Asher's War (Asher Benson #3)

by Jason Brant

  Just a few hours ago, she’d been slinging drinks at the bar and fighting off come-ons from drunks. That had annoyed her as it always did, but she now realized that anything was better than where she was right then.

  She swore she wouldn’t take anything she had for granted again if she could just get away safely. There was so much she wanted to do, so many places she desired to see, that the thought of dying in that dirty, cracked parking lot forced her to keep fighting.

  Christie wiped at the tears coursing down her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  She spun to her knees, hands gripping the top of the tire. Her fingers slid into the tread.

  Slowly, carefully, she peeked over the top of the trunk.

  The window the men were shooting from was empty.

  Was it a trick? Did she dare expose herself by running for the street?

  An explosion rocked the building. Christie jumped, almost fell over.

  A burst of smoke and debris shot out of the left side of the building. It looked as if it had come from her floor. Even worse, she thought that it might have come from her apartment.

  Christie realized then that the thumb drive the man in the subway had given her had caused the mayhem happening all around her. It had led to his death. The men chasing him had thought it valuable enough to do something as daring as murder police officers in broad daylight.

  They would obviously do anything necessary to get it back.

  But she’d left it in her apartment.

  If they were in there now, did that mean they’d found it? Would they leave her alone now and flee with their prize?

  She didn’t plan to find out. Christie searched the parking lot for the best path to escape. An exit to a side street stood to her right, about fifty meters away. If she could get to the crowd shambling slowly by it, she might be able to blend in and slip away.

  Staying low, she crawled along the length of the police cruiser on her hands and knees. Tiny pieces of glass bit into her palms, but she ignored the pain. She could deal with a few cuts and scrapes later.

  When she reached the front end of the car, Christie paused and looked back at the building. The men still weren’t in the window.

  She slid behind the Silverado that the cruiser had rolled into. It stood higher than the car, giving her a bit more room to move around behind. She got to her feet and scooted down the side.

  A torrent of gunfire erupted from somewhere by her apartment building again, causing Christie to duck down behind the engine of the truck. Her eyes squeezed shut, a fresh tear forming in the corner of each.

  The sounds were further away than before though, more a series of rapid-fire echoes than anything. Were they moving away from her? Engaging the protestors out front?

  Christie glanced at the window again.

  All was clear.

  She jumped up, sprinted to the next car, and ducked down again.

  No one shot at her.

  The firing she couldn’t see ceased, leaving the parking lot eerily silent for several seconds. And then, the crowd roared.

  Christie wondered if things were about to go from bad to worse. The men chasing her could turn the entire mob of people out front into homicidal maniacs. She scooted to the end of the next car, knowing she had to move faster, had to get away from there.

  The back door of her building burst open as she slid under the windows of a Toyota.

  A man screamed in pain. His voice cracked at the end of the roar.

  “Keep it together,” someone hissed at him.

  “Oh God,” Christie whispered. “Oh God.”

  Footfalls approached. From the sound of it, Christie assumed there were at least two, maybe more. They kept coming as she lowered herself even further.

  “Where’s the woman?” one of the men asked.

  “Burke and Hunter went after her,” another man answered, his voice an octave higher. “Looks like they got the pigs, but I don’t see the woman anywhere.”

  The footsteps came closer.

  Christie flattened herself to the pavement and looked under the Prius. She saw three sets of boots jogging toward the police cruiser. They’d almost reached it when the first man moaned in pain.

  As quickly as she could, Christie slid sideways, trying to get under the car. Her chest and thighs scraped across tiny bits of gravel. She knew her movements were making noise, but if she didn’t get under the car by the time they reached the cruiser, they would discover her.

  Her head passed under.

  Shoulders.

  Hips.

  “Got her!”

  The men broke into a run.

  “No!” Christie screamed. “Someone help me! Someone—”

  A hand grabbed hold of her ankle and yanked. She kicked wildly, trying to break free of the strong grip. The man pulled even harder, and she slid almost an entire foot backward.

  Her fingers searched the pavement for purchase, but she couldn’t find anything to grab onto.

  Another yank pulled her free of the car.

  Fingers twisted into her hair and tore her head back.

  “Get up, bitch.” The man with his hand wrapped in her hair dragged her to her feet.

  She felt roots detach from her scalp. The pain brought fresh tears. “Please! I didn’t do anything!”

  No one responded. She was manhandled to her feet.

  Three men stood before her. One of them held a hand under his armpit. Blood drenched his gray suit. Sweat poured down his face, his neck. His mouth was twisted in a grimace of misery.

  Another man, dressed in black, stared at her impassively.

  Her head was yanked back as the man who had a hold of her wound his hand even further into her hair.

  He lifted a rifle with his other hand, jammed the barrel against her cheek.

  The hot metal burned her skin.

  “Wait,” the man in black said. “Not yet. We can use her as a shield. When they come—”

  The back door of the building, which had swung shut, burst open again.

  Four men, dressed in all black and wearing ski masks, ran outside, weapons trained in Christie’s direction.

  29 – Dildos

  We exited the rear of the building and instantly spotted Smith’s group of dildos. They had Christie Tolbert standing between them, a rifle jammed against the side of her face.

