by Michael Todd
Given that Savage had been their target all along, the only person they were likely to allow inside without much resistance would be him.
Knowing he was the one they wanted dead all this time meant he also knew he’d effectively head in there on a suicide mission. The hope was that he would be able to get back into the elevator in time for Anja to close it, bring him to the surface, and allow the team to properly assault the bunker.
That was the plan, anyway, but as anyone could have told them, things very rarely went off without a hitch. Counting on the plan going wrong probably wasn’t the best way to go about it, but he was well aware of the fact that his chances of walking out of that bunker at all, much less unscathed, were basically nil. Sending two people in would have been worse than only one. They would have been outnumbered anyway.
Maybe he should have simply tossed his earbud inside from the elevator hatch. In retrospect, it could have avoided a significant amount of unnecessary pain for him. Either way, it would be a learning experience.
When Terry and Sam arrived in the elevator to rescue him, hope stirred that his chances at actually living to learn the lessons from the mistakes he’d made were a little higher.
Most of the guards turned to deal with the new threat and forgot for the moment that their prisoner was close to them and still unbound. He glanced quickly at them as one dropped almost immediately after the spray from what had been Banks’ hand spattered Savage’s face. He was battered, bruised, and maybe even broken in some places, but a fire roared up inside him. The need to survive and thrive pushed through the pain and discomfort.
His right elbow connected with the jaw of one of the guardsmen beside him. Maybe standing wasn’t the best choice in the middle of a crossfire, but he trusted his teammates to try to shoot around him.
The man he struck fell and another collapsed a few feet away when a couple of bullet holes appeared in his forehead. Sam’s work, the operative thought. Terry’s big fucking rifle had a habit of severing heads or leaving much larger holes.
Savage quickly remembered where he was and why and used all the power he had in him to move behind cover. A pillar now shielded him from the remaining—Four? Three?—however many guardsmen. He hadn’t had time to count. Sam and Terry followed his lead and ducked behind a bar and another pillar, respectively. She drew the operative’s needle gun from under her arm and tossed it to him.
If he had been in better condition, he would have been able to catch it smoothly, maybe even with one hand, although he wouldn’t have risked that when the situation was this dire.
As it stood, though, he didn’t manage to catch it the first time and cursed when the weapon slid between his fingers. He flailed and snatched it by the barrel before it reached the floor.
“Are you a little off your game, Savage?” she asked as he swung it toward their adversaries.
“Yeah,” he conceded and pressed his back against the pillar. His right ring finger was dislocated, and he wouldn’t be able to shoot anything like that. It was weird how things like that slipped your mind when you were on your knees, ready to die with a smile on your face.
He gritted his teeth and tugged the finger roughly back into place. A strangled roar of pain followed by a deep, ragged breath accompanied the painful process. He’d done it before. You were expected to simply deal with small injuries like that during boot camp. Of course, it still didn’t change the fact that it hurt like a whore’s ass on a busy night.
“Feeling better?” Terry asked as he set his rifle down gently and drew his sidearm. Savage assumed it was because he was out of ammunition, although it also could have been that they were now in close quarters, which made the range factor on the weapon less useful.
He needed to stop overthinking this. They had a job to finish.
Sam spun around her corner first and opened fire on the dumbasses who still were ranged against them. Terry followed a second later to deliver a swift volley while Savage circled his pillar as quickly as he could. He groaned in pain as he pushed his battered body to continue and peered out to find his targets out of position. His weapon already raised, he fired three shots before he ducked behind the pillar again seconds before a barrage of bullets pounded into the narrow barrier.
His aim wasn’t up to his usual standards, but he’d managed to wound a couple of them when the needles drilled easily through their body armor. Neither were kill shots, but from the way his two teammates both pounced, it was enough to draw them out of their cover and into the kine of fire. Two bodies thudded to the floor almost simultaneously, and as he darted around the corner, Sam and Terry circled the remaining guard. It wasn’t fair, really, but they still played it safe, remained in cover, and waited for the man to make a mistake.
He did, sooner rather than later, when he tried to shift his position behind the bar he crouched behind and exposed his foot. The sniper responded quickly and decisively and his target screamed in pain. Sam vaulted over to finish the job with a double tap.
She took a second to make sure the man was dead, then looked at the two men. “All clear over here.”
“Should we clear the place?” Terry asked. “We surmised there were only ten inside, but we could have been wrong.”
“It wouldn’t be the worst idea,” Savage said softly and his gaze shifted toward the only movement in the room that wasn’t from the three of them. “Why don’t you guys handle that? I have a bone to pick with a motherfucker who just lost his best gal.”
Terry narrowed his eyes and he wondered if he would tell him to watch his language too. The sniper never tired of that, but Sam grinned. It appeared the other man was only a little confused by Savage’s terminology.
“You took his best gal away,” Sam explained and gestured with her hand near her hips and closed it in a fist. She jerked up and down a few times and finished with what probably was intended to represent a splatter.
“Oh,” Terry said as understanding dawned. “Oh…” He finished with a grunt and a disgusted face. “That’s disgusting.”
