“What’s next?” she asked.
“Calling it in.” He held up his phone. “That spell you cast will still hold, right?”
He was joking. Surely he wouldn’t — couldn’t — joke if he were dying, right? She nodded shakily.
His left hand had no grasping power. He simply placed his cell in the palm that was lying on his lap, limp and still, and went to his contact list and pushed an icon.
“Speakerphone,” she said. “On low.”
He nodded and slid the volume control way down.
He called it in to 911, identifying himself as a former police officer with the Portland PD and giving the address. “We’re pinned down and I am wounded. Be prepared for an armed response. Don’t know how many hostiles.” He closed the connection. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Hope watched Luke’s face carefully. “Do we have ten minutes?”
“I hope so. We —”
A fusillade of gunfire interrupted him and he threw himself over her reflexively, grunting with pain. He shouldn’t be moving with a wound like that. The gunfire raked the house, left to right and right to left. The windows were bulletproof and simply starred but the bullets went through the walls. It was a sustained fusillade, violent and terrifying, smashing furniture and ceramics. Bits of wood and glass floated in the air.
And not a sound of the shots, just of the damage.
“They don’t know where we are,” he murmured into her ear. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, steady and regular. Her own heart was hammering so hard she was afraid it would beat itself right out of her chest. “So they’re just pumping in bullets. And damn, they’re all silenced.”
“Can you check the security cams?”
His head bowed as he looked at his cell, scrolling through, jaws clenched. “Nothing. It’s got to be a fucking —”
“Drone.” They said the word at the same time. Hope had no idea what that meant, if it was good or bad. Bad probably. It also meant that they — whoever they were — came ready for business. A drone with a silenced machine gun.
Great. Just great. They were being hunted by a Borg.
She turned her head up and studied Luke’s face, trying to take her cues from him. But his face expressed nothing but extreme stress. White and sweaty and taut. It was horrible because this situation — she had no idea what to do with it. And she wanted to live through it.
Oh man, yes, she wanted to live through it. She wanted to live. The desire to live rose up in her with raging ferocity, surprising her. If you’d asked her before to list her characteristics, strong will for survival would have been dead last. Not even there, really.
But not now. She had so much to live for. The promise of a new love, a new life, even that new job with Felicity’s company. Moving to a new city. A new dream life, a life where she fit. Where there was a place for her. Where she was welcome. Someone was trying to take that away from her. Someone felt she was inconvenient. And while they were at it, they were more than willing to kill a good man in the process.
Rage simmered.
Luke grabbed her hands, holding them tightly. His hands were scarily cold. Under that pressure bandage, she knew, he was still bleeding, though she hoped with all her heart not as profusely as before.
Luke squeezed her hands so hard she was startled. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I just sent out the bat-signal. The closest ASI and Black Inc people are coming as fast as they can make it but it won’t be fast enough. I think that drone is going to make its way around the perimeter of the house. The sensors can’t pick it up so we don’t know its location. That puts us at a huge disadvantage. It will just keep —”
He threw himself over her as another strafing commenced. It went from the furthest wall to about ten feet from them. If it was strafing strategically, it was very possible that the next round would be their section of the house. Luke was sprawled over her. He’d take the bullet, she wouldn’t.
Again, the fusillade was eerily silent, the destruction it caused the only sound, fragments of wood, metal and textiles fogging the air. When it stopped, Luke lifted himself up and off her with a grunt. She felt wetness and checked her back. He’d bled through the improvised pressure bandage.
God.
Luke rolled over until they were both flat on the ground, face to face.
He clutched her shoulder with his good hand. “Listen.” Voice low and urgent. “Next time that drone comes our way we might not be so lucky.”
Yeah. Being shot in the shoulder was plenty lucky.
He shucked the foil blanket. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to run over there —” he pointed toward the bedrooms, “without the blanket. It’ll be programmed to target moving sources of heat. I’ll run fast and hit the ground in the corridor, covering myself up again. The drone will shoot but I should be ok. While I’m running, I want you to keep your blanket on and head for the door next to the kitchen. It’s the gun locker and it’s as protected as a safe room. Bullets won’t penetrate and you’ll be safe. There’s a keypad to open the door under the hunting print to the right. Use your knuckle covered by the foil blanket. That way you won’t leave fingerprints and they won’t be able to see the heat signature on the keys you’ve touched if they enter. The code is 84765. Can you remember that?”
If they penetrated the house in time for the keypad keys to keep a lingering heat from her fingers, she and Luke would be in terrible trouble. She would be, rather. Luke would be dead.
She could remember the numbers. Numbers were her friends. “Sure. 84765. But there’s no way I’m leaving you, and there’s no way you’re going to try to draw them away. That’s insane.”
