I nod and look over at his little group of four. “Who’ve we got?”
“One contract kills. Took down a coke dealer just a few weeks ago. They may look like kids, but they fight like animals.” He points, naming them off one by one. Beadle. Twitch. Stags. Punch. I memorize the names and run them through my head a few times to make sure they’ve stuck.
“And over there, the real kids. Plenty of practice at the firing range, but they’ve never seen the field before.” He runs through the last few guys for me. Trip. Trig. Bat. And Stefan, talking to one of them in a voice I can’t hear. Prep-talking.
“They look nervous.”
“Weren’t we all the first time? Anyway, I’ve already said something to them. They’re a lot less antsy than they were an hour ago.”
“You think they’ll pull through?”
“I wouldn’t have brought them here if I didn’t. They’re excited to be working with you and mob man. You guys are practically celebrities to them, you know?”
“I didn’t.”
“Hey, Lion-man!” Boot catches me scanning the guys and comes over. The hand he slaps on my back almost knocks me over. “Watcha got for us? The guys are getting curious.”
“Get them all over here, and I’ll tell you.”
Dags motions to the two groups of guys to come gather over by Stefan’s car. I go through the basic layout of what I’ve just inspected. Number of guards. Entrance points. Objective. The works. No one says anything until the very end.
“That’s it, then?”
“From all that I saw, yeah,” I answer Garret.
“Eight guys with automatic weapons. One confirmed psychopath and one girl.” I catch a side grin from Garret. “We’ve had worse.”
“In terms of numbers and size. This is different—we’ve never had to do a rescue before.”
“You think it’s much different? It all comes down to shooting the bad guys.”
“While not shooting the good one. But it’s not you guys I’m worried about. It’s Declan.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“If he gets wise to the fact we’re there for Mimi; if he gets pinned down with her, first things he’s gonna do is put the gun barrel to her head to keep us from getting any closer. And if he thinks even for a second that he’ll lose her, you can be sure he’ll put a bullet in her head sooner than have us come and take her.”
Everyone goes quiet. Probably thinking what a whole new can of worms this is compared to other times.
Finally, Dags pitches in, “You said these guys probably got all four sides covered, yeah? I don’t see how adding the girl changes anything. The best bet is to bring their attention to one side heavy enough that they forget about the others. You keep that up long enough and keep it up hard, they’re gonna put all their strength in one corner instead of watching their backs. So when they do that, we’ll have a guy standing ambush at the back. That way when your guy tries to escape, we’ll be there waiting for him.”
“Flush him out, sure.” I nod. “We’ll do two teams of five and six on either side. Sandwich him in. Right team will go first to draw fire and left team after that.”
I look at Garret, and he shakes his head. “I’ll have to be a cheerleader for this one, Lion-man.” He says it like a joke but I know how disappointed he is. No one likes getting left out of a fight when he knows his brothers are going to be in danger.
“I know,” I say.
“But that still leaves my daughter in danger,” Stefan interrupts. “Are you telling me the best option you have for her still amounts to putting her right in the middle of a hail of gunfire? This is absurd.”
“Dags is right, unfortunately,” I say. “This is still the best option for getting Mimi away from even more gunfire. Isolate her and Declan.”
“But now you’re going back on what you said before. Do you honestly think she will be in less danger with Declan than in the house?”
“No—not at all. Which is why we need to make sure we take him down as soon as we can. Flush him out into an ambush. Give him no time to turn on her. That’s the reality.”
Stefan gives me a look that could rip steel. I face him right back. “It’s a choice between a bad decision and a worse one. That’s the best we can do.”
He stares and starts to shake his head slowly. “I don’t want to accept that,” he says, quieter. “I can’t accept that. But it would appear I have no choice.” His eyes get softer. “I’ve put my trust in you to keep my daughter safe these past few months. Not once have you given me reason or cause to doubt your confidence.”
I nod. “Then it’s settled.”
“Almost,” Stefan says. “Mimi may be your charge, but she is still my daughter. Fathers must look after their children. I will be the one to shoot down Declan Horne when the time comes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have to be. Although it’s not often that those who have been wronged the most are the same who have the ability to administer justice.”
It’s difficult to know where this is coming from. If Stefan is acting out just because he wants revenge or because he thinks he can deal it. But I can’t argue. It’s his daughter.
“Okay. Dags—you’ll go with him and make sure all goes well?”
“Sure thing.”
“The apartments have these little lawns in the back, with covered porches. I betcha once we get inside the building Declan’s going to try going out that way. That’s where you need to be when things get hairy.”
“Okay.”
“Alright then.”
Everyone waits like they’re expecting some last inspiring speech or motivational words or something Hollywood like that. I even start to expect something, even though I sure as hell don’t like speaking in front of other people. And when you’re about to go light up a house—when you know you’re going to be rushing into a bunch of bullets flying all around you—how do you even start to describe all that in a few words?
