A long volley of gunfire from the rear passenger window ricocheted off the street next to her face and exploded the tire she’d chosen for cover—forcing her to scramble back out of sight. A car door slammed, followed by another long burst. A quick peek confirmed the three surviving gunmen had gotten out of the sedan, taking various positions behind it. They’d be on the move soon enough. Three against one. Car tires screeched farther down Sunset Boulevard. Seven against one. Time to even those odds.
Brooklyn backed up onto the curb, her pistol aimed down the line of vehicles parked on Sunset Boulevard, waiting for a target to appear.
“I’m gonna move forward and mix it up with these assholes,” she said. “You make a run for the other side of the street once the shooting starts. Don’t hesitate. Don’t stop. I’ll make sure you’re the last thing they’re worried about. Got it?”
No response. She glanced over her shoulder.
“Riley. I need you—”
Riley was gone. Nowhere to be found. Shit. Brooklyn expertly divided her attention between the three men ducking and weaving between the vehicles in front of her and a desperate search to locate Decker’s daughter. Seconds later, she determined that Riley had done the right thing and vanished—taking her fate into her own hands. Smart kid. Decker would be proud.
Brooklyn bolted forward, leading with her pistol. A figure leaned around the back of an SUV and fired a rifle on full automatic—the bullets snapping past her head. She snapped off two rounds and ducked between the next two cars, staying below the hood.
Bullets shattered the windshield and sprayed glass fragments across the hood as she scrambled toward the street. Brooklyn fired two rounds at a figure mostly hidden behind the sedan stopped in the middle of Sunset Boulevard. She ducked back down without knowing if her bullets connected. This fight wasn’t going in her favor. Not even remotely.
She returned to the curb and searched for targets, finding one aiming a rifle in her direction. Bullets cracked past Brooklyn’s face, the pressure differential tickling her cheeks. Definitely outgunned. A quick look confirmed the end. Two operatives had slightly fanned out along the grassy strip, driving her back with short bursts of suppressed rifle fire. The third operative was no doubt sliding along the outside of the vehicles, moving into position to take a shot at her from the street.
Brooklyn reloaded her pistol amid a blizzard of bullets and glass fragments. She’d give anything to know that Riley was safe. Her own death was certain at this point, a fact she didn’t dispute. She just hoped that Riley had backtracked to the school, seeking refuge somewhere. McDonald may have cut a deal with APEX, but there had to be a limit to how far he was willing to go to make good on that deal. Sending them off and notifying APEX was one thing. Doing the deed himself was another. If Riley made her way back inside the school, Brooklyn could die with a modicum of honor.
A series of pistol shots rang out, odd against the background of suppressed rifle-caliber bullets. Brooklyn risked a look down the curb. The same two operatives who had been firing mercilessly at her a moment ago had stopped. One of them fell sideways onto the grassy strip. The other clutched his throat. She fired a single bullet through his forehead, dropping him between two vehicles. Riley sat crouched behind him, two cars back, her pistol smoking. While Brooklyn was pinned down she’d managed to sneak down the line of cars and take a position where they would never have expected her to be.
Brooklyn gave her a quick thumbs-up before sliding between the two cars next to her. She leaned a few inches beyond the bumper with her pistol, catching the last operative off guard. His head had been turned toward the sidewalk when a single bullet from her pistol punched through his left temple, dropping him to the street. She rushed forward and grabbed his compact assault rifle—some kind of suppressed M4 variant—and sprinted for the sedan several yards away.
When she reached the front of the sedan, Brooklyn leveled the rifle at the approaching Suburban and applied the maximum amount of pressure to the trigger without sending a round downrange. The SUV kept coming, its windows tinted to the point where she couldn’t see inside. Brooklyn tracked the vehicle’s approach through the rifle’s magnified sight, begging for any indication that it was friend or foe. A mere twenty yards away, automatic gunfire erupted from a position to the right of her.
