not when he knew they were outnumbered. Outgunned. If it came back to bite him in the ass, he’d deal with it. But, for now, he wasn’t pulling any punches until Jericho and his men were safe.

  He surveyed the area. If they’d been able to take the elevator or main stairs, they’d be close. The set nearest Jericho’s office opened off to his left. But it was dark, half the lights shut down. And the ones that were burning seemed dull. A few buzzing periodically then winking out.

  He made a low whistling noise. Waited. When he didn’t get a reply, he moved over to one side, picking his way toward the back. Six or Colt would have answered if they’d heard him. Which meant either they were on the other side of the garage, were still upstairs, or…

  Nope. Cannon wasn’t going to consider any other option. Six and Colt were good. Two of the best men he’d had the pleasure to serve with. Lead. Call brothers. They wouldn’t go down without a fight. Without making it out. Bleeding. Dying. It didn’t matter. They’d drag bloody stumps to the car. Bleed out while driving if that’s what it took.

  And that wasn’t even accounting for that weird premonition shit Six had going on. The reason they all called him Six, to begin with. The man had an eerie way of knowing when something was about to happen. Had saved all of them countless times by stopping them from walking into an ambush. Or pulling them out of danger just before it struck. Cannon didn’t know if it was simply enhanced hearing. Sight. Or if Six really did possess something unnatural. Extrasensory. Cannon didn’t care. Six was one of the good guys. That’s all that mattered. And Cannon knew the guy would be on full alert, using all his abilities to keep Colt and Jericho safe.

  A voice cut the silence, echoing in every direction. Cannon couldn’t make out the exact words, but he didn’t need to. He recognized the voice. Had heard the man address Jericho on more than a few occasions.

  Dave Faraday.

  That changed things. Complicated them.

  Cannon headed toward the sound, keeping to the shadows. But that meant sticking close to the walls, limiting his view points. Several shapes moving in a line caught his attention. Men. Scouring the area. Searching for anyone hidden in or behind the vehicles. They popped in and out of sight as they ducked down, then straightened. They spread out a b
it when they encountered a few vehicles parked together, the men on the ends flanking wide.

  He’d go for them, first, then work his way in. Take them out one at a time. He moved out, staying low. Gun ready, when the guy on the far side dropped. Just dropped. Silently. As if he’d never been there. Just gone.

  Cannon smiled. Colt. No doubt about it. The man excelled at stealth maneuvers. Had once eliminated a dozen tangoes on his own by hunting them down one at a time. Had a way of getting behind people—grabbing them without making a sound. Nothing. Not a breath of air. Not a damn scuff.

  It also meant Jericho and Six were somewhere close. No way they’d leave her upstairs. The only question was whether she was hunting with them, or they’d told her to stay someplace safe. So they could take care of the men.

  Not ideal, but under the circumstances, it made sense. Have them eliminate as many as possible so the race out wasn’t a gantlet of bullets and tangos. Besides, he knew her all too well. She’d probably told them to go. Assured them she could hold her own. And she could—except where she was still healing. Would have to face her ex-partner.

  His voice sounded, again. The words echoing, once more. Only this time, Cannon heard every one. When his name sounded through the garage, he froze. Because he knew, in that instant, she’d face him. Make him talk. Buy Six and Colt time. Fuck, sacrifice herself so they got out. Anything to put the attention on her.

  A cold sweat beaded his body, the icy slide of fear clawing at him. Every instinct told him to run. Just stand up and sprint to wherever she was. Follow the voice he’d heard. Shoot whoever got in his way. He’d most likely get hit, but adrenaline would keep him moving. Pushing forward until he reached them—killed the bastard where he stood.

  Which was exactly what he shouldn’t do. Acting impulsively, letting his fear, his damn heart, rule his actions, would get them all killed. Instead, he headed for the other side of the building. Colt could take care of the rest of the men. Hell, he’d already downed another by the time Cannon started moving. And Six was sure to be tracking anyone else. Dave’s voice echoed one more time before another one replied.