Her Special Forces

by Sophia Roslyn

  Leave with her what? Didn’t Gemma say she never called her father Da…oh shit, what the fuck? Kacey placed the bowl on the counter, turned to face the girl.

  Gemma finally caught her eye, tipped her head ever so slightly toward the bedroom. “You gotta like help me pack. I can’t do it myself.”

  Her father looked displeased. “Gemma, really. Your behavior. Your grammar.”

  Her grammar? The sonofabitch was worried about her freakin’ grammar?

  “Sorry, Da…Sir. I’m just in a hurry to leave. Like now.” The girl’s words were forced through clenched teeth, as she pulled again at Kacey.

  Kacey forced a smile at the two men. “Wow, kids these days. So impatient. I blame it all on the violence in cartoons and video games. Let me help her, then we’ll be back in a flash. I’m sure you can’t wait to get back on the road.”

  Gemma dragged Kacey into Kacey’s bedroom, not her own. “Your gun,” she whispered. “You need your gun.”

  With her hands on Gemma’s shoulders, Kacey could feel the kid quaking. “Okay, what’s going on? What was all that bullshit out there?”

  Her teeth chattering, the trembling girl could barely force the words out. “It’s him. The man.”

  “What man?”

  “The man who took me. That’s the smell I couldn’t remember. Peppermint Patties. Him, the man in my room. He’s the…the…he’s the kidnapper.”

  Shit, her Spidey-senses had been right, after all. “Fuck.”

  “G-g-get your g-g-gun. Sh-sh-shoot him. Don’t let him take me again. Please!” Gemma’s face had gone pale as ice.

  Father. Bodyguard. Kidnapper. Ten million dollars. In a blinding flash, it all came together. Oh fuck, indeed. Kacey retrieved her weapon from her panty drawer, checked the magazine, then tried to secure the Sig in the stretchy waistband of her pants. The gun was too heavy.

  Shit. No holster, no belt. How the hell could she secure the gun?

  “Miss Kacey, what are you gonna do?”

  Good question, kid.

  Necessity, mother, and invention coalesced in her mind. Stripping off her shirt, Kacey grabbed another lacy Victoria’s Secret bra from the drawer, strung it around her neck and under her arm like a bandoleer, then hooked it. She snugged the muzzle of the Sig into a bra cup, tucked it under her left armpit, shrugged back into the tent-like T-shirt. Then, to make the piece of luggage look full, she stuffed a pillow into the rolling suitcase that she’d brought when she and Nathan had packed, zipped it closed.

  “Okay, calm down. Hopefully, no one will be shooting anyone, at least until the cavalry arrives. Here’s what we’re gonna do. When I open the door, you sneak out the other way, go upstairs, lock yourself in the safe room. You know how. Make sure you secure the latches, then shut off the light. I’ll drag the suitcase and bang it around, to cover you. Tiptoe like a little mouse, just like I showed you.”

  “I’m not dressed.”

  “Honey, we don’t have time. Plus, you’ll be quieter in your slippers. Go, hide. I’ll take care of them down here. Nathan and Jack will be back soon, I’m sure of it.”

  And they’d be walking into an ambush! Shit, shit, shit.

  Using her pajama sleeve, the girl wiped the tears from her face. She looked much older than her eleven—nearly twelve—years.

  “Gem, sweetie, are you ready?”

  A nod, accompanied by a little hiccup of what could only be fear.

  “When I open the door, you move and stay low, okay? Then you lock yourself in, hear me? No matter what goes on, do not open that panel unless it’s one of us. Now, git.”

  Kacey nodded in time with the silent countdown. Facing Gemma so the girl could see her, she mouthed three, two, one, go. She gave a last nod, then opened the door so the child could slip out.

  Even as frightened as she had to be, Gemma crouched, hugged the line of the wall, moved like a pro. Kacey immediately dragged the rolling suitcase behind her, banged it into the walls, jerked it off its wheels so she needed to pull it upright again. The healing wounds twinged at her sudden body movements, but she ignored the discomfort. The two men mustn’t know she’d been damaged, that she wasn’t up to full strength. The gun jabbed into the sensitive skin over her ribs, but there was nothing to be done that wouldn’t draw attention.

