by Stone, Kyla
She wouldn’t have closed it behind her. She wouldn’t have had a reason to.
Go in, grab a bundle of logs, come back out. Thirty seconds, tops. A minute or two maybe if you were a sixteen-year-old kid. Maybe you didn’t like the dark. Maybe you dropped the flashlight or stubbed your toe.
It took moments for him to make the assessment, determine a course of action.
He shrugged on his coat, which had been slung over one of the kitchen chairs. His Glock 19 was holstered at his hip, his tactical knife tucked snugly in its sheath on his belt.
Atticus Bishop stood in the kitchen. He’d just checked the oven. He glanced at Liam and tensed. “What is it?”
“She should’ve been back by now. I’m going to check it out.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Liam shook his head. “Stay here and watch Hannah’s kid. Any hostiles out there, I don’t want to leave the house unprotected.” He inclined his head at the AR-15 leaning against the island. “Keep that close.”
Bishop gave a curt nod. He was already moving toward the weapon. “Got it.”
Liam exited the house by way of a side basement window so that any potential hostiles watching the rear or front of the house wouldn’t see him.
He unholstered his pistol and held it in the low ready position. Seventeen rounds in the magazine, with an eighteenth in the chamber.
He let his eyes adjust to the moonlit night. He missed his night vision goggles. Every sense on high alert, he took in his surroundings.
Moonlight reflected off the wide expanse of unbroken snow. It was quiet. The trees were still. There was no breeze. An owl hooted to the east. The air smelled clean and cold.
He sensed no movement. The shadows did not stir. No tell-tale gleam of a muzzle in the moonlight or crack of a twig betrayed the enemy’s presence.
Thin straggly trees and underbrush ringed the property. The frozen river lay just behind a thin line of pine trees. Noah’s house was on the eastern side of Winter Haven, at the end of one of the cul-de-sacs.
Eight more houses lined the road on this side, nine across the street. The houses on either side were visible through the trees, maybe twenty yards away.
With its emphasis on self-sufficiency, Winter Haven was a luxury retreat for the wealthy and eco-minded. As such, the community removed as few trees as possible, preserving much of the natural wildness of the area.
Liam appreciated the concealment and cover it provided him.
It also meant that intruders could enter the community from numerous points, not just along the main, militia-guarded entrance.
The militia regularly patrolled the community on their snowmobiles. He saw no militia now. Not a single soul.
Liam crept through the trees, using the thickest trunks for cover. He moved cautiously, conscious of every movement, careful not to make a single unnecessary sound.
He reached the edge of the tree line and again stopped and listened for any sign of movement. He breathed slow and steady, controlling his heart rate.
Tension thrummed through him. The importance of stealth warred with the need for expediency. Every moment of delay could cost the girl her life. Going in rashly could mean the death of them both.
He tightened his grip and picked up the pace. He circled around the house to the backyard, stepping lightly, searching for the most concealed approach.
The day had been sunny, but with nightfall, the chill had returned with a vengeance. It tunneled through his clothing and froze his breath.
He shut it out. He shut out the dull throbbing pain in his back. That niggling concern that his body would fail again. That he’d lost a step.
He focused solely on his senses, on the mission at hand.
He drew parallel to the shed. The building was constructed of wood on a concrete slab, maybe twenty by twenty, no windows, no other doors but the one in the front, facing the back of the house.
Behind the shed, he located a second and third set of footprints. In and of itself, multiple tracks in the backyard weren’t alarming. Except that these prints trekked from a cluster of pine trees forty feet behind the shed.
No reason to hoof it through woods in deep snow when the road was right there. Not unless you were up to no good.
The prints were long and smeared. Like they’d been heading surreptitiously toward the
house, were startled by Quinn exiting the back door, and had quickly sought concealment inside the shed.
Adrenaline spiked through him, icing his veins. If they were hurting that girl, they’d pay with their lives.
His senses heightened. He was in the zone. Crouching low, Liam darted across the ten open yards between the trees and the shed. He pressed himself against the left side of the shed.
This close, he could hear voices. Low murmurs. A female voice, muffled, making low cries of terror. An aggressive, threatening male voice. A second male voice joined the first, this one higher-pitched, anxious and apprehensive.
Liam’s heart rate accelerated. He had two targets to take out and a hostage to save. He couldn’t fire indiscriminately. He needed to be precise and exact.
He didn’t know Quinn Riley well, but she was feisty and tough. She wasn’t Hannah, but he still felt a responsibility to keep her alive.
No one was hurting women and children on his watch. No way in hell.
He crept along the wall, edged around the corner, and quickly approached the front—all the while keeping a close eye on his surroundings.
Keeping most of his body concealed behind the wall for cover, he reached over and tried the shed’s handle. The door was unlocked.
If the shed had windows, he might have attempted a silent entry or even sniped the scumbags through the window with two swift headshots. He scanned quickly for a distraction but didn’t see anything. He did not have flash bangs or frag grenades—none of his usual arsenal.
If he had the luxury of time, he could wait for one of them to exit to relieve themselves and eliminate the threats one by one. He could start a fire and flush them out.