The simple answer is, you don’t. You let your guns speak for you.
“Greenhorns group up with the experienced ones. Make sure you’ve got plenty of ammo. Pack Items for close range: it’s going to be crowded in there. We head out in ten.”
Chapter 32
You always get an adrenaline rush before a fight. Any fight. It comes from a lot of things: from knowing that in just a few minutes, or seconds, you’re going to be turning your body into something capable of breaking another person. Sometimes just seeing the other guy you’re about to break is enough and you feel it like an injection. A slick, sour taste at the bottom of your tongue. You get that, and you know you’re unstoppable. But the second you doubt that or try to convince yourself that you don’t have a hand in this fight, that’s when you’re finished. There’s no room for thoughts or doubts. There’s only just enough room to tell your brain to squeeze the trigger, to throw the punch, to duck or move aside or take cover.
That’s what I try telling the greenhorns before we move in. It’s them: Trip, Trig, and Bat, plus Boot and Fox, and we’re all packed into the entrance room of number eighty-seven where we’ve come after kicking the back door in. I figure it’s better to have a base here than climb over walls or over rooftops to get to the place across the street.
“Don’t doubt yourself. Just be cool. And make your rounds count—none of this spray and pray stuff, it’ll throw off everything. You got it?” I take out the Item Dags gave me—another glock—and load it. Fifteen rounds.
All three of the new guys nod. And it really looks like they do. I know fear and hesitation when I see it, and although these guys are feeling it, there’s no mistaking their focus.
“It’s going to be quick and bloody. Make sure you got somebody covering your back. Communicate. Clear out the ground floor first—I’m talking every room. Don’t leave yourselves exposed but don’t get into corners. Best thing to do is to keep the pressure on them. If not, they’ll think they’ve got the advantage, and we don’t want that. Team two will b
e here in five—we can do a lot in that time. We can finish this. You got it?”
Nods.
“Good. Fox and I will go first and get behind the car. We’ll unload on the window with the two shooters in it. Once we do that, you come running. Find shelter out front as soon as possible, and then move in when I sign you. Good luck.”
Fox shoulders up to me and points out the window, towards the round window of number eighty-eight where the two guys with submachine guns are sitting. “They’re not looking,” he says. “We could try popping them now.”
“But we won’t. Car first. Then shoot. You got it?”
“Sounds like a plan, boss. Just tell me when.”
As an answer, I open the door a crack. Cold winter air. A few flakes falling, lazy, like pillow stuffing. No wind at all. Everything absolutely still.
“Now.”
The door’s thrown open and we make like hell for the car, sprinting across the street, our guns out and already pointed towards the window. Don’t look at us. Don’t look at us. Don’t look.
Ten feet to the car.
The left figure with the machine gun turns a little outwards. Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, gun out. The window shatters with his bullets.
Our guns crack fire. So much for going in quietly. Or for the element of surprise. Four rounds, five. The guy on the left goes down, clutching his leg just as the right one gets to his feet. Shots hammer snow. I hear them whizzing past me like bugs. Five feet from the car I jump and roll and get myself secured. Fox comes in closely behind.
“Not a bad start.”
“Not a great one either.”
Bullets pound into the BMW. The rhythm shudders against our backs.
“You got a good eye on him? Good enough for a shot?”
“Won’t know until I try.”
“Then try. They’re gonna be swarming out any moment. I’ll cover.”
The second we stop hearing the rounds thud into the car I leap up and send three shots in his direction, then duck back down. A whole spray of return fire comes back, right on top of me. All four windows shatter. A tire pops—good. No retreat this way.
Then Fox is up and firing fast as he can squeeze. Six, seven, eight rounds I count off. Finally, the scream and with a hail of return fire trailing behind it like a cloud. Fox ducks and turns his wild eyes to me.
“Good shooting.” We reload our clips.
“Save it until we’re out of this, Lion-man.”
“You see anybody on the porch?”
“No—run for the pillars?”
“On three—” I throw up three fingers towards Boot and the greenhorns— “three!”
Guns out, Fox’s trained on the shattered window above and mine on the front door, we rush for the porch. There’s no return fire. Where—
Ten feet from the porch Fox screams and goes down, holding his left knee. I glance at him but only hold it for a second before turning back to the porch. The hell did that come from? Window shot? Nothing through the front door? I unload two cups in each window and shelter behind one of the pillars.
Boot and his group of four are behind me. I shout: “Windows! Windows!”
Two more cracks of fire come from somewhere close by. One of the young guys goes down—the two others make for the BMW. Boot is the only one coming, directly up the route Fox just took and got shot down in, his shotgun held out clumsily in front of him. Goddammit.
