“Are you in trouble with the police?” whispered Owen, his face grave.
“No. I promise you I’m not in trouble with the police. But it might be something more serious than that, even. We need to get out of the house immediately. The man who just visited us is going to help us get somewhere safe. We’re going to meet him behind the house on Summerdale Drive.”
“Grandpa’s house?” asked Owen.
Nathan nodded. “Yes. Eventually. Are you good to go, buddy?”
“I’m scared.”
He pulled his son close, hugging him tightly. “Everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll make sure of it.”
A low rumbling sound drew his attention to the front of the house. The garage bay door?
“Do you hear that?” he said to Keira.
She nodded, putting a hand on Owen.
“It’s the garage door,” said his son.
“Go!” hissed Nathan. “Out the back. Run like crazy for the back wall. I’ll be right behind you.” He pushed Owen toward the patio and hooked the ladder with his right arm.
“He didn’t text yet,” Keira said, showing him the phone screen.
“They’re coming. Go!”
He lifted the ladder off the floor, clanging it against the tile. Keira and Owen dashed through the slider and across the patio with Nathan in close pursuit. The back of the ladder hit the metal edge of the door frame, and he glanced back at the house, expecting to see armed men rushing through the kitchen. The house was still empty, and for the briefest moment, Nathan thought he might have imagined the rumbling noise. Then, as he reached the edge of the patio, a loud crash inside the house erased any doubts about what he’d heard. Someone was smashing through one of the doors.
Nathan turned all his attention to navigating the shadowy backyard. He didn’t have far to go to reach the privacy wall directly behind his house, but a crash-and-burn moment right now spelled disaster for his family. Their escape would come down to mere seconds. His hiking boots dug into the soft bed of river rock beyond the patio, propelling him toward Owen and Keira, who’d stopped at the seven-foot stucco back wall. He raised the front end of the ladder as he approached them and slammed it down on top of the thick wall, then grabbed his wife by one of her shoulder straps and pulled her to the foot of the ladder.
“You first. Then Owen. Wait on the other side. We don’t know what’s going on with Quinn.”
Keira didn’t hesitate. She was halfway up the ladder when Owen started climbing. Nathan kept his back to the ladder, watching the house for the first visible signs of the intruders. While the ladder clanged behind him from Owen’s quick ascent, the house went dark. He turned then and started up the aluminum rungs just as his son’s dark form disappeared over the wall above him.
CHAPTER 31
David Quinn sat in his jeep on Giraldo Avenue, steeling himself for what needed to be done. He waited a few more seconds, carefully checking his rearview mirror for any signs that they’d sent a car to follow him. Nothing. He’d been lucky with their stationary vehicle deployment. A quick scan through his thermal scope indicated he was alone on Giraldo Avenue—for now. Once he put his plan into action, he didn’t expect to be alone for very long. He wasn’t sure how he’d deal with extra company while escorting a panicked family back to his jeep—just another small detail to work out in the next minute or two, in the haziest scheme he’d ever concocted.
Making sure the jeep’s overhead lights had been deactivated, he opened the car door and stepped onto the quiet street. Standing in the darkness with the door still open, he prepared a text message on his phone, making certain to use the correct number for Nathan’s burner. He stuffed it in one of his front pant pockets, then reached across the driver’s seat for the only two items in his backpack that might prove useful. Might being the operative term.
He tucked an expandable steel baton into one of his cargo pockets, making sure it was secure. Quinn had trained extensively with the baton for his last two deployments to Afghanistan, but had never used it against thinking and moving targets. He considered using it to smash open a window to get at the occupants, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. The metal baton generated significant force at its tip when swung like a club, but not enough to shatter bullet-resistant glass. Not even close.
He wasn’t sure how he could use it in this situation, but he wanted to keep the option available. In hand-to-hand combat, the baton could be devastating, though he’d prefer to avoid any close-up scuffles with highly trained ex-military operators. For standoff distances, he packed a different weapon: the civilian authorized version of the military’s CEW-19 (Conducted Electrical Weapon) pistol.
