“Good thought. LG never did any ops over there, so it’s unlikely they speak Russian.”
“I’m almost at the hairpin. See you in a few minutes.” Nathan ended the call, remembering how he’d felt being around Genneken.
Quicksand.
Her intense gaze, combined with that arctic demeanor, made her impossible to read. There’d been times when he couldn’t tell if she’d been pissed off or happy. Who knew? Maybe she’d been both.
Harv was right. He and Linda were the same. Different genders but identical at the core. Despite LG’s icy persona, he meant what he’d said. He’d give his life for her and knew she’d do the same for him. The bond they’d formed in Venezuela hadn’t been watered down over the years. She might not like him, but loyalty outweighed personal differences. Whether she wanted it or not, LG was getting his help tonight.
Like Harv said, the trick would be avoiding the wrong end of her M9.
“We’re going downstairs,” Linda whispered. “Keep your hand on my back.”
“I know what to do.”
“Absolute silence unless I say otherwise. When I tell you something, tap me twice to confirm you heard.”
She felt two pokes on her back. If this wasn’t such a serious situation, she might’ve laughed. For once in his life, her husband was in complete marital-listening mode.
Until McBride arrived, her only hope of making it through this involved dealing with the intruders decisively, with deadly force. If one lived, she’d interrogate him, but she planned to kill, not capture. Physically and mentally, she possessed everything needed to defend herself.
She hoped Glen wouldn’t become a problem, but if he did, she’d have to knock him unconscious. As much as she hated the thought, she couldn’t allow him to slow her down. The classified information in her head could cost lives and topple governments. Being captured wasn’t an option, even at the expense of her husband.
So Glen’s an expense? Like paying a bill?
It felt like a slap to the face, but she never twisted the truth to fit her needs. She’d do everything possible to save his life, but she’d sworn an oath long before Glen entered her life. Besides, he knew the score. He’d married her knowing what she’d done for a living, knowing this could happen someday.
Well, someday had arrived.
Except for the hum of the refrigerator, the house remained quiet. She doubted anyone had seen her during the brief interval her face had been illuminated by her phone. They’d never make themselves such easy targets, especially if they believed they’d been spotted.
They’ve got balls; she conceded that much.
So who were they and why now? She’d been retired for more than seven years. If people connected to her past wanted her dead, why the delay? Linda had enemies all over Latin America, but none of them should’ve been able to find her.
Shaped like a cross, her house featured a central stairwell that served all three levels. Currently, she was just outside the master bedroom on the second level. Even though every second-floor room had a door accessing the linear veranda encircling the house, it wouldn’t do much good if the intruders decided to torch the place. She and Glen could use the veranda to escape the house fire, but that would expose them to sniper fire.
Linda inhaled through her nose but didn’t smell anything. Professionals knew better than to smoke before an op or use strong deodorant or cologne. These guys would be totally odorless and silent. Had the thermal imagers not picked them up, they would’ve been invisible too.
In a stealthy handgun duel, getting eyes on the enemy first usually meant living or not. She’d managed that much, but the worst was yet to come. If she and her husband didn’t survive, she hoped the intruders would spare her dogs. An image from the movie John Wick invaded her mind and she forced it aside.
Halfway down the stairs, the silence ended.
The crash of breaking glass came from every direction at once, even behind her in the bedroom. Something thumped along the hardwood floor.
Shit! No time to warn Glen.
She crouched, closed her eyes, and buried her face in the fold of her arm.
CHAPTER 2
Nathan climbed out, used his night-vision scope to scan Linda’s house, and saw no sign of movement. Along with a dozen other estate homes, Linda’s place sat atop the south ridgeline of a small canyon. He estimated her house was about five hundred feet distant and fifty to sixty feet higher in elevation.
Her backyard and pool area were equally quiet, as were the houses adjacent to hers. A twenty-foot vertical cliff fortified her home from the canyon. Like the access between decks of a Navy ship, near-vertical stairs ran down the sandstone cliff; he knew he’d have to ascend them cautiously. Harv was right: that could be the intruders’ route in and out of her property. Working quickly, he checked the wiring of his radio, inserted the earpiece, and turned the volume to a medium setting. He tested it with a few clicks and then increased it slightly.
He glanced at his watch. More than six minutes had passed since LG’s alarm system had alerted his phone.
He wasn’t worried about anyone driving past this location. This was a sparsely populated area of Mount Soledad, dominated by huge homes spaced well apart from one another. Most were screened from the street by mature landscaping and security walls. A few windows glowed with the bluish light of televisions, but otherwise this neighborhood remained comatose.
He froze when he thought he heard glass breaking.
And it came from the direction of Linda’s house.
What he saw next looked like something from a horror movie.
As if controlled by demonic forces, all her windows ignited in stroboscopic flashes.
Half a second later, the muffled thumps reached his position.
Nathan sprang into high gear.
He quickly transferred some additional items to his belly pack and took a series of deep breaths. After locking the car, he placed the keys on top of the front left tire.
This wasn’t a long-gun mission. He didn’t have his Remington 700. Tonight’s action would be up close and personal—the way he preferred it.