He discarded each option in a fraction of a second. He did not have time on his side.
The decision was made in a heartbeat. Go in hard and fast, using the element of surprise to his advantage.
No matter how trained or skilled the combatant, there was always a fraction of a second of reaction time. Inside that delayed reaction, he’d have to make his move.
Time to go.
44
Liam
Day Thirty-Three
With propulsive force, Liam kicked the shed door inward.
Immediately, he dropped into a prone position. The hostiles inside would instinctively aim for a chest or a head shot. Return fire would go over his head. Glock up and ready, he scanned from left to right.
Time slowed. He took in the scene in an instant.
Moonlight spilled through the doorway. A couple of flashlights on the floor threw garish shadows.
Two hostiles were turning toward him. Men dressed in black with black grease on their faces. They were both armed.
To his right, the first hostile pulled a bound and gagged Quinn toward him like a shield. Liam spotted the glint of a weapon: a karambit knife. The hostile jerked the rounded outer edge under her chin.
Fifteen feet to the left, toward the rear of the shed, the second man was raising what looked like an AK-47.
Liam ducked low as the hostile dumped half his mag in a thunderous burst. Staccato rounds screamed over his head, faster than a semi-automatic. Boom! Boom! Boom!
A wild volley of gunfire blew holes in the wall and shredded the door behind him. Splinters of wood sprayed his back.
Ears ringing, Liam squeezed off three shots.
All three rounds hit their mark, punching the hostile’s chest. He staggered but didn’t drop. Plate armor in that chest rig. Damn!
Bullets peppered the wall behind him. A burst of slugs smashed into the ceiling, splinters raining down. Spent cartridges clattered agains
t concrete.
Liam fired at the hostile’s head. Two quick shots drilled right between the eyes.
The gunman’s head snapped back. He collapsed against the wall of lawn care supplies in a heap. A metal shovel fell from its hook and clattered to the cement floor.
Liam sprang to his feet, spine on fire as he crouched and spun to the right, the Glock trained on the man holding Quinn.
Liam recognized the squat slab of meat Bishop had pointed out earlier: Desoto. The cretin huddled behind the girl, keeping her between himself and Liam—the curved blade pressed to her throat.
Gun up, finger itching the trigger, Liam advanced toward Desoto. Heart thudding, not for himself, but for the girl. He couldn’t fire on Desoto without posing considerable risk to Quinn.
Desoto stepped back, his heel striking one of the flashlights. It spun, throwing wavering shadows. “You shoot me, she’s dead! I even twitch, her neck splits wide open!”
“You sure about that?” Liam said, still moving, slowly, cautiously, seeking an opening.
Liam was a big man—six-foot-one, two hundred pounds—but this guy outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. Solid muscle, by the heft and breadth of him.
“Stay back!” Desoto cried.
“If she gets even a nick from that blade,” Liam hissed, “I’ll gut you slowly. I promise you that.”
Quinn’s eyes flashed wide and white, laser-focused on Liam. Fear in her face. Dark blood staining her forehead. She yelled something, but the gag stifled her cries.
Anger surged through him. He was going to kill this man for hurting a defenseless girl. Right here, right now.
“You’re dead for killing Pike!” Desoto spat. “Now you’ll pay for Benner, too!”
Liam came within ten feet of them. He didn’t take his eyes off Quinn; she didn’t take her eyes of him.
“I think you have it the other way around,” he said, and gave Quinn a slight nod of his chin.
Quinn made her move. She kicked Desoto in the shin with the heel of her boot.
Desoto let out a ferocious growl and threw Quinn aside. She went to the ground hard but rolled out of the way, her arms over her head.
Desoto dropped a shoulder, zig-zagged hard, and rushed him like a bull seeing red.
Liam fired.
The bullet caught Desoto wide. His big body jerked, but he kept coming.
Liam side-stepped Desoto’s charge, dropping his pistol. The karambit blade slashed through the darkness and caught Liam in the ear. He barely felt it. He barely felt the electric pain flaring through his back. He had one purpose, a single focus.
Lightning fast, he delivered a powerful strike to the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe. With a dull thud, Desoto dropped to the concrete floor.
Liam had laid him out flat.
Desoto groaned, gasping, attempting to pull himself up but too slow. Liam knelt, grabbed his head, and slammed his skull against the floor, stunning him.
Liam seized the karambit and yanked it free from Desoto’s fumbling fingers. He slid his thumb into the safety ring, turned the blade down, and drove the knife tip into Desoto’s throat.
Grunting from the effort, he shoved it forward through meat and sinew, puncturing the larynx, trachea, and esophagus, nearly through to the concrete on the other side.
Desoto squirmed and writhed, but he was pinned like a butterfly to a spreading board. Blood bubbled up his throat and spilled from his lips. Warm, wet blood gushed over Liam’s hands.
A few seconds later, Desoto was dead.
45
Liam
Day Thirty-Three
His heart thudding, Liam wiped his hands on the man’s pant legs. He climbed to his feet, breathing through the pain. A flashlight was within reach; he grabbed it with a wince.
He hadn’t yet recovered fully from his back injury or his bout with hypothermia. His muscles ached. His lower spine felt like molten lava.
