Nothing to Fear

by Juno Rushdan

  Pinned, his back to the sofa, Gideon’s options shrank. The blanket of suppressive fire was buying the enemy time to strategize and maneuver. Precious seconds evaporated.

  In the doorway of the second bedroom, next to Willow’s, an operator peeped into sight. He wore an H-harness. Bastard had rappelled in.

  The guy ducked out of full view but raised a fist. Universal hand signal to halt. Sure enough, the hail of gunfire stopped. Debris and hot brass littered the floor. The merc peeked back around the doorframe, getting the lay of the apartment, not exposing much of his body.

  Let that head slip another inch, for two seconds, and Gideon would nail him.

  Come on. One inch.

  Willow peered out of the adjacent room at the end of the hall. The timing. The luck. All bad. Murphy’s fucking law bad.

  The merc in the next room caught a glimpse of her. Gideon squeezed off rounds. The guy ducked back into the room, taking cover.

  Willow’s eyes widened, meeting his for a nanosecond before she disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door. The lock clicked into place.

  Bullets popped from the hall off the kitchen, battering what was left of the sofa.

  If he didn’t force the game to change, they were screwed. “Ken, on my mark.”

  “I’m with you.”

  Gideon rolled out from behind the sofa, his body flat and low to the ground, aimed and shot each man in the ankle. Gunfire lashed up to the ceiling as one roared in pain. The other hit the floor, and Gideon put a hot slug in his brainpan.

  Ken stepped out and pulled the hammer of the shotgun, pumping four shells into the injured guy still standing. “That’s for my sister.”

  “Get out of here,” Gideon said to Ken.

  “Good luck, man.” Ken dashed to the master suite.

  Boom! The front door blew off, ripping out the reinforced frame along with it. Steel smacked the stairs in a resounding clank and went clattering down the steps.

  Smoke and dust punched into the apartment, filling Gideon’s throat with chalky residue and obstructing his vision.

  Whack! Wood cracked behind him as the merc from the adjacent bedroom kicked in Willow’s door.

  Gideon sprang up from the floor, sprinted through the living room to help her, and barreled into yet another merc who’d gotten in.

  Grabbing the fucker’s gun arm, Gideon slammed his wrist against the doorjamb and knocked the weapon from his hand. The gun clattered to the floor out of sight. He whipped his elbow up into the merc’s jaw. The man stumbled, his head thrown back, then he drew a blade and lunged faster than expected.

  A searing slash ripped across Gideon’s side.

  * * *

  Willow searched through the cabinet under the bathroom sink for a possible weapon. Toilet paper. Plunger. Disinfectant wipes. Plastic caddy of hair products.

  What was she going to do, mousse the guy to death?

  Gideon had taken both the 9mm and tactical blade from the go bag earlier, but she wasn’t comfortable using either anyway. Her weapons were computers and source code. She ripped open the backpack, pushing aside the purse that she’d stuffed inside, and rifled through the contents.

  The cold stainless steel of the cigarette lighter passed through her fingers, and she clenched it in her palm. If she could find something flammable, she might stand a chance.

  Her gaze flickered to the bathroom door. The lock wouldn’t hold him off for long.

  Delving back in the cabinet, she scanned the contents for anything she could use. Blood pounded in her ears as she searched the tackle box. Conditioner. Hair spray.

  Yes. That was flammable. Her gaze flickered back to the door. She grabbed the aerosol can and shook it.

  The bedroom door smashed open as if kicked in, wood smacking against drywall. Her throat closed around a knot of panic, and she broke out in a sweat.

  Footsteps pounded across the carpet.

  Jumping into position by the wall, she pressed her thumb on the spark wheel of the lighter. The bathroom door handle rattled, sending her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.

  With her left hand, she held out the hair spray. The can, her arm, her whole body shook as if she might shatter. She flicked the lighter, and her damp thumb slipped across the metal wheel.

  Nothing. Not even a spark. Oh crap!

  Bile flooded her mouth.

