Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  “I’m fine.”

  Her hand found mine again. “Okay. Just making su-” Her sentence was interrupted by an expansive yawn, stifled on the back her hand. She winced at the end of it, hand going to her chest.

  “Ow. That did not feel good at all.”

  I was on my feet before I realized it. “Want me to get a nurse?”

  She fluttered a hand, shaking her head. “No, no. It’s not that bad. I’m just tired, and I think my pain meds are wearing off. I hate to do this, but I should probably take another dose. Whatever they’re giving me, it’s strong. I doubt I’ll be awake for much longer.”

  I sat back down and clasped my hands together. “Okay. Listen, before I go I want to ask you something.”

  “All right.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She thought it over before answering. “I’m not sure. What would you have done if I hadn’t made it?”

  My voice came out like ground glass. “I would have hunted him down.”

  Liz nodded. “Just out of curiosity, what makes you so sure it was Tanner?”

  “Do you remember what was carved into Sean Montford’s back? Garrett. Dragonfly. Two graves. There is no way anyone else could have known the name of the operation. Only Rocco, Tolliver, Tanner, and the investigating agents knew that.”

  “It couldn’t be one of them?”

  “I sincerely doubt it. What would be the motive?”

  She considered it, and finally shook her head. “I suppose you’re right. Still, you shouldn’t just assume it was Tanner. Like Walter always says: pursue the evidence, but make no assumptions.”

  I opened my mouth to disagree, but stopped. In all honesty, she had a point. Assumptions had a nasty way of getting people killed. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. Now are you going to answer my question?”

  “I thought I did.”

  “You’re not Socrates. You don’t get to answer a question with another question. I say again: what do you want me to do?”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  I hissed a breath through my nose and glared.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “You’re the super-soldier secret agent. I’m just a small town mayor. You tell me.”

  “I think I should go after him. He might be satisfied with his revenge, or he might not be. He might try something like this again, especially if he finds out you’re still alive.”

  She tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Is that the only reason?”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said, not bothering with a denial. “I want to punish him for what he did to you.”

  “Gabe, I don’t want you getting yourself killed trying to avenge me. Maybe you should just let Sheriff Elliott deal with it.”

  “He’s not trained to handle someone like Tanner. Even if he does manage to find him, which he won’t, Tanner will make mincemeat out of him. I’m one of a very few people in the world skilled enough to take him down.”

  Liz sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands. “It sounds to me like you already made up your mind.”

  “I won’t go if you tell me not to.”

  She laughed, throwing her hands in the air. “And if I do that, what will it do to you? I know you, Gabriel. You’ll never feel right about it. It will eat at you, and eat at you, until you get so filled up with anger you won’t know what to do with yourself. No, Gabe. I won’t tell you not to go. If I’m honest, there is a very large part of me that hopes you find the son of a bitch and you kill him. But there is an even bigger part that hopes you don’t.”

  I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll find him. Don’t worry about that. And when I do, I’ll make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

  She grabbed my face and kissed me, hands slowly caressing my cheeks. “Just be careful, Gabe. Come back to me.”

  “Count on it.”

  There was a knock at the door, and a nurse with a vial and a needle came in. “Mayor Stone? It’s time for your medicine.”

  “I was just leaving,” I said, and turned to walk out the door.

  “Gabe?”

  I stopped and turned.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too, Elizabeth. I’ll be back soon.”

  I left the clinic and headed for the armory.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Eight years ago,

  New York City

  Connor Hughes and his goons came around the corner like a herd of buffalo, showing no concern for what might be waiting for them. As a result, it took them almost a full second to spot me hiding behind the urn.

  It was all the time I needed.

  Hughes was the biggest threat, so he died first. My little pistol clanked twice, and a pair of thirty-eight grain lead projectiles entered his skull at nine-hundred feet per second. His body went rigid, seizing up before it began to topple over. As he died, his trigger finger squeezed involuntarily, putting a nine-millimeter round through the foot of the man standing next to him. The man screamed, making the cardinal sin of dropping his weapon as he collapsed to the floor.

  It would have been easy to kill him right then, but he wasn’t the most dangerous target. There were still two armed, able-bodied thugs to worry about, both still recovering from the suddenness of the attack. I knew what they were feeling: the cold electric rush, the stopped breath, the deadened limbs, the hot tingling of the face, the shocked synapses struggling to process the sudden influx of information. I swear I heard their brains click the moment they realized that, in less than two seconds, I had reduced their fighting force by half. One of them switched his gaze from Hughes’ collapsing body the large, disheveled man pointing a gun at him. He had a fraction of a second to register alarm before I squeezed off another double tap.

  And then there was one.

  I couldn’t get a bead on him before he raised his weapon, so I did the next best thing—I moved. Even at close range, it is difficult to hit a moving target. I was gambling that because I was calm and he was jolted, my aim would be better. The gamble paid off when he squeezed the trigger and a burst of plaster erupted behind me, wide to the right. It was the only shot he had time for, and he missed.

  I didn’t.

