Countdown to Zero Hour

by Nico Rosso

  The gunmen had failed. Their blood money was in someone else’s hands by now, unearned. Garin wasn’t done paying. When the time was right, when the bullets were screaming death, Art was going to have his final say with Garin.

  “I’m right here.” Hayley shifted her hand beneath his, and he realized that he was gripping her too tightly.

  He loosened his fingers over hers. “I’ve got to keep you here.”

  “You have been.” Her hand turned over so she could hold his. “You will. I...” There was more, but she didn’t say it. She looked about the SUV, wary. “I trust you.”

  A new fever flushed through him. A cleansing fire. No one had ever told him that. With Automatik, his closest friends now, it was always implicit. None of the top-level operators would enter into a dangerous situation unless they trusted one another. But to say it, to give it like a gift the way she did, was unknown.

  He held the heat deep, not wanting to ever give it up. “That makes you...” Damn the words that couldn’t say it all. “Everything.”

  She held his hand tight, and he gripped her. Miles passed. The sun started to set behind them. The road was rough and would only get rougher ahead. Late light knifed over the rocks, drawing their shadows out. Man-made right angles broke the desert in the distance. The cinder block wall around the house.

  Hayley’s hand curled tighter into his when she spotted it.

  “What’s for dinner?” They both had a job to do, and he knew how hers kept her calm.

  “Chicken. Roasted, with onions.” Her fingers moved as if plotting. “A salad with those tomatoes and some salt and vinegar.”

  “Can’t wait.” He made his own calculations. “I’ll be under your feet repairing the propane lines.”

  Worry flashed across her eyes. “Be safe down there.”

  “Always.” His voice sounded lighter than he felt. Once they were inside those walls, the smallest spark could set off the whole place.

  Taking the car off the dirt track that made up the highway, he angled them back to the compound. Sunlight rusted behind them as it tried to push through the dust the SUV kicked up. Garin would know they were alive by then. He’d have to play it as cool as Art, neither admitting they knew what had gone down.

  Hayley released Art’s hand and crawled over the partition and into the back section. He wanted her next to him again. It would take all his training, all his focus, to get them through this op.

  He pulled up to the gate. A guard walked around the car, peering inside as he and Hayley assumed their roles. All business. Cook and killer.

  The guard nodded and motioned to someone inside the wall. The gate chattered open, and Art took his time driving through. The front of the house was lit by the sun, but the wall’s shadow already covered the yard. A new car lurked in the darkness, fresh dust covering its white paint.

  Another boss had arrived. The countdown spun faster.

  He didn’t know if Hayley had caught the change, but she definitely wasn’t relaxed as she stepped out of the door he’d opened. They both retrieved the grocery bags from the back and carried them toward the house.

  Rolan was on the front steps. Garin was there. If he’d been surprised by their return, he suppressed it, replaced with barely veiled menace.

  Art murmured under his breath to Hayley. “We’ve got to go on vacation sometime.”

  “Fuck yeah.” Her game face masked any fear. The woman was positively determined, rocking him with more admiration.

  After greeting Rolan, Art followed her into the house and placed the produce on the island. Garin had remained outside, glaring at them until they were out of sight.

  As soon as Hayley went to put the food away, Rolan appeared, motioning for Art to follow into the living room. He had to leave her. They had their jobs. Stepping away, he gave her a small wave. She returned a nod. Her defenses were up. If there was trouble, she would fight.

  The other guards cleared out of the living room as Rolan and Art walked through.

  “A good time in town?” Rolan asked in casual Russian but couldn’t suppress a bit of leering interest.

  “Very good, thanks.” Art hated thanking him for anything, or asking permission, but that was just part of the gig. For now.

  “Glad to hear it.” Rolan glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “Don’t break her heart; there’s still cooking to do and I don’t want the meals to suffer.”

  “What if she breaks my heart?” he joked back, but knew he was further off balance than he’d ever been. She could wreck him if she really wanted to.

  “We can’t have that either.” Rolan wagged a finger. “You have work to do. Yemelin has arrived. Florida and Texas. He’ll need to hear what you have to say about southern borders.”

  Art nodded and held back from explaining that not all people south of the United States were the same nationality and couldn’t be taken as a whole. “I always do my job.”

  “I know.” Rolan stood, formal, his hands folded neatly just below his belt. He hid something. Was he in on Garin’s plan to off Art and Hayley? Did he know about Automatik? From the purse of his lips, he reveled in whatever he knew and wasn’t going to give it up quickly.

  Rolan turned, pulling his secret around him like a cape, and left the living room.

  Four bosses out of five were in the house. One more, and Art would call in the strike. Prep work remained to be completed. But they were close. Any day, any second, the bullets would start flying in the house. There were already two bodies behind him. Two dead men who’d made the mistake of trying for him and Hayley. How many would he have to stop before he knew Hayley was safe?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cooking couldn’t save her life. She knew when murderers like the men in the hallway showed up, guns out, no one would care how well she folded her eggs for a soufflé. In the house, she was surrounded by the potential for violence. It was inevitable. Art’s mission would set it off.

