Exchange of Fire

by P. A. DePaul

  His brake lights flared to life as he turned into one end of his circular drive and continued to pull toward the opening garage that sat angled to conform to the curve. Just another aspect of his house she loved outside of the peaceful beauty and the fact that he made it a home.

  She tapped a sequence into the buttons on a universal garage door opener and captured his signal’s frequency. Now they had a way in if they ever needed it.

  Outside lights, along with a few spread throughout the rooms inside, burned brightly, obviously on timers. She buzzed her window down and stared wistfully at the welcome they beckoned. Her heart pumped painfully. She wished she still had the right to accept the invitation.

  After watching the right door of the two-car garage seal shut, she put the Jeep in gear and entered his driveway. She needed to see if his house was safe. Might as well get the confrontation over with now.

  Chapter 39

  Grady threw his wet polo shirt into the washing machine and braced his arms against the cold metal edge. Exhaustion pulled at him, making him regret his attempt to get any sleep last night. Maybe if he had kept himself busy, the confrontation with Talon yesterday afternoon would’ve stayed buried instead of replaying over and over. When he had managed to silence the prick in his head, mental videos of Sandra throughout the past four months had played front and center. By the time he rolled out of bed this morning, his anger had ebbed to irritation pumping through his limping heart.

  All day, despite the injustice, he found himself listening to Talon’s words and finding bits of the Sandra he had come to love buried in the message. Her latching on to that miserable bastard and showering him with respect and love she must have instinctively known he desperately needed . . . well, Grady had witnessed her doing that at Gradwick too. Some of the kids hanging out in the arcade had nowhere else to go, and no one seemed to care about them either. Except for him and Sandra, and she took their neglect seriously. And gaining the loyalty and bond from a bunch of trained killers? Not easy, but she had managed to do just that with this team. So much so, they all came running the second they heard she was still alive, obviously walking off a job. And the things they said at the cabin—damn. He didn’t want to sympathize or understand, but he couldn’t help the tug at his heart. To walk away from everything and start over—

  The front doorbell chimed.

  Shit. He wasn’t expecting company at this time of night. A variation of the stupid line from A Christmas Carol scrolled through his head: Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one. He definitely needed more sleep.

  He swung the door open and instantly gripped the door handle until his palm protested the biting metal. Ghost indeed. After two days of being haunted by images, the real thing took his breath away. His heart actually leapt for joy before plummeting with reality. “What are you doing here?”

  Sandra’s irises darkened and she visibly swallowed hard. Her gaze swept from his messy hair to his sock-clad feet, then back up, focusing on his now bare chest.

  His ego and libido loved the smoky desire radiating off her a little too much. He crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow. Damn it, why am I flexing?

  She lifted her chin, and a glint he had learned over the months to be her brazen-it-out-’til-you-get-your-way stole over her hazel irises. “I need to do a sweep of the house. Make sure no one’s hiding to get you.”

  Grady snorted. “I don’t need you to peek under my bed for monsters. I’m capable of checking myself.”

  Her jaw thrust out. “It will only—”

  The wood beside his head splintered. A rash of slivers imbedded in his neck and shoulder.

  “Oomph.” The air expelled from his lungs as the back of his head slammed against the hardwood floor. One hundred thirty pounds of solid muscle tackled him, landing on top of his ribs.

  He blinked and spied three bullet holes dotting the drywall and door frame. Shit!

  He scrambled backward on his elbows, cursing his socked feet for slipping against the wood. His bare skin and drenched jeans clung to the floor, making it harder for him to move.

  Sandra wrapped his chest tight and pushed, driving him back as she lifted her ass and found traction with her tennis shoes.

  The lamp his mother had given him toppled off the small table resting beside the front door. The base shattered and the lightbulb blew, throwing the area into shadows.

  More bullets whizzed past and she wheezed, “Almost there,” still heaving them straight back.

  Like a dumbass he continued to allow her to use her body as a shield.