Slowly, it subsided. Too slowly, and not enough.
He felt his ear. It was bloody and mushy. A quarter-inch chunk was missing. Nothing important. He could still hear fine.
The wound would heal with some antibiotic ointment and bandages. Once he got inside, he’d administer first aid with his IFAK—individual first aid kit—in his go-bag.
He turned to the girl.
She crouched in the corner next to the wall of hanging lawn equipment. She was shaking. She gripped a snow shovel in both hands, ready to strike.
“Hey,” he said, steady and calm, like he might soothe a frightened horse. “Hey. It’s over. It’s finished. They’re dead.”
He expected her to be terrified, panic-stricken. Stunned, even catatonic. He’d seen plenty of civilians traumatized by war and violence. Soldiers, too.
Fear shone in her eyes, but so did anger, bright and sharp. She was alert. She was present.
She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving, but she appeared okay. Blood leaked down her forehead from a cut to her scalp, and the red line across her throat would leave an ugly bruise.
She dropped the shovel, and it clattered to the concrete floor. She pointed at the rag gagging her mouth.
Liam unsheathed his knife and handed her the flashlight. “Hold still.”
She didn’t move as he sliced the gag free at the back of her head. It had been knotted so tightly that a red line indented her face on either side of her mouth across each cheek, like a twisted Joker’s smile.
“Disgusting.” She spat several times and rubbed her face. She touched her bloody temple. “I blacked out for a second. I wanted to nail that sucker in the head with the shovel.”
“You did fine.” He examined her pupils, checking for a concussion. “You feel okay? Dizziness or blurry vision?”
“I’m…I’m okay.” Her voice came out raspy. She sucked in several ragged breaths and spat again. “That dirtbag choked me. He was going to gut me with that knife.”
“He got what was coming to him.”
“Hell yes he did! You have no idea.” Rage thrummed through her voice.
“I just wish I did it myself!”
“No, you don’t.”
She shot him a sharp look. Her piercings glinted in the moonlight. “Hannah said you go around saving people. She said that’s what you do.”
Liam snorted. “That might be stretching the truth a bit.”
“Looks plenty true from where I’m standing. You were like Wolverine!”
Liam grimaced. Not quite. Nothing ever came so easy as in the movies, especially killing. He glanced at the bodies. “You did your share.”
“Yeah, and I got that one with the hedge trimmers. I wanted to live. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“You’d be surprised how many men freeze in fear. More than you’d think.”
“And women?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Not as many as you think.”
He eyed her. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. She reminded him of Hannah. That same steel flashing in those eyes. “Touché.”
Liam bent to pick up his pistol. It was wedged beneath the tire of a hulking shape—a riding lawn mower.
His back spasmed. The electric shot of pain reminded him that he was far from one hundred percent. Not even close.
He didn’t want to admit to himself how much his back was affecting him. All the training and skills in the world didn’t matter when your own body betrayed you. He’d need to ice his lower back tonight.
Quinn didn’t take her eyes off him. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s a war wound. I’m just getting old.”
“I doubt that.”
The adrenaline dump hit him, and his legs went to Jell-O. He leaned against the rear shelves with a weary sigh.
Fighting took so much out of him. Killing, even more.
He was tired. He was hurting. But he could manage it, put it in a box. He still had work to do.
He did a quick systems check. Twelve rounds in the magazine. He chambered a round and
exchanged the half-spent magazine for the full one in his back pocket. He’d reload it tonight.
He was running dangerously low on ammo. He needed to fix that problem, and soon.
Especially if more assassins were coming.
Quinn stared at Desoto, the dark puddle spreading rapidly beneath his body. Her hand went to her throat. “They were hiding in the shed. I should’ve seen the footprints. I should have paid attention.”
He nodded. “Do better next time. Always pay attention to your surroundings. It’s called situational awareness.”
“I will,” she said.
Liam kept the Glock in one hand as he squatted painfully and examined the bodies.
Both men wore black camo. Grease paint smeared their faces. In addition to their plate carriers, one carried an M4 carbine, and the other, an AK-47 retrofitted with a bumper stock.
He patted down the corpses. Each plate carrier held three thirty-round magazines. He helped himself to the magazines, the rifles, and Desoto’s karambit blade. He discovered two frag grenades in Desoto’s rig, pocketed them, and relieved Desoto of his plate armor.
Apprehension lurked in the back of his mind. The bumper stock concerned him, as the modification enabled the semiautomatic rifle to fire almost as quickly as an automatic.
And where did they get the M4 and the grenades? Some police departments had them, and the National Guard.
How many weapons like this did the militia have? Where was their weapons depot?
Wherever the militia had gotten these, there would be more.
He slung the M4 and modified AK-47 over his shoulder and handed the magazines and plate carrier to Quinn. “Can you carry these?”
She nodded gravely.
“That one you practically beheaded is Sebastian Desoto,” Quinn said. “Mattias Sutter’s righthand man.”
“He’s the one you nailed with your slingshot last week?”
“That’s the one.” She shot him a grim smile before pursing her lips. “Are you going to fight them?”