“And appropriate.” She grinned. “He must love it. Look at how he’s still going after it like it owes him money.”
She wasn’t wrong, actually. Banks, still bleeding from his ruined hand, crawled pitifully to where a few of his fingers lay on the ground. Savage had reached a point of exhaustion and he simply wanted this to be over, but there were things he needed to take care of before went in search of treatment for his bruised…everything.
“Where do you think you’re going, Banks?” he asked and limped over to the man. He checked his weapon as he reached him. The lawyer wasn’t a complete idiot, apparently, and had managed to staunch the blood from his hand with his tie and part of his shirt. The wound still bled noticeably but it had slowed, which explained why he wasn’t dead yet. What Savage didn’t understand was why he wasn’t in shock yet. Most civilians went into shock when they were shot for the first time.
Banks, however, hadn’t succumbed to a wound that might have been life-threatening to others. He wasn’t really in his right mind either, though, judging by the way he reached for the pieces of himself that weren’t attached. Still, he didn’t need much of the man to be around anymore, only the parts that needed to be taught a lesson—the kind he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Of course, it was likely that he wouldn’t be in a position to use his newly acquired wisdom much or even pass it on to others. Still, that notwithstanding, the lesson was due.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked again and stepped in front of the man who looked at him now through eyes wide with the terror he clearly felt.
“Away…from you,” the lawyer said in a trembling voice. “It…wasn’t…personal. Merely…business. You have to understand that.”
“You attacked my family, dickhead,” he accused balefully. His quarry pushed onto his knees to see him better. “How businesslike did you think this conversation would be?”
“Not personal,” Banks repeated and shook his head.
“It looks like Terry broke this one.” Sam chuckled as she approached.
“We’ll fix him up well enough.” He pressed the needle gun to the man’s head and grinned at her. “We need him healthy and hearty if we want him to live through the nightmares I have in store for him.”
Terry didn’t look amused by what he implied, but his opinion was irrelevant. People needed to stop targeting families, and there was only one way they would get that through their thick skulls. Sam looked like she agreed with him, but her expression changed in an instant and she aimed her weapon at the captive. Savage took a step back out of instinct, followed her lead, and aimed his needle gun at Banks.
He realized why a second later. His Glock, suppressor and all, was in the man’s hands. Terry had shot it out of his grasp, so it made sense that it was where the fingers were. How had he missed that? He was a little under the weather, but that was no excuse. It was unforgivable that he’d allowed his target to get his hands on a weapon while he had been gloated and planned for the future.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
The lawyer smiled distantly at him, his eyes a little glazed. “I’m only…taking a .45 nightcap.”
He thrust the elongated barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The back of his head exploded outward and he slumped, his eyes open to stare lifelessly at the ceiling.
“What the fuck?” Terry asked.
Savage shook his head. He hadn’t planned to do anything extreme and honestly didn’t have the stomach for actual torture. Kneecapping or maybe a gut shot—or a groin shot—before a quick end. Well…yeah, maybe suicide felt like the best option for the man who was out of any others.
“Shit,” he cursed. How had he missed that? He was off his game. Somehow, he’d allowed his emotions to get the better of him and so made stupid mistakes.
“Right?” Sam asked. “That’s clearly a Glock 17 that fires 9 mm rounds. I don’t know what he was talking about with all that .45 bullshit.”
“Don’t 17s have a mod that lets them shoot .45s?” Terry asked.
They were bantering, but Savage wasn’t in the mood. He leaned against one of the nearby pillars. A phone rang somewhere. He could hear it over their bickering, and he moved to the bar where a phone was situated. It was an old-fashioned bright red hardline, the kind used in spy movies in the 80s that the US used to contact the Soviets to persuade them not to blow everything up.
He scowled and glanced at his companions, who both shrugged. With another muttered expletive, he shook his head and snatched the receiver from its cradle.
“Banks.” A woman’s voice spoke over the other line without preamble. He had no opportunity to speak to let her know that Banks was indisposed. “The paperwork came through. I have a team on the way to get you to the airport and maybe we can start to unravel this mess you’ve made of things .”
Her accent wasn’t American, but he really couldn’t place it. There was a hint of the Mediterranean with some German and maybe Russian too—and possibly other Asian accents. He’d never been good at placing people by accent. Maybe Anderson would be better at it.
“Banks?” the woman asked, her tone suddenly suspicious.
“Sorry,” he grumbled into the silence. “Banks can’t make it to the phone right now. He’s…permanently indisposed. Rest assured, though, that you and he will have a nice, long chat before too long.”
“Savage, I presume?” she asked.
“Banks’ mysterious client, I presume?” he replied. “You know, here I was thinking Carlson was his client but—hello?” The line went dead, and he rolled his eyes. It hadn’t been much of a conversation anyway.
“Who was that?” Sam asked, her eyes narrowed.
“Banks mentioned that his client was a she when he explained why he had to kill me quickly,” Savage said and touched his eye cautiously. “I assume I just had my first conversation with her. The first of many, I hope.”