  Pulling the navy blue suitcase into the kitchen, she let it crash to the floor, stood it up, then leaned it against the front of the dishwasher. She swept her forearm over her brow. “Whew. Damn things are made so cheap these days. I don’t think the stupid wheels are rolling.”

  The big man directed his gaze to the hallway behind Kacey, then spoke. “Where is the girl?”

  “She wanted to shower before she dressed. She’ll only be a few minutes.”

  His stance stiffened. “Then why do you already have her luggage?”

  “Oh, this? The other suitcase is still in the bedroom, so she can pack her pajamas and her games.”

  “Two suitcases? Games? Why does she need games?”

  “The FBI went a bit overboard, another example of our government spending at work. Bought her a boatload of clothes, plus stuff to keep her busy, like card games. No Wi-Fi out here. Easy things to pack, don’t worry. Do you want to take this suitcase to the car while you’re waiting?”

  Splitting them up seemed like a promising idea, would make it easier for her to check the backyard for the cavalry she hoped would come charging to the rescue. She prayed that the guys wouldn’t make her a liar.

  The so-called bodyguard rocked on the balls of his feet, and she could see tension building in his body posture. The senator, usually a real chatty Cathy when the cameras were rolling, didn’t add to the conversation.

  “It is not necessary. We will wait for her.”

  Mr. Brown’s speech pattern was very exact, something she’d noticed before in people whose first language was not English. She couldn’t get a handle on his accent, faint as it was, but she was sure he hadn’t been born in the U.S. of A. He wasn’t Russian, or Gemma would have picked up on it in the warehouse. Afrikaans?

  Kacey finished her coffee, washed the mug, placed it in the drain board. Shit, two more. She washed the two mugs Nathan and Jack had used, made a project of scrubbing the insides. “That’s what I get for leaving dishes in the sink overnight. Crusty coffee.”

  While she was at the sink, she took the opportunity to glance out the open kitchen windows without being too obvious, since they faced the yard, the pool, the pool house, and the woods. Nothing, yet. Her gut was in turmoil. Nathan, please, I need you to help Gemma, but I don’t want you in the line of fire. Don’t get shot on my account.

  The two men continued to stand. The bodyguard had placed himself strategically where the arches for the foyer, the great room, and the kitchen came together, thereby blocking the front entrance and making Kacey even more edgy. She could probably make it to the laundry room on the far side of the kitchen, then out the back door, but the wide yard was too open, without cover until one reached the pool house or the woods. She’d be a target, and a slow-moving target at that. Plus, she wouldn’t leave Gemma alone in the house, even hidden in the safe room.

  “Won’t you at least have a seat while we’re waiting?” She pulled out a kitchen chair so whoever used it would face away from the windows. The great room, more appropriate for guests, wouldn’t work, since the outer walls were nearly all windows, the view panoramic.

  The senator took a step, but Brown grabbed his arm by the elbow, pulled him back. “We will wait for the girl.”

  Mansfield rubbed his arm. “There is no reason for that, Mr. Brown. I’m going to sit, instead of standing here like a wooden Indian. My legs are getting stiff.”

  “We will wait.”

  “Yes, and while we do, I intend to rest at the table.” The senator looked around, as if to find a more comfortable chair out of the matching set. He grunted, obviously annoyed, then settled on the seat Kacey had already pulled out. He straightened his padded jacket shoulders and hi
s sharp trouser creases.

  “I don’t see why we had to come up here so early. We could have gotten a better night’s sleep, had a civilized breakfast, then left for this wilderness. The child wasn’t going anywhere.”

  That finally lit Kacey’s fire, like blasting caps to dynamite. “The child? Is that all she is to you, the child? Your daughter was fucking kidnapped, damned near twice, could have been tortured, killed, or on her way to a life of prostitution, yet you complain because you had to get up too early and miss your usual breakfast? Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the fucking saints, you are a waste of skin and you’re bloody well breathing my goddamned air.”

  Her skin chilled the instant she realized what she’d revealed, the same moment the bodyguard focused his sharp eyes in her direction. Oh, fuck a duck. Good job, Kilo Delta, you and your freakin’ Irish temper and your Marine Corps mouth. Righteous indignation, there ain’t nothin’ worse, and now it could get you killed.