Firing projectiles capable of complete neuromuscular incapacitation for twenty seconds, the three-shot pistol accurately extended his fighting radius to seventy feet—against unarmored targets. The projectiles could not penetrate plate armor and had limited effectiveness against newer ceramic-scale flexible armor vests, drawbacks that would drastically reduce his engagement range. He’d have to aim for the unprotected parts of the body. Not an easy or desirable feat when your targets carried powerful, compact firearms.
Staring briefly at the orange pistol-like device in his hand, he wished he’d gone back to base to retrieve a personal firearm from the base armory. He was going up against heavily armed special-operator types with a metal baton and a Taser—and a three-inch foldable knife. Quinn had almost forgotten about the knife in his pocket. Unfortunately, it didn’t make him feel any better. He closed the car door and sprinted across the street, nestling against the corner of the first house on the northern side of Summerdale.
A quick glance around the corner told him he should have little trouble reaching the back of the SUV undetected. A line of dwarf palmettos in the next yard down extended to the sidewalk, blocking the occupants’ line of sight if he crawled. Tucking the gun into his waistband, he dropped to the dusty, rock-covered ground and low-crawled across the yard. By the time he reached the edge of the palmettos, his forearms and elbows were bleeding from the jagged terrain.
He peeked over the thick palm fronds at the sedan parked in the driveway two yards away. Slipping onto the sidewalk, he crawled around the edge of the palmettos and headed diagonally for the car. When the sedan blocked his view of the back of the SUV, he rose to a low crouch and sprinted the rest of the way. He arrived at the sedan and stopped, listening for a reaction. Nothing. Now for the riskiest part of his trip.
A tall palm stood next to the sidewalk, about ten feet behind the SUV. If he could reach it undetected, he should be able to slither along the curb, arriving behind the vehicle. Unfortunately, he needed to cross an open yard to get there, and there was no way to determine if the operative in the front passenger seat was paying close enough attention to the side mirror. Even in the darkness, he couldn’t miss Quinn sprinting from the car to the tree if he was looking in the mirror. There was only one way to find out.
He burst into the open, headed directly for the street. If he could put the tree between himself and the mirror, he stood a lower chance of being detected. Halfway across the barren yard, the SUV’s motor roared to life. Shit. That could only mean one thing. They were making a move against Fisher.
Quinn took a chance and ran directly for the SUV—hoping its occupants would be too preoccupied by their imminent business with Fisher to notice his approach. He barreled past the thick palm trunk and ran diagonally for the back of the black Suburban. Crouched behind the bumper, he struggled to get his breath under control, while deciding the best course of action to neutralize the SUV. After a few seconds of deliberation, he concluded there was no best course of action—only the least shitty one.
He grabbed his phone and activated the screen, pressing “SEND.” There was no going back now.
“This is fucking crazy,” he muttered, burying the phone in his pocket and crawling under the bumper.
He scraped along the pavement until he felt the rear right tire. Sliding his right hand back,
he dug the knife out of his pocket and flicked it open. He pushed the tip into the right rear tire’s sidewall, invoking a loud hiss. Still breathing heavily, Quinn shoved it a little farther, working the blade back and forth to create a bigger opening. The SUV would be equipped with run-flat tires, so his goal was to activate the tire-pressure monitoring system and draw one of the occupants out of the vehicle.
Before he could pull the knife out of the tire, one of the car doors opened. He peered through the darkness, watching the ground on each side of the vehicle with his peripheral vision. A pair of boots hit the sidewalk on the passenger side, pausing momentarily before starting toward the back of the SUV. Quinn scrambled backward along the pavement, until he cleared the bumper. Rising slowly, he pressed against the left side of the bumper, holding the gun in his left hand—and the baton in his right.
“Here we go,” he whispered, sliding toward the opposite side of the Suburban’s tailgate.