  Whack! The door burst in, the frame splintering. She sucked in a startled breath, her gaze glued to the doorway. A man in all black swooped into the bathroom. Cold, black eyes pinned her.

  Stark fear cramped in her chest, but if she froze, she was as good as dead. She flipped the serrated wheel, hard enough to bruise her thumb, hitting the ignition button as he raised the automatic weapon.

  A flame burst from the lighter, and she pressed the nozzle of the aerosol can.

  A raging stream of fire sprayed his face, and the balaclava went up in a blaze. He roared, swinging out violently, trying to smother the flames. Smoke and the stench of burnt hair and charred flesh tainted the air. Frantic and whirling, the man tripped into the tub.

  Willow dashed across the threshold and through the bedroom. Trembling, she pushed into the hall. She had to find Gideon.

  Smoke clouded the living room, but through the gray haze, she made out Gideon fighting another man.

  He knocked a knife away from his black-clad attacker, and then a violent dance ensued. Strikes and blocks, fists and kicks flew back and forth in a dizzying blur as they hammered each other with martial arts moves she’d only seen in movies and when black ops personnel sparred in the gym. The man landed a boot heel to Gideon’s ribs, propelling him back.

  She winced, her body squeezing tight as she imagined the force of the blow he’d taken.

  Gideon clutched his side but didn’t hesitate. With a growl, he charged and tackled the guy, slamming him to the floor. He smashed his elbow across the man’s jaw.

  The sickening sound of flesh striking flesh stung her ears, chilling her spine. Gideon slipped a knife from his waistband holster and plunged the blade into the man’s throat. With astounding dexterity, Gideon hopped back on his feet, barely winded.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, still holding the bloody knife. “Are you okay?”

  She rushed to him. “Fine.” A simple word that underrated everything. “Are you hurt? Did he break a rib?” She went to check his side, but he brushed her away.

  “Nothing’s broken.” His voice was steady and cold. No hint of pain.

  Blood poured from the dead man’s throat, pooling on the dark wood floor. Two more black-clad men lay in the hall on the other side of the kitchen.

  “Who are they? How did they find us?” She scanned the apartment. “Where’s Ken?”

  Gideon’s head whipped right, and Willow’s gaze followed.

  A man shaped like a powerlifter, shrouded in black, crept up to the spot where the front door used to be. Gideon grabbed her by the shoulders and took her down hard to the ground with him. Scooping up his gun, he rolled.

  Before she blinked, Gideon was on his feet again. He fired at the man—a series of soft pops. The built-in silencer swallowed the sound.

  Willow’s heart pounded like it wanted to beat its way out of her chest. She scooted back on her heels and palms and passed a dead body. Her gaze trained on the empty eyes of the corpse, and she heaved. She scurried away on her butt, avoiding the puddle of blood, into the hall near the bedrooms, and used the wall for cover.

  The black-clad powerlifter stayed in the stairwell while shooting off a thunderous volley of hot rounds. She jumped at each unexpected boom of gunfire. The sound of regular bullets being discharged she could handle, but this was like a cannon going off. Those were something super high caliber, punching holes the size of bread plates into the walls.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she clamp
ed her hands over her ears, wishing it would all stop.

  What if something happened to Gideon while her eyes were closed? Keeping her hands over her ears, she peeked back at the carnage to see if he was okay.

  Everything happened so quickly, only seconds, and in a dreadful sluggish way at the same time—a nightmare in slow motion.

  Gideon pumped bullets at the doorway, forcing the man deeper into the stairwell. Using the break of incoming fire, Gideon snagged a weapon off the shoulder of the man whose throat he’d slit. It was big and single-barreled like a shotgun, but shorter and fatter. He plucked thick shells off the corpse’s vest and loaded it.

  Rushing the door, Gideon squeezed off shots with his handgun. His Maxim 9 clicked out of ammo before he reached the threshold. The dead clack was deafening, stilling her.