  “And how would a housekeeper know of such things, I wonder?”

  Kacey attempted to backpedal. “Hmm, well, I must have overheard Agent Cannon talking, or something.”

  “Or something, yes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Without taking his eyes off Kacey, Mr. Brown slid the Makarov out of his shoulder holster, calmly took the suppressor from his jacket pocket, twisted it onto the end of the gun’s barrel, strictly by touch.

  Kacey found herself unable to breathe—unable to believe the man couldn’t even be bothered to hide his intentions. Her brain told her to run, to escape, but she couldn’t lift her leaden feet. She watched his hands in morbid fascination, like watching a horror movie and wanting to scream to the dopey heroine, “No, you stupid bitch, don’t open the closet door!”

  The senator freaked, and his voice raised several octaves. “What do you think you’re doing? This wasn’t part of the plan! You said just Cannon.”

  Brown released the magazine, checked the rounds, slapped the clip home, racked the slide.

  The psychotic bastard was enjoying the situation.

  The man spoke calmly, conversationally. “Senator, if not for your greed and stupidity, FBI agents would not be dead to raise the price on our heads. I would not have lost the best of my own men. You would have your half of the ten million dollar ransom, the girl would already be on the way to Safar’s buyer.

  “Our mission was perfectly orchestrated. You should have checked the financials before your wife had her unfortunate accident. Now, it is your daughter who is wealthy, and you are still a poor excuse for a man always in need of funds to pay for his indiscrete liaisons with young boys. So, Safar and my men are either captured or dead, and the girl is in my hands. You, Mansfield, have outlived your usefulness.”

  Omigod, what? Mansfield’s a pedophile? Sweet Jesus Christ, how’d we all miss that? Gemma, sweetie, thank God you’re not hearing this.

  Still missing the boat, Mansfield pulled himself upright in the chair, reminding Kacey of an arrogant little bantam rooster—a really stupid bantam rooster. “Wait just a moment, Bruin. You can’t speak to me like that. Do you know who I am? Did you forget that I am a United States Sen—”

  Kacey watched in stunned silence as Mr. Brown held the end of the Makarov’s suppressor about an inch from the senator’s temple, then fired. Blood and brain matter splattered. Mansfield lurched, dropped to the floor like a ballast stone.

  The shooter smiled. “I forget nothing.”

  As stray droplets landed on Kacey’s skin, the hot, coppery odor of fresh blood brought back the horror of the Afghani desert, front and center. The smell invaded her senses, took over her brain. Her muscles locked. Her limbs rigid, she stared at the senator sprawled on the floor, dead as politician’s promises. Omigod, not now, not now, not now, don’t let this happen now.

  The man directed his gaze at Kacey. “Enough of this little game you play with me. I am not as easily tricked as the senator. Where is the girl, and where is Agent Cannon? Maybe I shoot you now, then wait for the others to come out.”

  The girl. He plans to kill me, kill Jack, take Gemma. Again. Only this time, there would be no one left to save the child. Gemma would be gone, vanished, before anyone realized there’d been a problem. After all, she’d already been kidnapped, and no one knew she’d been reclaimed. Unless Nathan could grab her without getting himself shot.

  Extraordinary circumstances seem to affect the passage of time, and time did, indeed, come to a sliding, screeching halt. As Kacey jerked away from the blood and gore, she caught movement through the kitchen window screens—Nathan and Jack breaking out of the trees. There was no way she would let them stroll into an ambush. The guy was going down, and she swore to all that was even close to holy that he wasn’t taking Gemma with him.

  Brown moved to bring his gun hand around, in line with Kacey’s chest. She screamed, “Not gonna happen, you fucker, you can’t have her,” and prayed her voice carried far enough.

  While the hit man’s arm was still in motion, she grabbed the pot of hot coffee from the counter, flung it toward him. He tried to duck, raised his free arm to protect himself. The weapon discharged, missed Kacey. The pot hit the gun barrel, shattered the glass. Hot coffee splashed over Bruin’s face and hands. His roar of pain outshouted Kacey’s stream of loud, angry curses.