A quick glance to her right confirmed what she had suspected. Riley had gone full-on Ryan Decker—moving beyond the unexpected P365 marksmanship and graduating to full close-quarters combat. Decker’s daughter fired one short burst after another from one of the dead operatives’ rifles into the approaching SUV.
For a moment, Brooklyn questioned Riley’s judgment. Aside from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the SUV demonstrated no hostile intent as bullet holes dotted the windshield. Until it did. Like the sedan, the Suburban lurched left to expose a broadside of guns, the occupants firing from open windows.
Brooklyn ducked below the hood and slid back—along the side of the sedan—until she reached the trunk, where she popped up and emptied the rifle’s magazine into the front windshield. Her rounds punched through the glass, rocking the driver’s and front passenger’s heads back and forth, until the rifle’s slide locked back, begging for another magazine.
Riley’s fire methodically punched deep into the rear seats, one bullet at a time, until nothing stirred inside the SUV. Yep—full-on Ryan Decker. Incredible. Brooklyn searched for viable targets, finding none. The past few seconds had proved entirely lethal for the occupants of the hostile vehicle. She started to move toward Riley, who remained locked into place, empty rifle still aimed at the crippled SUV, when a bullet cracked past Brooklyn’s head.
Riley sprinted between the cars next to her, joining Brooklyn behind the sedan.
“I don’t remember going over assault rifles with you,” said Brooklyn, opening the car’s door to search for ammunition.
“Recent weekends with my dad!” she said over the growing volume of gunfire.
Four hostiles moved from tree to tree along Sunset Boulevard, seeming to have originated from the secure parking lot. She checked her phone. Avi had confirmed that they had originated from the Suburban he’d blocked. Brooklyn chuckled at his request for a new job. He was a saint. She’d help him with that if she survived the next few minutes.
“Riley. I’m going to unleash hell on earth here in a few seconds,” she said, freeing a fresh magazine from one of the dead men’s tactical vests. “When I start firing, you get across the street and push through those bushes. Your grandparents should be on the other side.”
Decker’s daughter nodded absently, her hands wrapped tightly around the rifle she’d just emptied on the curb. Brooklyn grabbed the rifle and eased it out of her grip, jarring Riley out of her trance. She pointed at the thick row of bushes on the other side of Sunset Boulevard.
“Go now! Your grandparents will be there any second!”
“We’ll wait for you.”
“No. You get the hell out of here right away,” said Brooklyn, slapping a fresh magazine into the rifle. “These people will kill you and your grandparents without any hesitation. I’ll be fine.”
“My dad wouldn’t leave you,” said Riley.
“He would if I insisted,” said Brooklyn, locking eyes with her. “And I truly insist. Do not wait for me. Are we clear?”
Several bullets popped into the other side of the sedan, underscoring her point.
“We’re clear,” said Riley, drawing the compact pistol Brooklyn had given her just minutes ago.
“I’ll be fine,” said Brooklyn. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Go!” she said, and Riley took off.
Brooklyn rose far enough above the trunk to fire a short burst at a hostile that had chosen the absolute wrong moment to change positions. The man fell face-first on the sidewalk, as though he’d slipped on a patch of ice. Brooklyn shifted fire between the three remaining targets, sending two bullets at a time downrange, until her thirty-round rifl
e magazine ran dry. From what she could tell, none of her bullets had connected—but that hadn’t been the point of her shooting rampage.
She glanced across the street, catching a last glimpse of Riley’s tie-dyed shirt before she vanished inside the thick hedgerow. Mission accomplished. Riley’s fate was in her grandparents’ hands at this point.
Tires squealed in the distance. A bad omen unless accompanied by police sirens, which were still conspicuously absent. Brooklyn considered scavenging for another rifle magazine but decided she’d spent far too long in one place. Instead of following Riley, she bolted for the concrete staircase leading back to the school, hoping to distract their attackers.
She’d gotten about halfway up the steps before the first bullet struck home, punching through her left leg. The hit stopped her in place, but she didn’t fall. The second bullet knocked her off the stairs, striking the top edge of the ballistic plate hidden underneath her shirt and ricocheting through her shoulder. Brooklyn hit the grass and started to roll toward the sidewalk.