  I skidded to a stop, my gun aimed at the Man in Black.

  The son of a bitch smirked at me.

  Bouncing his head like a basketball would feel so good.

  “Mr. Benson, I presume,” the Man in Black said. “Nice to meet up with you again. The masks are an interesting touch.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Tate swept to the left, taking partial cover behind a red car. Briggs and Huxx sidestepped toward the right side of the parking lot.

  “Easy now.” The Man in Black watched me. “We wouldn’t want Ms. Tolbert’s brains splattered all over the place, would we?”

  “If you let her go and give yourself up, I won’t kill you.” I took a step forward, keeping my aim center mass on the boss man. “I’ll just rough you up a little. Maybe a lot.”

  Anger rose inside me.

  That’s it, Sammy whispered. Let it out.

  “That’s an awfully nice gesture.” He stepped behind the flunky holding Christie. “I think we’ll pass. Follow us and she’s dead.”

  The third dingleberry whimpered.

  My eyes cut to him quickly, and then back.

  The guy was missing his fucking hand. How long had we been running down those stairs? When I’d seen them in the hallway, all three of them were in one piece. Less than a minute later, they were dropping body parts like lepers.

  Bree Manning was a super badass.

  “Last chance, asshole.” My aim turned to the man holding Christie.

  The door behind me flew open, slamming off the rear wall of the apartment building. I spun on my heels, bringing my weapon around.

  A sea of people flooded out of
the door.

  The rioters had dealt with enough of our nonsense. They pressed forward, the ones in front hesitant to engage me because I had a gun pointed at them. The people behind them either didn’t see my rifle or didn’t care because they continued pushing forward.

  I walked backward, hoping the three dickwads holding Christie wouldn’t shoot me in the back.

  “Move!” Tate yelled.

  The crowd surged.

  I twisted around and ran. My teammates were already sprinting across the parking lot.

  Smith’s men were gone. An exit near the spot they’d been standing ran to a side street. I made a split-second decision to try and cut them off.

  I turned hard left and ran with everything I had toward a small gap between the apartment building and an unmarked business of some kind. It wasn’t wide enough for a car to fit through, but my ridiculously broad and muscular shoulders would just barely squeeze through.

  Tate, Huxx, and Briggs kept going straight.

  “Benson!” Tate glanced over his shoulder at me. “To hell with them! We have to abort!”

  That was easy for him to say. He’d been on Smith’s heels for a few days. It wasn’t personal for him like it was for me. Tate and the rest of them wanted to catch a bad guy.

  I wanted to catch Sammy’s murderer—the killer of Arthur’s Creek. It wasn’t just personal for me—it was a war. Asher’s War.

  Sounded pretty badass to think of it that way. Just like me.

  Beyond my personal vendetta, the Man in Black had a hostage and human life didn’t mean diddly squat to him. He’d execute her in a millisecond if it would help him in any way.

  I had to get my hands on him.

  The crowd hollered behind me. They were ballsy—I had to give them that. Chasing armed men dressed all in black had to be frightening.

  I plunged into the tiny alley and vaulted over a cardboard box with a smiley face on the side. The space smelled of piss and mold. Just like home.

  At the other end of the alley, more of the protestors walked by, chanting something I couldn’t quite make out. They didn’t seem quite as pissed off as the people chasing me, so I hoped I could push my way through.

  Or at least scare them with my big gun.

  By the time I reached the end of the alley, I had Tate and Nelson hollering into my ear.

  I grabbed the wire of the earbud and yanked it out. Then I unclipped my rifle, knowing I would need to move it freely to get through the crowd.

  As I exited the alley, I cut right, bumping into a teenage kid holding a sign that said something about the patriarchy, whatever in the hell that was. He stumbled backward into an Asian woman in her fifties.

  It was a diverse group.

  ‘merica.

  I slowed to a jog as I pushed through the horde and looked over the tops of their heads, scanning the street for Smith’s goons. Nothing stood out.

  My anger grew. They couldn’t get away. Not again.

  “He’s got a gun!” someone to my left screamed.

  I finally spotted the gray and black suits a block down, disappearing behind the corner of a building. Lowering my shoulder, I shoved against the crowd even harder.

  Some of them jumped out of the way when they saw the rifle, but others reached out and tried to tear it away from me. As more of them became aware of my presence, the fight to get through grew harder. If I didn’t get clear soon, they’d pull me to the ground and stomp me to death.

  The people chasing me burst from the alley and screamed about me murdering people.

  Shit went south in a hurry.

  I raised the gun and jammed the butt of it into the face of large man who lunged at me. He fell backward, big paws covering his smashed nose. As he fell down, he took three or four people with him.

  Using the opening, I pushed and shoved my way to the other side of the street. The sidewalk, ironically, had less foot traffic and I was able to accelerate.

  Tate’s tiny, electronic voice chirped against my chest.

  The pissed-off crowd closed in on me again.

  Pistoning my legs as fast as they would go, I reached the spot where Smith’s men had disappeared and turned the corner to follow them. They were thirty yards ahead of me on an even smaller street. The road was clear of rioters, giving them free passage.