Hoping he wasn’t too late, he entered the canyon.
Hang tough, LG. I’m on my way.
A concussive shock wave hammered all of Linda’s senses, especially her hearing.
The M84’s detonation felt like a blow to her kidneys.
Glen bent and cursed, having taken the worst of the nonlethal blast.
She gave silent thanks that it hadn’t been a frag or incendiary, then reconsidered her gratitude. They wanted her alive. Not a pleasant thought.
“Get in the linen closet.”
“I can’t see!” he whispered loudly.
“Feel along the wall.”
“Shit, Linda!”
“Do it, or we’re both dead.”
She’d thought about arming him with a handgun, but he possessed zero combat training. Far better to keep him concealed and quiet.
Looking like a blind person in an unfamiliar house, Glen felt his way up the stairs and disappeared around the corner.
The dogs were going berserk.
If she turned them loose, they’d provide a tactical advantage by distracting the intruders, but it also meant sacrificing their lives. The deciding factor was time. She couldn’t afford the eight seconds required to hustle to the closet and back.
A blaring siren began shrieking. Shit, she’d forgotten to disable it. The breached-door or -window alarm worked separately from the perimeter alarm that had triggered the bed’s vibration. She found the right screen on her phone and entered the code.
The howling ended as quickly as it started.
Fortunately, it hadn’t been active long enough to alert McBride’s answering service or the San Diego Police Department. It would be chalked up to a mishap.
To avoid being trapped in no-man’s-land, she descended the stairs, being careful to keep the silver beads at the ends of her braids from ticking. She stopped s
hort of the landing in the kitchen, brought her NV scope up to her eye, but didn’t activate the pistol’s laser yet.
Peering around the corner, she saw the east-facing French door was shattered, its tempered glass scattered across the floor.
Movement caught her attention and she aimed in that direction. Weaving through the living room furniture, a single gunman advanced directly toward her. She saw the distinct outline of night-vision goggles and something far more chilling.
Confirming what she suspected, he held a TASER, not a handgun.
In addition to the TASER, a suppressed MP5 hung across the gunman’s chest, probably set to its three-round-burst mode.
She lined up on his form, saw body armor, then adjusted her aim to the man’s face. He hadn’t spotted her yet.
Linda activated her laser.
In the green image of her NV, a bright star blossomed on the man’s nose.
She squeezed the trigger in a controlled pull.
Her weapon bucked and the expended casing clinked off the wall.
The man didn’t move.
Had she missed? No way. She’d drilled him for sure.
Then the gunman shuddered as though a chill raked his body. He tried to stay on his feet but collapsed to the floor.
One man down, fifteen rounds left. She always kept a bullet in the chamber, giving her an extra shot.
Contrary to how Hollywood portrays it, her suppressed pistol wasn’t silent, even with subsonic ammunition. The report sounded like two Bibles being slapped together. To a combat vet, it was an unmistakable sound.
She pivoted to the opposite side of the stairwell and scanned the library.
There!
Another gunman lurked in one of the bookshelf alcoves.
And, like his fallen comrade, he hadn’t seen her.
He definitely knew someone had fired a round, but he didn’t know where it had come from. The man was looking for movement, hoping to locate the source of the shot.
Linda intended to give him movement, in the form of 124 grains of 9mm copper and lead traveling at three football fields per second.
She bench-rested her M9 against the wall, painted the laser just below his NV goggles, and pulled the trigger.
The gunman’s head jerked and his arms went stiff.
The man fell sideways and began a death spasm, something she’d seen more times than she cared to admit.
Me or them, she reminded herself.
Two down, fourteen rounds left.
Time to relocate.
She entered the kitchen and sandwiched herself between two bar stools that served the island. The French door from the kitchen into the backyard was also shattered, but she didn’t see an intruder.
Then she heard the crunch of glass.
Someone was already in the kitchen.
Directly opposite her position, a gunman had to be crouched on the far side of the island. He must’ve ducked for cover when the shooting started.
Linda had a huge advantage by knowing the contents of the island; if she fired through the cabinet at a precise height and location, her bullet would penetrate the panels and exit the other side. With a little luck, the bullet would have enough energy left to do some damage.
Worth the risk.
Eighteen inches below the granite countertop’s height, she aimed the pistol for a level shot. At the same instant she pulled the trigger, she lowered her face to avoid taking any splinters to her eyes.
The wood veneer ruptured and she felt something smack the top of her head.
She heard a grunt of pain and seized the moment to circle the island.
A single gunman lay on his side, clutching a wounded shoulder. He reached for the TASER, but she stomped his forearm.
With his bloody hand, he tried to unsling his MP5.
Yeah, right. She finished him with a single round through the back of his neck, just below his helmet.
Three men down, twelve shots left in her pistol.
She held her position and listened for several seconds but heard only the muffled tirade of the dogs. At least if they were barking, they were still alive. For now, Glen was safe in the closet, but that could change.