  “Let me up,” he bit out just as a bullet slammed into the floor where his leg had just been.

  Motherfucker! No sound outside echoed to warn him of the shots.

  She let go and he jammed his shoulder blades against the three-foot-wide side of the stone fireplace partition. He ripped the Beretta he hadn’t stop carrying since Saturday night out of its holster and crouched to get as small as possible. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream, reminding him of his combat days. Except then he’d had on full body armor, not just a pair of wet jeans and socks.

  She inserted herself between his legs and crowded against him. His free arm instantly went around her shoulder, pulling her in. Goddamn it, he shouldn’t be noticing how right this felt or contemplating burying his nose in her hair.

  Two more bullets ripped through the cathedral-height, floor-to-ceiling windows; one exploded the glass front of the curio cabinet in the alcove beside him. Shards tore his arm and pieces imbedded into his skin. The other bullet toppled a dining room chair, blowing a hole through the lattice-woven back.

  “Grady!” Sandra shouted over the concussive noise of the constant barrage plucking his nerves.

  He flinched as another bullet burst through the window and scraped against the stone fireplace before ricocheting into the floating island in the kitchen.

  “We need to get away from those windows,” she yelled.

  “I know,” he gritted, annoyed she thought him a complete moron. “Bottom half of this house is stone; he can’t shoot through that.”

  She fidgeted and twisted and he held back a groan. Her rubbing against his hardening groin didn’t help him keep a clear mind. She finally pulled out an old flip-style cell phone. She covered her other ear and shouted into the mouthpiece, “Cappy, Mars targeted Grady. We’re at his house.”

  “Me?” he shouted as another bullet destroyed a third dining room chair. He convulsively gripped her tighter. “You think he’s here for me? He could’ve followed you here.”

  Sandra shot him a don’t-be-stupid look, then yelled, “Check,” into the phone. “Don’t crash the motorcycle. It’s bad out there.”

  Grady jerked, sucking in a breath. His neck and bicep burned from shards of fireplace stone now planted into his body. Son of a bitch! This bastard needed to pay for making him wear his goddamn house.

  “Talon,” Sandra shouted.

  Grady growled, aiming over her shoulder at the front door. Empty except for the rain ruining the small area rug leading into the half bathroom beside the foyer.

  “Mars is at Grady’s.” She paused, pressing her hand to her ear. “He’s got us pinned at the moment.” Pause. “No,” she snapped. “Cappy said for you to keep Ted away.”

  Another pause. She placed the tips of her fingers against his collarbone and leaned up, peering over Grady’s shoulder.

  He exerted his aching muscles and forced her center again. A bullet ripped through the window and cracked the porcelain sink in the bathroom. She settled, and every sensor in his skin enjoyed the friction of her clothing pressing up against him.

  “Right,” she answered. “Cappy took your bike. He’s headed this way. Gotta go.” She slapped the phone shut and dropped it into her purse, then lifted her chin, which put her mouth just inches from his. Too tempting, too soon, too everything.

  “We gotta move,” he barked, already sliding his back up the fireplace; he needed distance. Adrenaline, turmoil, and lust surgi
ng through his veins demanded action. Killing this bastard gave him a healthier outlet than the temporary satisfaction of an empty orgasm and the long list of questions it would raise afterward.

  “Cappy’s on his way,” Sandra announced, pulling a throat mic and earpiece out of her bag and fitting it into place.

  “Bully for him,” Grady barked, eyeing his options. “If we don’t get out of here, that sniper’s going to pick us off eventually.”

  The open front door beckoned like a siren, but he had nothing between it and his position to protect them.

  “Garage,” they both said at the same time.

  “What the hell kind of specialties do the others on your team have?” he asked, tucking three fingers in front of his chest and beginning the countdown.

  “Why?”