He smiled, face waxy now, nostrils and lips dead white. His eyes were exhausted and sad. “It’s the only way honey. That drone is here to soften us up. They’re hoping the drone killed us, but no matter what, whoever is out there will be coming in soon to check on the damage. If I — if I die, you’ll be left alone to face them and they will take you out in an instant. I can’t let that happen. If you’re in the gun locker, you’ll be safe until our guys can make it. The gun locker will withstand anything, including grenades and maybe even an RPG. If they are conscious of sound discipline they won’t use grenades or an RPG though. I can plan to keep the drone shooting in the wrong direction until you’re inside the locker.
This was not ok, but Luke looked absolutely determined. His determined look was different from that of the men she was used to dealing with. Their looks were stubborn. His was the look of a man who simply could not be swayed and that terrified her. She’d just found him and she couldn’t lose him, simply couldn’t.
He wasn’t going to be swayed by the mention of danger or the fact that he’d probably die, something that would be a major deterrent for most of the men she knew.
That wasn’t going to work here.
So in the short time she had before he gathered his strength for what might well be a last sprint, she had to convince him to do the thing that would save his life.
She clutched his hand. “Listen, if that drone has thermal imaging a bloom of heat and light will burn its receptors, for a moment at least, until the subset of instructions closes the lens. So we need to create a controlled fire. But not one that will kill us in the locker if it spreads. Which leaves that fancy fireplace. Can you turn on the gas fire remotely?”
His eyes widened for a moment then he nodded. “It might just work,” he murmured.
“Of course it will.” She was exasperated.
That earned her a small smile.
“When I turn it on, we could make a small Molotov cocktail and toss it onto the fire to make it flare. That will really blind the drone.” He spoke with effort, through clenched teeth.
“Um. We’d have to toss it exactly into the fire. That’s hard.”
It was his turn to look exasperated. “I am a very good baseball player and I have excellent aim.”
He also had a bullet wound in his
shoulder but maybe now was not the time to mention that. Luke got to his knees, with a difficulty he tried to disguise, thermal blanket over him. He started to shuffle toward the drinks cabinet but she stopped him.
“Let me.” Before he could protest, she duckwalked under the thermal blanket, grabbed a bottle and a lighter near the little forest of candles and made it back in record time. “Here.”
Luke was staring at the bottle.
“What?” she asked impatiently.
He had a peculiar expression on his face. “This is a 40-year-old single malt. It probably costs three hundred dollars.”
Hope heroically refrained from rolling her eyes. “Then take a big slug or three before you toss it. Probably act as a pain killer. You don’t need to aim. Reducing your pain would probably be worth being slightly soused.”
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get soused on a few slugs.”
“Luke.” God, now was not the time for him to get all macho on her, when he’d been so good up until now. “Light the fire and throw the damned bottle. And then we run.”
He gave a sharp nod, thumbed an app on his cell while taking a couple of healthy slugs of the amber liquor. The instant they heard the whoosh of the fireplace lighting, he capped the bottle and threw it. He didn’t peek around the corner and he didn’t even turn around. He threw it backhand over the couch.
As they moved as fast as they could while crouched, she chanced a look over her shoulder and damned if he hadn’t thrown it perfectly. The entire fireplace area was in flames. The intensity of the light and heat must have thrown the drone into disarray because another fusillade of bullets came immediately, killing a couch, a cabinet and two expensive-looking vases.
By the time the bullets stopped, Luke was pulling the door of the gun locker closed. It closed with the soft whump of an expensive car door. The instant it was closed, Luke put his back to the wall and slumped down. He looked terrifyingly white. He looked — no, she wasn’t going there.
“Whoa, that was one perfect pitch, slick. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone throw like that before. I’m glad you got a taste of that super expensive whisky, otherwise such a shame for it to go to waste. Though it wasn’t really a waste, was it? It will probably save our lives.”
She was babbling through chattering teeth as she tried in vain to find something else to use as a pressure bandage because her sweat suit jacket was sodden with blood. She had on a soft tee, the only soft thing inside this gun locker which had enough weaponry neatly aligned along the walls on special hooks and foam cutouts to start a war. Against the far wall was even an array of knives, the blades a dull black but which looked wicked sharp. Guns, machine guns, other guns that looked like they belonged to Men in Black, ropes with hooks, neatly stacked boxes of what she could only presume was ammunition other things she had no name for …
Everything except something that could work as a pressure bandage. She whipped off the tee, folded it and untied the sleeves of the jacket behind Luke’s back. He was barely conscious and she had to gently bend him forward to get at the sleeves.
Peeling off the jacket, she winced at the wound, at the broken flesh. God he needed medical care! Placing the folded material over the wound and pressing, she retied the jacket over it. He grunted when she pressed against the wound and opened his eyes. He tried to smile when he saw her in only a sports bra.
“Pretty,” he slurred, and closed his eyes again.
In the movies you weren’t supposed to sleep. That might be only for concussions — but maybe it applied to bullet wounds, too.
“Hey, hey Luke!” she shook his unwounded shoulder, just enough to keep him awake. His eyes popped open. “There’s a really weird smell in here.”
“Hoppes,” he said, closing his eyes, and smiled again.
“Hops? Like what you make beer with?”
“No,” he said. He was slurring his words a little. “Hoppes, gun solvent.”