  The man leapt into the doorway and fired. Gideon hit the hardwood in a slide. With both feet, he kicked the guy in the knees and blasted two shells from the other weapon at the man’s chest. The powerlifter fell backward out of sight.

  Two thunderous bangs echoed, and bright flashes of light came from the stairwell, shaking the building like an earthquake even as a fist snatched Willow by the hair and dragged her backward across the floor. Terror knocked the breath out of her, clogging her throat.

  “Want to burn me!” A string of curses flowed. “I’ll show you pain.” He yanked her head viciously, ripping strands from her scalp.

  Fighting wildly, she kicked the air, the wall, clawed at his arm to gain purchase. He was going to hurt her, really hurt her before he killed her.

  Hot tears flooded her eyes, and everything dissolved into a watery hell.

  The distinct clack of a clip sliding into a gun resounded. Her heart clutched.

  Oh God. Oh God. She choked on a sob, scratching and punching at the arm locked onto her. Blinking away tears, her vision cleared.

  She saw Gideon.

  Then a whisper of a shot. Blood splattered the wall. The man’s fist in her hair loosened, and he hit the floor with a nauseating thud behind her.

  It took a dazed second to process everything. Her pulse raced. Willow rolled to her knees, desperate to get away from the body and smell of burnt flesh, but her muscles locked. She sputtered for breath and fought the need to retch.

  Gideon’s hand closed on her arm, lifting her from the floor to her feet. In the thick of the fray, he was all cool control and grim readiness, steadying her like an anchor.

  A tidal wave of relief crashed over her, and she gulped back convulsive tears of gratitude. There was no time to feel anything besides the need to keep moving.

  Gideon crouched beside the dead guy with partially missing skull, keeping his knees out of the bloody brain matter on the floor. After unfastening the man’s nylon belt, he yanked it off. Snagging a carabiner from the harness, his gaze stayed glued to the front doorway where smoke still poured in.

  Throwing on the backpack, Willow strung together the remaining threads of her faculties. Gideon hauled her to the bedroom, wrapped the dead man’s belt around her waist and tied it in a tight knot.

  Ushering her to the busted window, he hooked the carabiner on the belt. “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “I’m more afraid of dying.”

  His mouth cocked in a half smile, and he brushed the tears from her eyes. The exquisite sight of him ensnared her for a split second.

  He grabbed the rope dangling outside, gave it a firm tug, and looped it through the carabiner. “I’m going to help you out the window and lower you to the ground.”

  Swallowing a spike of alarm, she nodded. What other choice did she have?

  22

  Springfield, Virginia

  Friday, July 5, 3:34 p.m. EDT

  Gideon wrapped the rope around his forearm and lifted Willow’s legs over the jagged pieces of glass protruding from the tattered window frame, supporting her back with his other arm. Pain shredded his side where he’d been cut and his chest ached. He beat back a wince.

  He was walking and talking, and Willow was alive. That was all that mattered. He’d come so close to losing her, stark fear had burned a hole through him. God, he wanted to hold her, see what kind of damage that animal had done, but they didn’t have a second to spare.

  The big guy would be back. Sooner rather than later.

  Instinct, training, years of experience prodded him to hunt that motherfucker down and end him, but getting Willow out safely was top priority. The merc could still get the drop on him.

  She held the rope as he lowered her gradually. If she was terrified of heights, she didn’t let it show. This ordeal would’ve been enough to shell-shock anyone not used to the field, but she was resilient and stronger than he ever imagined. She was sensational.

  With his leg braced against the wall below the windowsill, he let a few inches of rope glide through his palms, easing her toward the side of a dumpster. Agony ripped through his abdomen, but he gritted his teeth through the groan rising in his throat.

  Once she cleared the second story, he trained his gaze on the doorway again.

  Any second, the bruiser would emerge. The concussion grenades would’ve only slowed him down. The merc was big as a linebacker and quiet. Deadly quiet.