Quinn extended his left hand and the side of his face beyond the edge of the SUV and searched for his target. In the blackness, he saw a human’s shadow walking along the curb in his direction. Unable to immediately determine if his target wore heavy body armor, he aimed for the man’s face and pressed the trigger. A crack broke the silence as the projectile left the barrel at subsonic speed and spanned the distance in a fraction of a second—dropping the man to his knees.
Without pausing, Quinn extended the baton and stepped into the open. Three sharp baton strikes to his target’s unprotected head rendered the man twitching on the sidewalk. Quinn paused long enough to pocket the baton and retrieve the disabled operative’s weapon, a Heckler and Koch MP-20, fitted with an integral suppressor.
The MP-20 was HK’s latest model of compact assault weapon, chambered for body-armor-piercing, caseless ammunition. This wasn’t a simple surveillance team by any stretch of the imagination. He slid the MP-20s over his right shoulder and leveled the CEW at the door, staying below the windows.
“Ragan,” hissed the driver, “we need to get moving.”
Quinn leaned into the open door and fired, striking the driver’s night-vision goggles a half inch above his exposed face. The projectile ricocheted off the device’s frame, striking the windshield with a thunk. The driver reacted faster than he expected, slamming the CEW into the passenger seatback with his right hand. Quinn panicked and pressed the trigger, discharging his last projectile. He let go of the plastic pistol and pulled his arm back before the operative could grab it.
The driver cursed and thrust Quinn’s left arm between the front seats. Quinn raised the MP-20 and disengaged the safety without thinking, pressing the trigger twice. The first shot passed through the driver’s head, shattering the driver’s-side window and splattering it with blood. The second 5.7mm projectile penetrated his neck, spraying the windshield.
Quinn stepped back and stared at the mess inside the SUV, questioning what he’d done. Could they be police? He’d just assumed they were some kind of assassination team. Watching the man bleed out onto the dashboard, he wasn’t so sure anymore. A crashing sound drew his gaze from the pulsing arterial spray to the house across the street. Shit. Fisher and his family were making a racket in the backyard.
He opened the rear passenger door and searched for the driver’s weapon, finding a loaded MP-20 in a horizontally mounted rack. A quick search of the incapacitated operative on the sidewalk yielded six additional thirty-round magazines for the MP-20s. He slung the extra rifle over his shoulder and closed the door, stepping toward the front of the SUV.
Three shadows emerged from the darkness between the two houses across the street moments after he peered over the hood. It was too soon to be the Fishers. He’d just sent the message. Quinn rested the MP-20 on the vibrating hood and found the first darkened figure in the rifle’s light-intensifying sight. What the fuck? It actually was Fisher.
A snap passed over his head, a bullet thunking into the house behind him. Through the rifle sight, he searched beyond the stucco wall between the two houses. A man stood on the back wall of the property, tracking the family with a suppressed rifle. Quinn centered his sight’s green dot on the man’s face and pressed the trigger, knocking him off the wall. A flash erupted from another point on the wall, followed by loud thumps and cracks against the SUV. Time to go.
CHAPTER 32
Nathan Fisher stopped halfway across the front yard, spreading his arms in a futile attempt to shield his family. A shadowy figure, mostly concealed behind the SUV’s hood, aimed a weapon at them. How careless. He’d tripped over a wheelbarrow in his neighbor’s backyard and had stumbled right into their guns. He should have taken his chances with the police. A crack exploded above his head, spurring him to grab Keira and their son and pull them toward Giraldo Avenue. Toward Quinn—if he was still alive.
A second crack echoed between the houses, followed by a muffled grunt from the yard behind him. A burst of muffled gunfire followed, hitting the SUV. He couldn’t process what was happening in the dark, so he kept pulling his family across the neighboring yard. It was the only thing he could do for them at this point. He glanced to the left and saw the shooter reappear behind the SUV.
“Nathan!” the man yelled.
“Get down and stay down,” said Nathan, pushing Keira and his son behind a two-foot-high paver wall lining the home’s driveway.
When he peeked over the top of the wall a second later, the man was running full speed in their direction—waving his arms like a lunatic.