  Following through with her horizontal throw, Kacey’s arm continued to her midsection, allowed her to reach under her shirt for her Sig. Snaking under the overly-loose fabric and unhooking the gun from her bra cost her vital seconds, which meant she couldn’t get the gun barrel lined up quickly enough to take aim. Her weapon wasn’t suppressed, so she screamed obscenities again and fired anyway, wasting at least six rounds of the fifteen to make as much noise as possible.

  Still in motion, she launched herself at the big man as he lifted his weapon to take another shot. Surprised by her forward trajectory, Brown was caught low in the gut by her shoulder. Their momentum carried them out of the kitchen, sent them crashing into the great room. She cursed as she lost the grip on her Sig, which spun out of her hand.

  The man twisted to gain the advantage, and his maneuver worked.

  With a pissed-off shriek, Kacey landed on her back. The hulking killer managed to straddle her. Her screams of anger turned into howls of pain as he crushed her with his weight, his thighs hugging her hips, his knee pressing into her side, ripping open her wounds.

  With tightly knuckled fists, she pummeled his legs. “Get your fucking nuts off me, you sonofabitchin’ kid-stealing bastard!”

  The scent of her own blood reached her, but she refused to cave again to the nightmare, refused to let the past stifle her reflexes. Nathan was coming, and the killer mustn’t be allowed to harm him. Or Jack, or Gemma. Snarling and swearing, she grabbed at the man’s arm and gun hand, at his face and neck, scratching and ripping at any exposed flesh until her fingernails were broken, her fingertips bloody. He shouted at her in a language she didn’t understand.

  She finally connected with a lucky chop to his wrist; the Makarov pistol leaped from his hand and arced away.

  Brown—Bruin—snapped at her with bared teeth. “You crazy American bitch! I will enjoy this more, killing you with my own hands.” He fought clear of her scratching claws, and in that instant, grabbed her by the throat with large, strong fingers. His big thumbs pressed against her windpipe, immediately cut off her air. She continued to bash him with her fists, tried to buck him off her hips, but he was too strong, too heavy, and the burning pain in her side drained what little strength she had left.

  As she tried to roll and twist, as she fought to remain conscious, she saw the deeply-set eyes in his scratched and bloodied face—one brown eye, the other, ice blue. What the fuck? Darkness crowded her periphery, and she realized her luck had finally run its course. She’d used what had been left of her preceding nine lives to survive the helo crash in Afghanistan. The last of the Fighting O’Donnell’s bright stars was winking out like a dying ember growing cold and dark.
She wasn’t going to survive this.

  Awareness faded. She held on to one last hope, that Nathan and Jack could protect Gemma. Please, if there is a God, any God, save them. Save my Nathan.

  Please…

  …

  The moment GMG Surveillance & Security notified Jack by radio of the senator’s pending—and too early—arrival, the two men cut short the friendly rivalry that was keeping Nate’s mind off Kacey and headed back. As they cleared the trees, sweaty and breathing hard from their exertions, a scream, then the sound of gunshots, echoed from the chalet.

  Weapons pulled, they motioned to one another and jigged to divide up as they sprinted toward the dwelling.

  They reached the sprawling structure. Splitting off left and right, plastered against the natural log siding for protective cover, each man crept along the foundation, listening, taking lightning fast glances through the window screens. Nate took the kitchen end of the house, worked toward the near side of the great room. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then, sounds of a struggle, voices growling, snarling. He risked a quick look. Shit!

  Jack had finished his circuit, crouched under the line of windows at the far corner of the great room. Nate motioned. Jack nodded. Pulling in a deep breath, then releasing it, Nate stood. He quickly but precisely lined up his shot through the nylon screen, squeezed the trigger. The big man riding Kacey and choking the life out of her straightened, shuddered, then crumpled to the floor.

  Ripping the rest of the way through the holed screen, Nate rested his arms on the window sill and kept his gun trained on the body, while Jack raced around to the front entrance. After the FBI agent reached the great room and signaled the all clear, Nate climbed through the window, rushed to Kacey, dropped to his knees.

  He checked her vitals. She was alive, but the air trying to move in and out of her lungs rasped unevenly, accompanied by whimpers at the effort. A large splotch of blood from her side seeped through to her shirt. He patted her face. “Kace. Kacey baby, c’mon, look at me, speak to me.”