  It’d been a calculated risk to stay in one location, but they’d had little choice. The passports were necessary. But a tactical team had been formed and dispatched within hours of breaking her out of the Gray Box, which meant someone had been prepared to deploy these mercs at a moment’s notice. Someone who knew exactly where to find them.

  Gideon glanced out the window. Willow was less than five feet off the ground. Her light frame was an advantage, not taxing him much. The hole in his gut was enough strain.

  A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye. Whipping his head, he glimpsed the merc scanning the room while crossing to the other side of the doorway. Gideon freed his right hand of the rope and pulled his gun, aiming for the opening.

  The static rope shot through his left hand, burning his palm and the leather of his jacket around his forearm. Jamming his hip against the windowsill, Gideon rounded the cord in his fist to keep Willow from slamming to the pavement.

  Her weight jerked to a stop, and he hissed at the sharp pang wrenching through him.

  The wide-mouth barrel of a grenade launcher poked into the room. Specialized shells came in an assorted range: concussion, fragmentation, incendiary. He wasn’t sticking around to find out which was coming his way. Letting the rope go, Gideon jumped out the window.

  He crashed onto the closed lid of the dumpster below. Blinding pain burst in his side, the ache in his chest flaring. Rolling off the top, he landed in a crouch and stumbled as Willow climbed to her feet from the ground.

  A blast of fire exploded in the second-story bedroom. Flames spewed from the window, lashing the air, and black plumes snaked up into the sky.

  Adrenaline keyed him up tight. Applying pressure to his side, he leapt toward Willow and cupped her arm. They ran through the alley to the car he’d parked at the corner, but he kept a vigilant eye on their six.

  “Gideon, are you okay?”

  Without answering, he jumped in behind the wheel and connected the dangling wires, firing up the engine while she got in the other side.

  The bruiser dashed into the alley from the opposite end. Fucker was too damn fast.

  “Get down.” Shifting into reverse, Gideon smashed the gas pedal.

  Willow ducked low in her seat as they sped backward out of the alley. The merc opened fire, knocking the driver’s-side mirror clean off. Gideon hooked a hard ninety-degree turn into the side street, whipping the car around. He jerked into drive and slammed through an intersection, narrowly avoiding a collision.

  “In the backpack, find the countersurveillance signal detector.” Pressing a hand to his side to slow the bleeding, he checked the rearview m
irror for a tail. Nothing.

  “What signal detector?”

  “Looks like a black stick with a small paddle on the end.” To be sure they weren’t being followed, he took a right and immediate left, hitting Manchester Boulevard.

  No tail. But if his hunch was correct, those guys didn’t need to follow them overtly.

  Willow rifled through the bag and pulled out the countersurveillance detector. If there was a bug or GPS locator anywhere on her, the device would pick up an active signal.

  He careened right, taking the Springfield Parkway. Less than a mile down, he pulled off and roared into the parking garage for the Franconia–Springfield Metro station. On the third floor, he found a spot in a corner. Holding his side, he climbed out and hurried to the passenger’s door.

  “Oh God, Gideon.” Willow flew out of her seat and peeled his jacket to the side. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, it can’t. There’s so much blood.” Fear colored her face. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

  “The gash isn’t too deep. The knife didn’t hit a major organ.” He took the detector from her hand and clicked the button at the bottom, switching it on. “We need to know if there’s a tracking device planted on you. They could be on their way here.”

  He swept the detector across the pearls around her throat. No chirp sounded to alert him of a transmitting signal. The necklace was clean.

  “Wouldn’t any bugs have been picked up by the countersurveillance detector at the Gray Box?” Her wide doe eyes scanned his face, searching for an answer in his expression.

  “They should’ve. That’s why I didn’t think to check you sooner.” Gideon waved the detector over her blood-speckled shirt, arms, down her torso and smudged legs to her pumps.

  No alarm pealed.

  Couldn’t be. A planted locator was the only explanation for how they’d been found. He hadn’t been sloppy near any CCTV cameras, had only used cash in the stores.