  The last man, realizing that he was on his own, reached for his weapon. A swift kick to the base of the skull knocked him out, his outstretched hand just short of the pistol. I raised my gun and fired four times, using up the rest of the magazine. Two would have done the job, but there was no sense in taking on Hargreaves with only two rounds in the stack. Once I reloaded, I dragged the bodies down the hall and around the corner, out of sight.

  Just as I finished, Tolliver’s voice rattled my earpiece. “Garrett, how about a sitrep?”

  “Sorry, I’ve been kind of busy, here. Hughes and his men are taken care of.”

  “Where are the bodies?”

  I told him.

  “Good,” he replied. “I’ll send a cleanup team.”

  “Any sign of Silva?”

  “None. I think he may have fled the hotel.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Indeed. All right, time to finish this. What’s your plan?”

  “In these situations, I usually prefer the direct approach.”

  “Fine by me. Just be careful, that Hargreaves is a cagey fucker.”

  “Understood.”

  I ran down the hallway and around another corner where Rocco waited, weapon in hand. I stacked up on the other side of the door and took out a couple of flashbangs. “Here,” I said, handing them to him. “You throw, I’ll take point. Once we’re inside, I’ll stay low so you can lay down covering fire over my head.”

  “Works for me.”

  I checked my weapon one last time, and then took a deep breath. “Okay, on three.”

  Rocco counted off, and on three, he turned the door handle and tossed in the stun grenades. No sooner than the door opened than did a round ricochet off the metal frame just above his head sending Rocco duck
ing backward, snarling a curse.

  A second later, the flashbangs detonated, deafeningly loud in the narrow confines of the stairwell. I heard a pair of screams as Hargreaves and Villalobos were rendered temporarily blind and deaf. Pushing the door open, I hurried down the steps toward them, pistol raised, eyes searching. As I rounded the landing, I saw them. Villalobos was on his back, one hand raised defensively, eyes wide with terror. Hargreaves was on one knee, looking in my direction, blinking rapidly. I knew the effects of the flashbang would wear off quickly, especially on someone as highly trained as Hargreaves. There would be time for only one shot, so I had to make it count.

  The Ruger appeared in my line of sight, rear aperture lined up with the blade on the front of the barrel. I lifted my thumbs, let out half a breath, and focused on the front sight, putting it on Hargreaves’ right arm. Slowly, I squeezed the trigger, careful not to pull the gun one way or the other. When the shot surprised me, I knew I had done it right.

  Hargreaves snarled in shock and anger, gun clattering from nerveless fingers. The bullet had taken him through the deltoid and smashed into the shoulder joint, rendering his arm useless. Most people would have fallen down, unable to function through the pain.

  Hargreaves, however, was not most people.

  The ex-SAS commando reached down with his good hand, still trying to clear his vision. I shifted my aim and put another bullet into his right kneecap. This time, he went down.

  Rocco stayed close behind me as I descended the stairs, gun trained on Villalobos. “Don’t you fucking move, you little cunt,” he shouted. “I may have to take you alive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kneecap you.”

  I moved in, keeping my weapon aimed at Hargreaves’ head. His eyes had cleared enough that he could see me. They traveled to the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter lying on the stairwell next to his feet. I stepped up and kicked it down the stairs.

  “Huh-uh,” I said. “Don’t even think about it. I need the old man alive. You’re expendable.”

  Hargreaves glared daggers for a moment more, then let out a sigh. “Fuck you, you bloody wanker. Go on then, get it over with.”

  “Only if you misbehave.”

  The earpiece came to life again, startling me. I had forgotten that Tolliver was listening in.

  “Nicely done, gentlemen,” he said. “Extraction team is en route.”

  “What about Hargreaves,” I asked. “Do you want him alive, or what?”

  Tolliver was silent a few beats, considering. “Yes. Maybe he knows something we can use.”

  “Copy.”

  The door opened at the bottom of the stairs and two men dressed in porter’s uniforms climbed up, guns drawn. Neither one of them looked to be a day over twenty-five. I couldn’t help but wonder where the people at Langley did their recruiting.

  “Are these the targets, sir?” one of them asked, looking at me.

  “Affirmative. Let’s get them downstairs.”

  The two young men holstered their weapons and helped me drag Hargreaves down the stairs, cursing and spitting the whole way. Villalobos followed us with his hands on his head, Rocco’s pistol only inches from the back of his skull.

  At the bottom of the stairwell was an exit door with a big red handle that read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, ALARM WILL SOUND.

  “Hey Tolliver, has anyone shut off the alarm on this door?”

  “One moment,” he said. I heard the clattering of a keyboard. “And…done. All right, the extraction team is waiting. Make it quick, gentlemen. We’ve got a hell of a mess to clean up as it is. I don’t want you adding to it.”

  I kicked the door open and stepped outside, listening to Hargreaves make a few pointed comments about my lineage, upbringing, intelligence, and the dubious circumstances of my conception. To my right, barely six feet away from us, was a large black SUV, the rear hatch open and two men in suits standing by.

  “Come on,” I said. “Help us get them inside.”