She smirked, and Terry shook his head.
“She did say there was a team on the way,” he added. “I’d advise that we get out of here before they arrive. Anja, is our exit clear?”
“Anja told me to tell you that she’s not talking to you on account of you being a suicidal maniac,” the sniper mentioned as the three of them returned to the elevator. The doors closed behind them. “She’ll come around, though.”
“No, I won’t,” Anja retorted. “I hope you learned your lesson, Savage.”
“What, that you’ll come around faster than expected?” he asked.
“Don’t test me,” the hacker hissed.
“Sorry.” He leaned gingerly against the wall of the elevator. The adrenaline had begun to fade from his system, and the pain of his injuries rushed in like a freight train. “Yeah. Next time, we’ll find a way to connect you without my having to get inside.”
“Good boy.” She chuckled. “Anderson’s waiting outside for you. I hear you’re in a hurry.”
“You could say that.” He grimaced as a wave of pain surged through him. Terry offered his shoulder to lean on as they hurried toward the car Anderson had started as soon as they emerged.
“You look like shit,” the ex-colonel commented as they all scrambled in.
“I feel it too,” he muttered. “I think a hospital might be in order right about now.”
“Good call.” Anderson put the car in gear and pressed the accelerator.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Merda,” she shouted and slammed her phone down on the table. It wasn’t a landline like the one Savage had answered, and the device wasn’t built for this degree of abuse. It shattered on the second strike and fell into pieces after the third. She had a couple of other phones in the mansion, though, and there was something incredibly satisfying about destroying a phone when the news wasn’t what you wanted to hear.
She brushed the broken pieces off her fingers and shook her head.
“Cazzo.” She continued to curse and headed to the pool area where a group of models she was helping to prepare for the catwalk tomorrow were currently sunbathing and enjoying the warmed pool. “Figlio di puttana.”
Her outburst was noticed by the crowd nearby and they tried to make out what had upset her. They’d been around her long enough to know that she was kind and generous when she was in a good mood, more than willing to spread the wealth and make sure everyone around her shared in her good fortune. They also knew people tended to go missing when she was in a bad mood. Thankfully, that didn’t happen often enough to drive them away, but there was a collective look of fear and apprehension in their eyes as they exchanged a few glances. They tried to agree between themselves whether or not it was time to call an end to the sunbathing and find something to do on the other side of the estate.
But it looked like she had calmed a little and so they relaxed and returned to their business and fun, enjoying the food, drink, and entertainment that was provided in lavish amounts. No expense had been spared, not for the party last night and not for the after-party in the morning. She wasn’t the kind to skimp.
She regained her customary benevolent smile and a handful of guests turned their attention toward the pool. A few moved to where a couple of masseuses waited for them to make use of their services.
Elena shook her head. This was a setback, but not a large one. She was sure Banks thought he was one of a kind when it came to his usefulness. And yes, he was rather useful and the fact that he didn’t need to be bailed out of some controversy or another every two weeks had been a plus. But it wasn’t like he was the only person in the world who could do the job of keeping track of all of her investments in the US.
No, she thought as she gazed at the Ibiza beach her estate overlooked. There were hundreds in the city of New York alone who would literally kill for the position. And now, they wouldn’t have to. The position was vacant.
She let the silk robe that she wore drop from her shoulders and reveled in the sensation as it slid all the way down w
ith almost no resistance. Someone stepped forward a second later to retrieve the expensive piece of fabric.
Her looks were a source of smug pride. Everything about her shouted exotic, the rich femme fatale and full of mystery. Her raven-black hair, long, natural eyelashes, almond-shaped eyes, and well-tanned skin, all combined to place her easily in nearly a hundred different locations. It was a rare advantage to be able to blend into any culture. There had been a time a decade and a half ago when she’d dreamed of being a model, singer, or famous actress with hundreds of people to adore her for everything she was and strove to be.
Her ambitions had shifted after her father died and left her everything, which included the responsibility to fight off the attempts of the twelve or so siblings who had been denied their claim to the man’s financial fortune. She’d succeeded, however, and became the sole heiress of the wealth and the vision that had come with her father’s money.
And now, there she was, adored by the people whom millions adored in turn. She never would have thought it, but it was by far the superior option.
Yes, there were bumps along the road, but that was par for the course, to use the golfing term. It was to be expected at this point in the game. Anderson, Dr. Monroe, and their attack dog, Savage, had proven to be an interesting obstacle to her visions. They had allowed her to take her mind off of the grand scheme of things and focus on the minutia of the operations she worked with. She had even let her people convince her to send an attack team to intercept the operative when he was caught on facial recognition landing in New York, for all the good that had done them.
They wouldn’t last long of course. They knew about her, which was unfortunate, but they had nothing but a voice and an untraceable call from halfway across the world to a landline in a bunker. There was no real information to follow. They knew what they were looking for but didn’t know where to start. She could live with that. Let them keep chasing their tails for years to come. She would be waiting for them to finally give up.