  After he reached one, they both ran. Bullets exploded the furniture and appliances around them, lodging into the walls and floor. Frying pans and pots squealed and clanged as the projectiles tore through the rack mounted over the floating island. His coffeepot shattered, and the small TV on the corner of the counter sparked, then toppled over.

  He dove forward and knocked into the cabinets lining the outside wall. “Because they may come in handy right now.”

  Sandra slid to a stop beside him and yelled over the barrage of firepower now destroying the kitchen, “You already know I was the sniper; Talon’s infiltration, Romeo’s explosives, Magician’s disguises, and Cappy’s strategy.”

  He rapped the back of his head against the wood. “Damn. Doesn’t help us in the least.”

  She fished in her purse and pulled out that goddamned knife, fitting her fingers into the knuckles. Snatches of seducing information out of her about the weapon inappropriately flashed through his head.

  “We’re all one hundred percent lethal. Don’t count us out yet.”

  Joy. He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, rail, or kiss the little Rambette holding up the knife like she could deflect the assassin’s bullets with it. The spark of fire alighting from her eyes sucked him in with another reminder of the woman he knew prior to all this. The woman who wouldn’t back down from an employee’s challenge, and in most cases won. A true badass, he now learned, who could back up her words with action—that made him hot. To keep his heart from sapping any more, he purposefully asked, “What’s your real name?”

  Her head snapped up and she searched his face.

  He tried not to show her anything while the chaos reigned around them.

  “The minute I signed on with SBG, I lost my real name,” she answered, then ducked. The glass from the kitchen window above the sink showered over them.

  He shook it off, trying not to swipe at it so he wouldn’t embed pieces into his skin. “What’s SBG? What do you mean you lost your real name? Your parents—”

  She held up a hand and pressed the other against her earpiece. “Yeah, Cappy, I can hear you. You’re in range.”

  A flash of annoyance sliced through him, adding to the emotional stew he already had stirring. He needed to hear the conversation too.

  “He’s positioned in the trees behind the house,” she relayed.

  Her eyes cut to Grady, and he spotted the uncertainty before she glanced away.

  What were they up to?

  The rack holding the pots finally broke free of the chains. It slammed onto the island’s granite before crashing to the tile.

  How much ammunition did this guy bring?

  Through all the noise and constant bullets, he missed what her response to the CO had been.

  He yelped at the sudden weight pushing a piece of glass farther into his arm.

  “Sorry!” Sandra yelled, yanking her hand away. “Cappy asked for you to stay here while we hunt for Mars.”

  “No fucking way.” He latched on to her wrist.

  She winced and he loosened his grip.

  “Where you go, I go. That bastard’s shooting at me too and destroying my house in order to take you out. That entitles me to be in on the search.”

  Regret and pity flashed across her face. Pity? Oh, hell no. What the fuck did he do to have her pity him?

  He press checked his gun. A slice of silver winked at him. Ready to go. “Don’t expect me to meekly follow you either. You got an extra set of hardware in that purse?” He motioned toward her earpiece and throat mic.

  She sighed, muttering something about knowing he’d act like this.

  Whatever.

  She rooted inside her bag and thrust a set toward him.

  Satisfied, he smiled and said with false gaiety, “I remember what happened the last time I let you go first, but I’m trusting you won’t pull the same stunt again.” He signaled with the Beretta to remind her he was armed and ready this time. “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 40

  Sandra stayed low while Grady hastily tied the boots he’d left sitting by the garage door. Mars still fired at the house, though the hail of bullets had slowed.

  Grady rocked forward, plucking a raincoat off a hook and jamming his arms inside. Her insides quivered like a teenage girl at the change from businessman to imposing warrior. The sight of the throat mic and earpiece almost did her in, and she just barely stopped her lurch forward to seal her mouth on his.

  “You’re going to need something better than that knife.”

  Cold water wouldn’t have cooled her libido faster than his statement. “Don’t let Talon hear you say that,” she quipped, guessing the direction of his statement.