I throw myself out from behind the pillar and make for the left window, where I heard the last two shots come from. It’s dark inside—I can’t make out anything. Then, all of a sudden, the shine of a barrel, pointing out.
Quicker than I can think I put myself in front of the window, exposing myself, and fire off two rounds before ducking down. I hear the Item thud to the ground, followed by a scream stretched out into a curse.
Boot makes it up to the pillar, stops momentarily to take aim, and blasts out the right window with a shower of glass. He takes cover behind the left pillar; I move to the right and look behind me, for Fox. He’s down, gasping hard but not screaming. His leg is mangled and bloody from the knee down.
“Trig!” I shout, remembering only one of the names, and hoping it wasn’t the one who got shot. “You two get your asses up here! We’ve got two men bleeding out!”
I chance another look behind, towards the BMW. Did they hear me… or?
And then like two small animals, the two guys dart out from behind the car, firing bullets at God knows what.
“No fire!” I shout. “Get our guys! Get Fox!”
They don’t hear over their rain of useless gunfire. That’s the problem with these fucking kids—they assume a firefight is all this, all rounds of nonstop fire. Soon enough, their clips are exhausted, and they’re down near the frozen hedges to the left of Boot’s pillar. And from above come the sounds of return fire—a whole shit ton of rounds judging by the sounds. They riddle the hedges, the tops of the pillars, and then the two bodies. Fox gets half a dozen in the chest, same as the kid. When the fire stops shaking their bodies, they both go still as sacks of flour.
“Goddammit!” I scream. “Boot! Cover fire—now!”
No waiting to hear the response. There’s nothing else he can say aside from yes. Two of our guys have just been executed. One of them just a kid.
I rush out from my pillar and empty my clip through the window while Boot sends up blast after blast. The two guys retreat back inside, but they’re out a moment later with the same barrage as before. And that’s not everything because soon, as I move back to try and get an angle on them, I hear a shot come singing past me, from the direction of the porch. Another one whizzes by, burying into the already torn-up BMW but the third takes a piece out of me just north of my ankle. It feels like someone’s knocked my leg out from underneath me with a sledgehammer. I wobble to the side but somehow keep myself standing. The pain is a bitch but worse than that is the nausea. All I want to do is fall on the ground and throw up everything I’ve eaten since the start of last week. That’s something they don’t tell you about getting shot. They always describe the pain, the heat, and the bite of the fucking steel as it sinks into your body like a hot spoon, but it’s that twisting in your gut that really gets you.
I’m another step away from collapsing entirely and feeding my body to the bullets of the guys manning the porch, but I don’t. I stumble and lurch, and just as I trip I feel Boot’s massive arms grab me and hoist me back to my one good foot. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing ‘cause now we’re both under fire, and that means we’re both gonna get peppered with holes the second the guys up top reload.
Too late already: I hear the shots, a drum of crack-crack, crack-crack, crack-crack like a call and response or a scream and its echo.
“Here!” Boot shouts, tossing me down in a heap, my back to the pillar. That’s when I see that the gunshots aren’t coming from the porch or from the window, but from the two kids. Trip on the left, Trig on the right, firing for all they’re worth.
A scream from the right window and a barrage of random bullets from their guy indicate a hit. I want to stand up and clap the kids on their backs, but I don’t. I lean to the side and empty up all the water I’ve swallowed since swimming in the ocean, plus Stefan’s scotch and the burger I got on the way to the apartments. It’s like throwing up poison. Boot, back at the pillar, blasts the door with his shotgun and looks at me.
“I’m fine!” I call out. He points to my leg, and I catch the word: “Walk?”
I force myself to stand, gripping the pillar to keep myself rooted. My ankle goes blisteringly hot and erupts into the pain of a thousand needles all stabbing at the nerve. I want to throw up again, but when I retch, nothing comes out except for a stream of spit. When I try putting weight directly on the leg, I get the same pain, but I realize after a few small steps that I can drag it behind me and avoid a more intense pain.
“Works!” I shout. “But I’m not climbing any stairs!”
But it loo
ks like Boot doesn’t hear this—he’s too busy keeping his eyes on the side of the house. Another blast of his shotgun nearly tears the hinges of the door. He looks at me, grinning like a clown, which is, I realize, how I must look when I’m in the heat of things.
“What?” I say, missing what he’d just screamed. He shoulders the shotgun and lumbers towards me.
“I said you won’t have to,” he says, punctuating it with another slap on the back. This time I’m prepared—leaning into the post for stability—and I don’t shrink from the slap at all.
“Our boys are inside.”
Chapter 33
“Just like that? It’s too early. You saw them go in?”
“Just now,” Boot says. “And you can hear ‘em if you pay attention.”
Taken: A Dark Hitman Romance Page 23