  But if cooking couldn’t save her life, it might save her sanity. Ingredients. Heat. Time. She focused on the chicken, coating the pieces in oil and herbs before getting them into the oven. The direct killing instructions from Mary swept into her mind as she chopped the tomatoes. Hayley tried to push that danger aside and concentrate on the bright red segments and their natural gloss. But Mary’s eyes returned to her. They were kind, knowing. There was sympathy in them, because Mary knew that Hayley had seen real violence and death for the first time.

  If only Hayley could’ve stopped the day when she and Art had been in the hotel room. Frozen time, so her world was filled with the good of their connection. The intensity of the sex had been driven even higher by their understanding of each other. And the search to learn. Could that kind of life and discovery survive all the brutality?

  She tried to orbit around that memory. Art’s body and his passion for her. Even with all that and the food on her cutting board, the other parts of the day kept crashing back into her.

  Dead bodies. Twisted and heavy. Art had been so quick and precise. But if he hadn’t been...

  Garin stalked past her kitchen. His leering gaze held extra hate and an edge like a scalpel. He was trying to pick her apart, discover how she’d survived. His brutality appeared barely restrained. Art had explained that the man had hired those men at the hotel. Was the next step Garin doing the job himself?

  More bodies.

  Garin moved past the room, but she still felt his anger radiating like a fresh burn from a hot oven grate. One whisper from him, one shout, could bring out the guns and the blood.

  She put her knife down and leaned on the island, trying to fight her mind. The image of Art’s body, dead, completely motionless, persisted. She knew it wasn’t true. He was alive, more so than almost anyone she’d ever met. That energy kept him aware and moving. The rhythm of his body as he wa
lked. The bright awareness in his eyes as he scanned a room. But what if all that was gone? What if she lost him?

  Maybe he heard her mind screaming the question. Art rolled into her kitchen, calm as if the day had been spent at the market and in bed and not the deadly hallway. He gave her a quick wink and rummaged through her produce bags until he found what he’d bought at the hardware store.

  With that in hand, he moved to her side, so they both stood over the cutting board with the half-chopped tomatoes.

  “You holding up?” He kept his voice low, brushing the back of his hand along her hip.

  “I’m a wreck.” The fear in her mind shook her. Imagining he was dead, seeing him alive. It was all tearing her apart.

  “Understandable.” He nodded. Quick fingers snatched up a slice of tomato and popped it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment, savoring. “From the outside, you look rock steady. Give yourself credit, Master Chef. You’re doing great.”

  “Doesn’t feel like it.” She leaned harder into him. Their voices were too quiet for anyone else in the house to hear. If anyone was watching, which they were, it would appear like just a small, intimate conversation. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

  “It’s a ton to process.” He reached for another piece of tomato, but she knocked his hand aside. “But you’re strong as hell. And harder than any of these fools who need guns to prove something.” His gaze bounced along the edge of the kitchen and deeper into the house.

  Then his body moved closer. She felt the rise and fall of the breath in his chest. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. He was very alive. She tried to take that energy and confidence into herself.

  He kissed her cheek and whispered into her ear, “I trust you, too.”

  When he stepped away, she saw the emotion in his eyes. It had taken a lot for him to say it. The same as when she’d told him in the car. But he didn’t look away or shrink, ashamed. He held her gaze. Linking them. Locking them together.

  Her heart beat faster, proving she was alive. Life was very different with Art. She wanted more and more of it.

  She reached up and tugged on the collar of his shirt, pulling him down for a long kiss. Let them watch. Let them know that Art and I can’t be defeated.

  The kiss slowly ended. Their bodies parted, but the shared energy remained. The fear wasn’t gone, but it felt less potent, muscled down until it didn’t shout as loud.

  Art blinked slowly, his eyes lingering on her face. She took him in. Strong body. Stronger will.

  He collected his things and stepped from the kitchen, one last glance back. The depth remained in his eyes. Beyond words. Beyond the kiss or what their bodies had shared. Further than she’d known with anyone else.

  The events of the day hadn’t changed, but she was able to see them from a greater distance. Art was out of the kitchen, and she resumed working on dinner. Yet she didn’t feel alone.

  * * *

  One more boss would tip the balance. Like stepping on a land mine. Just enough extra pressure to set off the explosion. Art was almost ready. Each corner of the house had been laid out and conveyed to Jackson. He’d explained the plan. The two SEALs, Jackson and Harper, would come over the wall to the north. They could take care of the guards on that side of the house and cover for James Sant, the former SAS man, and Kip Raker, retired Green Beret, as they pierced from the west, blocking the gate and any exit. Mary would set up to the south with the fifty caliber so she wouldn’t be shooting into the sun, no matter the time of day. The strategy was to have the propane lines and tank blow, taking out the south wall and side of the house so she had a clear shot at anyone making trouble for the assault team.

  To get this piece of the tactic in place, Art now worked in the basement, “fixing” the propane lines with the explosive patches Automatik had stashed for him at the hardware store in town.