Bullets sliced past as she careened down the short hill. When she finally came to rest on the sidewalk, she straightened her body, feet toward the threat axis, and started firing. If she was cashing out this morning, she was going out right—“Guns of Brixton” style.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Steven Decker slowed his decade-old Honda Pilot after passing through the intersection, coming to a stop right around where Riley had indicated.
“I don’t see her,” said Audrey, leaning forward in her seat to scan the street. “Did we miss them?”
“We got here as soon as we could,” said Steven. “Did she leave a message?”
His wife checked her phone and shook her head. “No. Roll down your window. Maybe she’s yelling for us.”
That doesn’t make any sense. He pressed the button to lower his window. The moment it cracked open, the sound of gunfire filled the SUV. He was really glad he’d kept that comment to himself. Without giving it a second thought, he popped open the center console compartment and removed the Lightweight Colt Commander his son had given him as a gift several years ago.
“There she is!” said Audrey, pointing toward the bushes separating Charles E. Young Drive from Sunset Boulevard.
About twenty yards down the street, Riley broke through the bushes and stumbled into the street—holding a pistol. Steven pulled up next to her a few seconds later. Automatic gunfire, punctuated by sporadic smaller-caliber shots, raged back and forth beyond the dense hedgerow.
“Get in!” he yelled through the open window. “Where’s Brooklyn?”
Riley opened the door behind him and jumped inside. “She’s back there. Buying time. I don’t know. Just drive. She insisted.”
Steven hit the accelerator, propelling them along the northern edge of the campus. Part of him wanted to stop the SUV and get out to help Brooklyn, but given the volume of automatic fire and the fact that he wasn’t half the shot he used to be, he acknowledged the futility of the gesture. Still, leaving Brooklyn to fend for herself didn’t sit right with him. He’d been wrong about her. Whether she was dead or alive right now didn’t matter. She’d saved their granddaughter. An act of valor and personal fortitude he’d repay if given the chance.
“Turn up here,” said Audrey, studying her phone. “There’s a parking garage we can hide in.”
He eased right onto Royce Drive and followed the signs for the garage. A few minutes later, they had settled into a space on the exposed roof. The gunfire had stopped by that point, replaced by a discordance of police sirens. He glanced between the seats at his granddaughter, recognizing her vacant stare. He’d seen far worse during his back-to-back tours in Vietnam.
“You okay, Riles?”
She took a long time to respond, prompting Audrey to cast him a worrisome glance.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Everything just kind of went crazy. Where’s Dad?”
“He’s at the office, dealing with his own stuff right now,” said Steven. “We’re going to sit tight and wait for instructions.”
The gunfire started up again. Its intensity suggested a pitched battle between responding police units and the APEX mercenaries. Even though it took place a few hundred yards and several streets away, Steven didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the refuge they’d sought in the parking garage.
“I’m going to take a seat by the ramp,” he said. “Just in case.”
“I think I should join you,” said Riley, locking her pistol’s slide back.
She replaced the magazine and slid the lock back into place, chambering a round and readying the pistol like it was second nature. His son had taught her well—or maybe that had been Brooklyn’s work. Either way. Impressive to say the least.
“I want you to stay with your grandma,” said Steven.
Audrey laughed softly, opening her purse and removing a pistol that looked identical to Riley’s.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
Riley poked her head through the seats. “Did Dad take you shooting with that?”
Steven cocked his head. “That would be news to me.”
Audrey chambered a round without hesitation and laid the pistol in her lap. “Your son left no stone unturned, given what this family has been through.”
A furious exchange of gunfire echoed outside the parking garage, coming from the direction of Crossmount High School.
“Can you send a text to Brooklyn?” asked Steven.
“I don’t think we should distract her,” said his wife.
“From the sound of the gunfire,” said Steven, “my guess is she’s no longer the focus of APEX’s attention. They have the LAPD to worry about.”