  The two men moved, first seizing Villalobos and handcuffing him, then Hargreaves. Within seconds, both prisoners were restrained, gagged, black hoods cinched over their heads, and the taillights of the SUV fading from sight. When they were gone, Rocco and I looked at each other and spoke at the same time.

  “Tanner.”

  *****

  Tolliver tracked his GPS signal to an alley three blocks away.

  We found his clothes in a dumpster, along with his weapon, empty magazines, and a small plastic bag smeared with blood. The bag contained Tanner’s tracker, still smudged with gore, and was stapled to a piece of paper. On the paper was a note written in Tanner’s blood consisting of only two words.

  NICE TRY.

  “Motherfucker,” Rocco swore. “The son of a bitch cut it out of him.”

  I stood silently, watching the end of the alley. Behind me, a cleanup team was bagging the evidence and preparing to move out. Tolliver stood with them rattling off instructions and admonishing them to hurry. As the team finished up and drove away, Tolliver made his way over to us.

  “Well that was a clusterfuck,” he said, lighting a cigarette. I wrinkled my nose at the smell.

  “Would someone mind telling me just what the hell happened back there?” I said, glaring at Rocco. “This was supposed to be a simple snatch-and-grab, not a goddamn bloodbath.”

  My old friend closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Fucking Hargreaves, man. That’s what happened. Everything was going fine. We had the Citadel guy set up a meeting with a fund manager, just like you said. We showed up in the middle of it, pretended we were supposed to meet some other manager there. The fund guy says there must have been a mix up and leaves to make a call. Hargreaves is watching us the whole time like he’s about to jump. As soon as the civilians were out or the room, we moved. There were five of them, Hargreaves, Villalobos, and three guys that must have been mercs. I took out one of the mercs and double tapped Hargreaves right in the heart, nice and neat. The guy goes down. Tanner pops one of the other mercs, but the last one knocks the table over and starts shooting. Tanner draws his fire while I’m flanking, and the next thing I know I’m waking up. Turns out Hargreaves was wearing a vest. The two shots I took at him hit his piece; he couldn’t use it. Fucker popped me from behind, grabbed Villalobos, and ran for the door. Tanner tried to take him out, but he was out of ammo. We chased them into the hallway, and Hargreaves pulls a knife and kills his own security guy, takes his gun, and bolts for the stairwell. You were there for the rest. Now I got a question for you, you slack bastard. Was Renner as good a piece of ass as she looked? She must have been. You were with her for four fucking hours. Care to explain to me how a well-trained CIA operative like yourself can’t find an excuse to ditch a girl in a hotel room? If you had been there for the takedown, shit might not have gone sideways.”

  I glared angrily, fists clenched at my sides. At any other time I would have said something in my defense. But the truth was, Rocco was right. I could have just killed Renner and returned to assist with the mission. Or I could have spent an hour or two with her, then pretended I had to meet with someone and slipped out. But I didn’t. I let the wrong head do my thinking for me, and now Tanner was paying for it.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Tolliver broke in, sensing the tension. “There’s plenty of blame to go around, so let’s not waste time pointing fingers. The important thing is the mission was a success. Our people managed to get rid of all the bodies with the public none the wiser. We got Villalobos, and as we speak, he and Hargreaves are both getting a one-way, all expenses paid trip to sunny Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Missions don’t always go off without a hitch, gentlemen, and this was one of those times. Everyone did their jobs and we got what we came here for. Our job is to get results by any means necessary, and that’s what we did. End of story.”

  Rocco’s glare could have cut diamonds. “How about you tell that to Tanner’s family, huh?”

  “Tanner knew the risks,” Tolliver said flatly. “This isn’t the mi
nor leagues, gentlemen. You’re playing with the big boys. And in this game, you lose people. It happens. When it does, you count your losses and you move on. Unless, of course, you don’t have the stomach for it anymore.”

  Rocco glared a moment longer, then looked away. “Whatever. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

  “Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  Tolliver drove us to La Guardia and stopped his car in front of the departures terminal, then informed us that our plane tickets and government IDs were in the glove box. “Get some rest,” he said to both of us. “Your payment will be wired to your accounts by tomorrow morning. I’ll have more work for the two of you very soon, assuming you’re interested.”

  “Count me in,” I said, taking my plane ticket.

  Rocco left the car without a word.

  We walked together as we passed through security and proceeded to our gates, a withdrawn silence hanging between us. When it came time to part ways, Rocco’s flight headed for Florida and mine to DC, he reached out a hand.

  “I wish I could say it’s been nice working with you again, Wolfman.”

  I smiled at the old nickname. “Same to you.”

  He returned my smile briefly as we shook hands, then gave me a mock salute and walked away.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I would see him again a few months later. Except instead of teaming up for a mission, I would be flat on my back in a hospital bed, and it would be the end of my career with the CIA.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sheriff Elliott was waiting for me on the wall.

  The old man had developed a knack for knowing where to look for me, as if he knew what I was going to do before I did it. Rather than search for me, he simply went to where he thought I might show up next and waited. You can argue with a lot of things, but you can’t argue with results.

  There was a thermos in his hand, and I caught the scent of herbal tea as he raised it in greeting. I nodded to him as I approached. “Morning.”