“Nathan. It’s Quinn!” the man said. “Keep your family moving. We don’t have much time!”
“Quinn? How the hell?” He rose up slowly, motioning for his family to stay down.
“Let’s go!” hissed the man, barely recognizable in the dark.
The guy took off for Giraldo Avenue, crossing the street before pausing in a crouch.
“Get the fuck moving! I promised your dad I’d get you out of here!”
It was Quinn. They still had a chance.
“It’s really him,” he said, pulling his son up. “We have to move fast, Owen. Can you keep up?”
“I can do it,” said Owen, his voice trembling.
Nathan wasn’t so sure. Owen had slowed them down crossing the neighbor’s yard, the overstuffed backpack weighing him down.
“Go,” said Nathan, spurring them into motion.
Owen climbed over the paver and started running toward Quinn, struggling with the pack. Keira deliberately slowed her pace to stay by his side.
“You can move faster than us,” Nathan told her. “Catch up with Quinn.”
“I’m not leaving you and Owen.”
“At least get on the other side of me.”
“I’m right where I want to be,” she said, keeping herself between their son and the threat.
Halfway across the street, Nathan muttered a curse. Owen wasn’t moving fast enough with close to thirty pounds on his back.
“Owen,” he said, “drop your pack.”
“Right now?” asked Owen, huffing from effort.
“Right now. Drop it and run.”
Owen disconnected his chest strap and slid his arms under the shoulder straps, dropping the pack on the far side of the street and bursting ahead of Keira, no longer burdened by the weight. Nathan slowed to grab the dropped rucksack, but the sound of snapping bullets changed his mind. He followed his family to Quinn’s position behind a thick palm trunk.
“Where are you parked?” asked Nathan, panting.
“On Giraldo. A few cars down,” said Quinn, sliding next to him. “What the fuck happened back there?”
“The garage door opened by itself,” said Fisher. “We got the hell out of there.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Quinn. “They were coming to kill you. Keep moving.”
Nathan pounded the ground with his family, struggling to keep up with Quinn. Car tires squealed nearby, causing him to quicken the pace. Quinn sprinted ahead, dodging between two parked cars and racing across the stre
et. He yanked open the rear driver’s-side door of a jeep and turned back to meet Nathan and Keira halfway across Giraldo Ave.
“I want your wife and son in the backseat. Heads down,” said Quinn, pulling him next to the jeep. “Keira, you stay in the jeep with your son. Do not get out for any reason.”
Before Nathan could react, Quinn jammed one of the rifles into his chest, nearly knocking him off balance. His wife followed Owen into the jeep, slamming the door shut.
“I need you to use this,” said Quinn, pressing the rifle into him.
“I’m not familiar with this—”
“It works like the rest,” said Quinn, leaving the metal and polymer weapon in his hands. “Center the green dot on your target and pull the trigger. The safety is off.”
“I haven’t fired one of these in—”
Quinn yanked him off the street and dragged him between the back of the jeep and the steeply sloped hood of a mini-sedan. Two streets away to the south, a low, dark shape eased onto Giraldo Avenue. Holy shit!
“I saw a car,” said Nathan. “Lights were off.”
“I saw it, too,” said Quinn, pulling him onto the sidewalk. “Stay low.”
“What’s the plan?”
Quinn stared at him in the darkness for a moment. “Point and shoot at the vehicle when I tell you. You remember how to use one of these, right?”
Nathan cradled the rifle in his arms, pressing it into his right shoulder. He’d fired several combat rifles with his father at Camp Pendleton, using a variety of magnified and unmagnified rail-mounted optics. This weapon was shorter, with the magazine protruding from the pistol grip. More like a submachine gun than a rifle. Regardless of the design, it would work just like Quinn said. Point and shoot. He could do this.
“I’m good,” he said. “Are you sure these are enough?”
“They’ll do for now,” said Quinn. “You aim for the windshield; I’ll work on the tires. We just need to stop them.”
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 15