“Hold on,” said Riley, digging for her phone.
While Riley composed a text, he showed Audrey his phone. No message from their son.
“Same,” she said quietly, after checking her own phone.
Steven glanced over his shoulder. “Anything?”
Riley shook her head, and the gunfire outside intensified. Nobody said a word. They were on their own for now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Harlow crouched next to Pam in the stairwell, her CZ Scorpion EVO 3 aimed at a point on the door where she guessed her first shots would strike the Mercedes SUV sheltering the APEX team sent to kill them. Katie edged into position to her immediate right, the barrel of her Scorpion just a few inches from Harlow’s shoulder. The initial fusillade of gunfire was going to render her momentarily deaf. She glanced at the shrouded barrel, then at Katie.
“Too close?” asked Katie.
“No,” said Harlow, stifling a laugh. “Just wish I had some hearing protection.”
“It’s gonna get crazy,” said Pam, her shotgun pointed at the same point on the door.
“Any word from Decker?” asked Sandra.
“The elevator is on the way,” said Joshua.
“Anything unusual in the garage?” asked Harlow.
“The garage level looks clear except for the Mercedes,” said Joshua.
“What about Holloway Drive or Hancock Avenue?” said Harlow, referencing the streets behind the building complex.
“Four SUVs for certain. Three on Holloway parked close to the exit. One on Hancock facing the exit. Three to four hostiles in each, except for the closest vehicle, which just has a driver. I have three guys on foot congregated near the parking garage exit, so I’m guessing they belong to that vehicle.”
“Can you tell what kind of weapons they’re carrying?” asked Harlow.
“Not really. Definitely hiding some serious hardware under their jackets, but that’s all I can determine,” said Joshua.
“Jackets?” asked Harlow.
“More like cheap windbreakers,” said Joshua. “Dark blue. No stenciling.”
“Feds?” asked Pam.
Harlow scooted back to take a look. Long hair and beards. They appeared more like APEX contractors than feds, but it was hard to tell these days with so many former Spec
ial Forces types running around with law enforcement. At any given time, more than half of the high-risk federal task force operators looked as though they’d just returned from back-to-back overseas combat deployments.
“They look the same as the guys inside the building,” said Harlow. “I think they’re using the jackets to try to conceal their weapons. I definitely saw a rifle muzzle. Probably some kind of compact rifle like Decker’s.”
“How the hell are we getting past all of that? Did Decker share his master plan with anyone?” asked Pam, turning her attention to Harlow.
“Don’t look at me,” said Harlow. “I got the impression he was mostly winging it.”
“Elevator door opening!” said Joshua.
“Shit,” said Pam.
Harlow applied the maximum amount of pressure to her trigger without discharging the weapon. Automatic gunfire erupted, somewhat muted by the thick metal door, in front of them. Pam scooted forward, gripping the door’s handle.
“Ready?”
“Do it,” said Harlow, focusing down the sight of her weapon.
Pam yanked the door inward, and Harlow focused her attention on the black Mercedes SUV in her weapon’s sight. She repeatedly pressed her trigger—sending dozens of nine-millimeter bullets toward the SUV’s occupants. Every gun in the stairwell followed suit, mercilessly pounding the side of the Mercedes until nothing moved inside the squat vehicle. The brief explosion of gunfire inside the cramped stairwell had left her ears ringing.
Harlow noticed movement in the SUV’s back seat. She pressed her trigger—and nothing happened. Shit. She’d expended her entire magazine. A single gunshot fired from an unknown location slammed the man’s head backward against the rear driver’s-side headrest. She reloaded the Scorpion with a spare magazine from her vest, dropping the empty plastic magazine to the concrete floor.
“Mazzie!” yelled Decker from the elevator. “I need some BDA.”
“BDA?” asked Mazzie, pushing forward to get closer to the open doorway. “I can’t really hear what he’s saying.”
“BDA. Battle damage assessment,” said Joshua. “Your drone.”
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