Who the hell cared? It could be Chanel N° 5 for all she cared. She just wanted to keep Luke talking.
“Let me have your cell.” He held it out without opening his eyes. “Luke, look at me. Hand me your cell.” His eyes were slitted, he was having problems keeping them open. To her horror, blood was seeping out again from under the makeshift bandage. She couldn’t remember how much blood the human body held but he had lost a good chunk of it.
The cell was open. The security app was easy to figure out but showed nothing. Security cams existed only at the front and back doors and they were free. However, the front door security cam showed an unusually bright light. The augmented fire in the fireplace. God, please don’t set the entire house on fire! Was the gun locker fireproofed? If not they had the pleasant option of being suffocated or burnt to death. After which, the bullets would start cooking off and riddle their burnt-to-a-crisp bodies with bullet holes.
They were a coroner’s nightmare in waiting.
Muffled sounds of gunfire damage. The drone was hitting another part of the house. Presumably soon someone would report something to the police.
“Call the good guys, find out where they are.” She held the cell flat in her hand so Luke could touch the screen with a trembling finger.
“Hey Luke, five mikes out,” a deep voice announced.
“Five minutes,” Luke slurred.
That was good news, though a lot could happen in five minutes.
A faint tinkling sound. The drone had targeted the area where the gun locker was. It was bulletproof though maybe not fireproof. Like a video game where you were under attack by the dragon, the wizard and the evil king’s minions.
And your sword was broken.
Her personal sword was slumped against the wall, breathing heavily.
Not too many cards left to play.
“Hey Luke. Luke!” She shook him again, gently. He struggled to sit up straighter. “Is this gun locker fireproof?”
That shocked him into awareness. “It won’t catch fire, but it probably doesn’t have a separate air system.”
Which meant they could be smoked out if the house caught fire.
“Has the fire spread?” The words were slurred but still comprehensible.
“Dunno.” She held up his phone with the security apps program running. “No security cams in the house, just at the front and back entrances. But one of the security cams is picking up a big source of light. I could write a little algo comparing the lumens to known sources of heat and extrapolate but it would be pointless. What?”
He’d made a snorting sound. “Nothing.”
“Do you want me to call our guys again? Because they’d feel pretty bad if they rushed to get here and all they found was our charred remains.”
He shook his head. “They’re — they’re coming as fast as they can. And they’ll see the fire. The vans have extinguishers.”
“So … now it’s a battle between the speed of the fire, if flammable objects catch on, and the speed of the good guy vans? And we don’t dare go out because there’s a fire-breathing drone out there and presumably bad guys not too far away.”
That faint smile was still there as he nodded.
Was that her imagination or did she smell smoke? As a way to die, a bullet felt better than being burned alive.
She bent to her cell. “Then there’s one last thing left to try. Call the dogs off.”
He blinked. “Wha —?”
She punched in the number Jacob Black had given her. “Calling my father. If he’s behind this, nothing lost, we’re where we were. If he’s not, then I’ll appeal to his fatherly instincts. If he has any.”
Didn’t want to think about her own father trying to have her killed, because it was too monstrous.
Her finger hovered over the cell screen. She might be making a mistake. She might be saving their lives.
The lady or the tiger?
She touched the call button. It rang and was picked up almost immediately. Black had said it was his private cell. Hope kept the video fun
ction off.
“Redfield,” a deep voice said. “Who is this?”
“Mr. Redfield …” How weird to call the man who was her father mister. On the other hand, she never called the man she thought was her father Dad, either. He’d always been Neil to her. She checked on Luke. He was even grayer than before but he’d dipped into reserves and was watching her attentively, one hand curled around his gun. He was down but apparently not out. Not yet.
She took a deep breath. This was for Luke, too. “Mr. Redfield, Jacob Black gave me your number. My name is Hope Ellis. But I was born Catherine Benson. I have recently found out that my mother’s name was Lucy Benson. Mr. Redfield, I have reason to believe I am your daughter.”
She switched on the video function and heard a gasp. He switched on his video function and she gasped.
She’d seen the photograph but in real life it was just amazing. She looked just like him. Same narrow face, same deep green eyes, same high cheekbones. And beyond the features, something more. A deep family resemblance.
Genes at work.
No one could doubt they were related, and closely.
The man looked shocked. She was shocked too, though she’d had a while to chew on the situation, get used to it.
There’d been a part of her that hadn’t really believed any of this. Though she’d been trained to think in binary terms — something either was or wasn’t — and there’d been ample evidence showing that what Frank Glass had told her about her past was true, some part of her still found the whole thing outlandish.
That part was gone.
She was Bard Redfield’s daughter. The proof was in her face.
Redfield spoke. “You’re — you’re Lucy’s daughter?”
“And yours. Apparently.”
He didn’t even deny it. It would be like denying that the earth rotated around the sun.
“Where is she?” He’d moved his face closer to the screen, there was an urgency there. And she realized that he thought her mother was still alive. “Did she send you to me?”
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