  Christie stumbled along behind one of the gray suits, leaning forward as he yanked on her hair. The Man in Black took the lead, running with a smooth stride.

  The guy sans one hand staggered like a drunk as he tried to keep up. Blood loss had relegated his movements to that of a toddler.

  I pointed my rifle at them as I ran, but my gait had my aim swaying too much. Only in the movies could you accurately shoot someone while at a dead run.

  Instead of firing, I lowered the weapon and pushed my legs to their absolute limit. All the workouts I’d slaved over lately were in preparation for that moment. My body wouldn’t fail me now.

  I caught the wounded man quickly. “Hey, stumpy.”

  He slowed and turned around.

  My fist connected with his temple. I didn’t even have to break stride.

  His body flew forward from the momentum of his strides and the power of my mega punch. He stumbled forward two steps and then tumbled face-first onto the pavement. Fresh blood poured out of his mangled hand.

  The man dragging Christie heard the commotion and glanced back at me. I was still ten yards away when he stopped and spun around, bringing his gun up.

  Christie didn’t get the memo. She kept running forward and rammed into the guy’s chest. He staggered back a step and the two of them tangled together. The gun faltered for a moment as he shoved against her, trying to extricate his arms from her body.

  The distraction gave me enough time to close the distance. There still wasn’t a clear shot because of Christie’s struggle against the man, so I kept running. My long strides got me there before they could separate, and I aimed the stock of my rifle at the man’s face.

  He was fast.

  Before the stock could crush his nose, he slipped to the left and my blow zipped past his ear. He caught me in the ribs with the barrel of his gun, sending a stinger though my torso.

  I drove my elbow into his temple.

  The weapon fell from his hand as he stumbled to his left. Christie’s hair finally detangled from his fingers, and she collapsed to the side of the street.

  “Run!” I roared.

  Christie jumped up and sprinted back the way we’d come without a word.

  Behind me, I could hear the crowd swarming down the road, moving closer to us. At that moment, I didn’t care if they caught me or not as long as I could take those two clowns down with me.

  I brought my rifle around to give him a lead dessert, but he recovered quickly and grabbed the gun with both hands. He tried to wrest it from my grip, but the dude had no idea who he was tangling with.

  All of my weightlifting had me Arnold Schwarzenegger strong.

  Rather than fight for control of the gun, I charged forward, pushing him in front of me.

  His back slammed against the building behind him.

  Our eyes locked as I jammed the rifle under his chin, cutting off his air.

  My anger reached new heights. I saw Sammy in his eyes, her life slipping away as I held her.

  I wrenched the rifle even harder into his throat.

  Gags escaped him.

  I let go of the stock with my right hand and reached for the pistol strapped to my leg. It slid free of the holster. Before he could reach out, I had the barrel shoved against his forehead, the safety clicked off.

  My finger tensed against the trigger.

  A flash of white burst through my vision.

  Pain blossomed in the back of my head.

  I couldn’t hear any sound. Everything was white.

  The bright veil slowly dissipated as I blinked rapidly.

  Turning my head sent a fresh wave of agony through my neck.

  I was on the groun
d, staring up at the Man in Black.

  He frowned down at me.

  Then he kicked me in the face.

  30 – Escape

  “We’ve lost Benson!” Tate yelled.

  Bree lifted her rifle from the ledge and folded the bipod against the underside. The crowd beneath her had swelled. Their anger reached a fever pitch after the gunfight, and they were destroying everything in sight.

  Rocks went through windows. Cars were flipped and set on fire.

  “Do you have a visual on Benson, Manning?” Tate asked.

  “Negative.” Bree had seen the crowd to the left of the building react to something, but she’d never seen who or what had caused it. “I can’t see any of you.”

  Bree moved along the length of the ledge, looking down at the people below. If Benson were down there, she would have spotted him. It wouldn’t have been difficult to see a giant man dressed in black from head to toe. And the crowd would have swarmed him already.

  Jack Shea said, “I can’t stay here much longer. The natives are getting restless.”

  The op had unraveled quickly. Bree didn’t know what to do. Her teammates had left the apartment building, and she didn’t have an angle on anything behind it. She wanted to run across the street and see if she could locate them, but that meant braving the crowd below and she knew that wouldn’t work in her favor. They were looking for someone to take out. A disguised woman holding a rifle was a big target.

  “We’re on foot.” Tate’s voice came in quick huffs. “The protestors are chasing us across Hood Street.”

  Nelson finally responded, his voice calm and calculating. “Can you circle around to find Benson?”

  “Negative. There’s no chance we could get around these people even if we engaged them.”

  Manning’s stomach twisted. If Benson were caught by the mob, they’d likely kill him. If Smith’s men got to him, they’d probably kill him. She struggled to imagine how he’d become separated from the others.

  “Regroup with Shea and await further orders.” Nelson said it in the matter-of-fact tone of a man reading baseball statistics.

  “No!” Detective Lloyd’s voice sounded distant, as if he wasn’t standing by the microphone. “You can’t leave him out—”

  The feed cut off.