She reached up to her head, where a piece of the cabinet had grazed her scalp, and felt blood, but it wasn’t too bad. If it began dripping into her eyes, she’d have to deal with it. Staying low, she grabbed the dish towel hanging on the trash compactor’s handle and stuffed it into her waistband.
Hearing nothing, she took a few seconds to evaluate her dead opponent.
Black face paint hid his facial features, but she got the distinct impression he was Hispanic. A closer look revealed a collar mike and earpiece, a digital-camo uniform, and all the trimmings of a Special Forces soldier. Had she been targeted by her own government? No way. And his camo didn’t look like a US Army or Marine Corps digital pattern. Besides, if CIA Director Cantrell wanted her to come in, all she had to do was ask.
Not knowing whether the gunman’s helmet employed a micro camera, she stayed out of its sight line, reached down, and turned the gunman’s head to the side, facing away from her. She set her NV scope down and quickly searched the man. He carried no wallet, had no rank insignia, or any other discernible characteristic that allowed her to identify his country of origin. No surprises there.
The dogs erupted again.
Directly above her position, their muffled barking reached a new fury.
One or more gunmen were in the master bedroom.
Would they kill her dogs? She hoped not. Putting herself in their mind-set, she ran some scenarios through her head. To shoot the dogs, they’d have to open the door a crack or blindly fire into the closet, but they wouldn’t risk that if they wanted a live prisoner to interrogate. Cracking the door to shoot the dogs held risk. They could be facing the muzzle of a gun. It was more likely they’d leave someone to monitor the closet while the others continued sweeping the house.
Returning her attention to the dead man in front of her, she unclipped his radio with the intent of taking it, but realized it would give her location away without the corresponding earpiece. From the look of things, the wire was routed under his vest. Professionals always secured the wire by tying it to a piece of clothing—like a belt or buttonhole—to prevent the wire from being yanked due to a snag. A tug confirmed her suspicion: the wire wouldn’t pull free. Besides, they’d likely be in compromised-radio mode and either go silent or communicate in code.
Her best course of action was to remain mobile, keep picking them off one by one, and hold out until McBride arrived. With a little luck, all her old colleague would find was a mop-up job.
An idea formed.
She turned the radio’s volume down to its bare minimum and began a series of intermittent clicks, mixed with the deepest mumbling sound she could make. Whoever was hearing the broken traffic might think the transmitting radio was malfunctioning.
She heard it then, a short code phrase. “Cambie al bravo del plan.” She spoke fluent Spanish: Switch to plan bravo.
Linda pulled the radio’s earpiece wire from its jack, cranked the volume to maximum, and set it inside the kitchen sink, where it couldn’t be seen. Next, she eased around the island to a location where she could see the dining room, part of the living room, and the stairs’ landing.
If these gunmen were part of—
Heavy clunking sounds interrupted the silence.
Someone bounded down the stairs in a big hurry.
Could that be Glen? No way, he’d never be that reckless. Or stupid.
She’d have to hold fire until she was certain. If they’d taken him hostage and were using him as a human shield, she’d do her best to avoid shooting him, but bullets were going to fly. Hindsight was always 20/20, and she now wished she’d kept Glen with her.
Whoever descended the stairs stopped at the same place she’d used to nail the first two gunmen. Keeping her laser dark, she lined up at the corner and waited.
Gradually, a p
air of night-vision goggles crept into view as the wearer peered around the corner.
A sudden transmission from the radio in the sink startled the arriving gunman. He swept his TASER toward the sound.
Linda lined up on the intruder’s nose, and fired her fifth round.
The gunman’s head snapped back from the kinetic energy.
A pop echoed through the house as the gunman squeezed the TASER’s trigger. The tiny prongs cracked the glass window behind her.
His brain scrambled, the man fell forward to his knees, then plopped sideways. Four men down, eleven rounds left in her M9.
Not enough.
She ejected the magazine, pocketed it, and inserted a full one in its place. Because the chamber already held a round, she didn’t need to cycle the slide.
Time to relocate again.
She studied her immediate area with the NV scope and detected no movement. Part of her hoped the others would flee, but the dominant part of her wanted to exterminate them. All she had to do was picture herself bound and naked while they took turns. No, these intruders deserved to die. And she wouldn’t stop there: she’d hunt down whoever ordered this assault and kill them as well.
She eased across the front of the oven and took up a new position at the corner of the island. To her left, the dining room table and chairs offered some cover.
The radio came to life again.
“Todas unidades, informen!”
All units, report. Linda was sorely tempted to grab the radio and tell the ringleader what she thought of his mother, his sisters, and his lack of physical manhood. But caution won the moment.
Five voices copied the transmission; meaning she still faced at least six intruders. The ringleader would likely be driving the getaway vehicle—a commander who didn’t want his hands dirty. It didn’t matter. He’d soon be joining his friends in the underworld.
Decision time.
Wait for the remaining gunmen to come to her, or go on the offensive and take the fight to the enemy? Both held risks, but she decided to fight a defensive battle. Thankfully, they hadn’t torched or teargassed the house to force her out. She hoped she hadn’t just jinxed herself thinking about it.
Right to Kill Page 2