  His jaw hardened and he jerked up from his crouch. He snatched an oblong fabric case off a utility shelf and almost broke the zipper yanking on it.

  She swallowed and clutched her dragon pendant. Blood pounded past her ears, making it hard to hear. No. No. No, she whispered, unable to stop him from flicking the case open.

  “If your lapdog’s bragging is accurate, and you’re the best damn sniper he’s ever seen . . .” He pulled a double-barrel 410 shotgun out of the case and clicked the lever to the side.

  Sandra flinched at the snap of the barrels rotating downward, exposing two empty holes to load with bullets.

  He opened a small box and pulled out two red-and-gold cartridges. “. . . then handling this should be no problem and more comfortable than a handgun.” He fit a shell into each barrel and thrust the still open shotgun toward her.

  Bile filled her mouth, making her choke. She shook her head, rubbing the three-headed dragon.

  He stood and stepped over the case. “It may not be the modified Remington you’re used to, but it’ll do the job.”

  “No.” She trembled violently, fighting images of the fourteen-year-old falling to her death as blood spread across her chest. Sweat enveloped her skin, turning icy as she stared at the shotgun. “I can’t.”

  Grady’s face shuttered. “You can’t go out in those woods unarmed. Uh-uh.” He cut off her protest. “That knife is no match against a long-range rifle, and you know it.”

  “It’s time, Wraith. Take the shotgun.” Cappy’s voice filled her earpiece. “Grady’s right.”

  He thrust it at her again. “We need to move.”

  She took the gun from him and spots dotted her vision. The thing was heavier than it looked. Not a good combination with her slick palms.

  “See that button?” He pointed to a piece of silver metal behind the lever. “Slide it up to release the safety.”

  She fit the shotgun over her left arm, just above the double triggers, and cradled it.

  “Let’s go,” Grady said, taking his Beretta off the utility shelf where he had placed it.

  Her stomach rolled and her hands shook, but she snapped the barrels closed. Shotgun shells did not handle water well.

  As she stepped through the door, a waterfall poured over her, and she whipped her face down to escape the deluge from the corner gutter.

  “Gotta fix that,” Grady muttered beside her, pulling the side door closed.

  She winced, trying not to whimper at the bruised ribs from the gear
shift during Sunday’s attempt and all the glass and wood lodged into her skin from this attempt. She crept forward and blinked back an onslaught of tears. A piercing burn stabbing across her shoulder blade radiated outward, numbing her arm and making her suck in a breath.

  On the one hand, that blinding pain made the image of the little girl’s face go away, but on the other, it made gripping the shotgun safely almost impossible.

  Shake it off. Do your job.

  Mars had stopped firing, not that you could hear the report of bullets through the suppressed attachment on his rifle, but the sudden silence from inside the house caused chills to race along her skin.

  “Cappy,” she whispered, “Mars stopped shooting. We’re on the move.”

  “Grady,” Cappy responded. “How many acres are yours?”

  “Three and a half. About an acre on each side of the house and one in the back,” Grady responded softly. “Neighbor behind me has the same configuration.”

  “So we’ve got two acres of woods to flush him out,” Cappy answered. “Got it. I parked the bike under a copse of trees about a mile up to cut down on the noise. I’ll be entering the woods from behind you in another minute. We’ll sandwich him in.”

  Grady had shut off the spotlights surrounding the house, helping them to blend in to the darkness. The rain actually worked in their favor, distorting their movements as it cascaded down.

  “Remember, guys,” Grady whispered, following her to the edge of his back deck, “the neighbors will ignore one gunshot, possibly two, since that’s not unheard of in the mountains, but more than that, they’ll call the cops.”

  “Check,” Cappy acknowledged. “I’m going silent.”

  Sandra studied the open area in front of them. A large steel grill sat to one side, surrounded by twenty feet of open area. Beyond that, trees full of green leaves began.

  “We’ll act as a distraction, Cappy,” Sandra whispered. “He’s already seen us, but I doubt he knows about you.”