  The oily paper wrapped around the pipe, then a long steel fitting was clamped around it and screwed down. Hidden along the hinge was a tiny primer attached to a Wi-Fi receptor. One signal from his phone and the charges would go up, igniting the propane in the line, then burn back to the tank and blow the whole damn thing.

  Five men in the compound and a woman behind a fifty caliber should be enough for the house. A helicopter would be nice for air support, but it would take a while to get it in position after the shooting started. It could only be counted on for cleanup.

  Art had messaged Jackson as soon as he’d had a moment to himself in his room after being in town, alerting the field man of the upped time frame. After the charges were set, he would inform the team. Then it was a waiting game. There might be time to prep improvised explosives around the house, but he’d have to be extra careful as to not to arouse suspicion.

  The one key gap in the plan that bit into him was Hayley. The kitchen was over the propane line and near the tank. She had to be cleared out when the assault began. But where? Preferably behind him, but there were no guarantees where he might be when everything got going. He was the point man and had to have eyes on the primary targets so the mission was a success.

  He had to know where the guards were so his team would meet the least resistance.

  Garin would be easy to find. He was always close. Sneering. Itching to fight. Things had almost gotten bloody before Art had left for town. Now that he was back, without a scratch from the hit men Garin had sent, things would get deadly.

  Maybe even in this basement.

  The stairs down creaked with Garin’s heavy feet. The Russian stepped out of the light of the stairway, remaining in the shadows just at the edge of the basement. Art finished securing the first charge to the propane line, feeling the waves of hate from the guard.

  Garin’s gun was on his ankle. If Art saw the man start to reach, he’d have his own pistol out and two rounds into the son of a bitch’s chest.

  “Greasy worker,” Garin spat in Russian. “Three hundred years.” He pointed to himself with his thumb. “My family, unbroken for three hundred years.”

  “Thanks to the greasy workers.” If Garin wanted fists, Art would pull his knife. If Garin had a knife, Art would shoot him. “What did your people ever do for themselves?”

  Garin laughed like wheezing out poison gas. “I will do it. Then the good Russian girl will know what it’s like to have a pure-blood.”

  Art took a single step forward, and Garin fell to deadly silence. It would be over in a second. Both men knew how to kill. And they both knew that whichever one of them emerged from the basement alive wouldn’t live long after the bosses learned what happened. Rolan had already fired a warning shot. Dissent like this wasn’t tolerated. The next bullet would hit flesh.

  “Finish it,” Art goaded Garin. “Finish it.”

  Garin pointed at him. “You will be finished. In my hands.” He started up the stairs backward. The light revealed his wild eyes. “You’ll die knowing she is next in my hands.”

  Art took another step. Garin backpedaled quickly, then turned and hurried away. His hired killers hadn’t worked, and now he was plotting and planning. Garin was too paranoid to just think the men had taken his money and not tried to fulfill the job. Art knew Garin would suspect bigger trouble. Art hoped the fifth boss would show up before Garin escalated his aggression.

  It was tempting to chase the guard up the stairs and see what he was plotting, but Art had to set the second charge on the propane line. He returned to the work and quickly secured all the parts.

  He ascended the stairs, knowing the assault was cocked and ready. He would call it in, then set off the explosion. After that, it didn’t matter what the hell Garin suspected. Art would be free to stop him from ever getting what he wanted.

  Tension buzzed on the first floor. The guards held their guns tighter and balanced on a finer edge. They all peered above the wide stairs to the sec
ond floor, where Garin talked to Rolan and Dernov.

  What the fuck was he doing?

  The bosses weren’t reaching for their guns, but they did seem to nod in agreement. Garin disappeared before Art could get to the second floor.

  Rolan shot him a warning glance.

  “Anything I should know?” Art asked, trying not to sound too concerned about what was going on.

  Rolan spun his finger in the air. “We’re collecting all the phones. Safety precaution.”

  Bullshit. Art knew there was only one phone Garin was interested in. But his general paranoia was enough to convince the bosses to tighten security.

  “Makes sense,” Art replied calmly, while inside he was churning. How the hell was he going to call in an assault to a team that may or may not be fully assembled around the compound?

  Garin returned, all business, shaking an open canvas drawstring bag, like something he kept his slim shoes in. “You first, denga.” The guard couldn’t disguise an ugly smug smile.

  Art pulled out his phone, powered it down and put it in the sack. “Now you.”

  Garin paused but caught the eyes of Rolan and Dernov on him. He pulled his phone from his slacks and placed it in the bag, shooting venom through his eyes at Art the whole time. The two bosses appeared satisfied and walked off to the stairs for the third floor.

  At the top landing, Rolan called down to Art, “Help him collect.”

  Art chuckled quietly, and Garin seethed. They stood at least five feet apart as they moved about the house, gathering the phones from all the guards. Vasily stared at both of them with dead eyes when Garin explained what they were doing. For a minute it looked like he was willing to go down shooting before giving up his phone. Art kept silent, and Garin spewed garbage about it being just a formality and there was no reception out there anyway.

  Vasily finally conceded, placing his phone at the top of the pile with careful precision. Art suspected the quiet guard had a memory card full of bizarre porn loaded into the device. The trip just got a whole lot longer for Vasily.