Now was the time to put that first-aid class to use. Maddie turned back to face the farmhouse, her one chance to save Jameson gone and another man to rescue. What to do now? Rescue two guys? Two big men? She could almost hear Jameson telling her, “Well, yeah! One step at a time, Maddie. That’s how we get the tough jobs done. You can do this. I have faith.”
“I sure hope you’re right.” Before she could move him, she needed to patch the hole in Mr. Vlad’s side. With what? There was nothing clean enough in this barn except—her clothes. Even they were sweaty and smelled of smoke. But okay, then. Another decision made.
She unbuttoned what had once been her own crisp white shirt and laid it on Mr. Vlad’s wide chest. Turning her back on him, she slipped out of her white padded bra. It was the cleanest thing around. It would have to do. Still facing away, she put her shirt back on and buttoned up.
Again, she called up other details from that long ago first-aid class. Mr. Vlad groaned a lot more this time, but after she’d cut her bra into small squares, Maddie used her fingertips to push just enough of it into his ugly bullet wound to stop most of the leakage. By the time she was through, she was desperate for a good long cry. Her nerves were shot, and she wasn’t sure anything she’d done would save either Mr. Vlad or Jameson. But plugging the hole wasn’t good enough. That much she knew. For Mr. Vlad to live, she had to make sure those bits of bra didn’t pop out.
He reached out and patted her arm, then stroked it almost affectionately, as if telling her, ‘Good girl.’
“You’ll live now,” she told him in case he didn’t know. “But I need to cut your shirt off to use it for a bandage. I won’t cut you, I promise. Hold very, very still.”
His chest heaved and he stroked her arm again. He certainly seemed to have a lot of faith in her. Glad someone did.
“Well, okay then.” She blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Let’s do this.”
Breathing through pursed lips to slow her rising panic, Maddie lifted the fabric away from his chest, then slipped the blade of her knife into his shirt. Pop, pop, pop went those tiny shirt buttons as she made quick work of removing as much of the cotton material as she could reach. The blade was extra sharp, so she was extra careful. At last, she had enough material. She cut the pieces into long strips, then tied them into one long bandage.
He’d need real medical care soon, and he’d get it. She’d make sure of that. Okay then. If a blind man who couldn’t see his hand in front of his face had faith in a scaredy-cat woman with wide-opened eyes, she could get Mr. Vlad to safety. Then, she’d come back, start the barn on fire, and rescue Jameson.
It took a bit getting Mr. Vlad upright and sitting, but he seemed as eager to get away from Shade and her murderous friends as Maddie was. He assisted as much as he could in getting his shirt wrapped around his chest, then tied off to hold her makeshift bandage in place.
“OhGodOhGodOhGod, that was really scary,” she muttered to herself, wishing her heart beat would slow down. But I did it, by heck. I just saved this guy’s life. Getting him on his feet took more effort. Maddie knew she was hurting him, but he seemed made of the same stuff as Jameson. Pure determination. She just wished he’d hurry a little faster. Jameson needed her, too, and any minute now, he’d create a diversion. She needed to be ready to jump into action then.
Mr. Vlad stumbled along until, at last, she had him flat on his back in the limo’s spacious rear seat. Maddie folded his long legs inside, then carefully, silently, closed the door. In seconds, she was behind the wheel again, and they were on their way.
Maddie drove extra slowly out of the barn, along the long, dirt driveway, away from the farmhouse, until finally, she hit pavement. Less than a half-mile down the road, she veered to the left onto another dirt path that obviously hadn’t been used, it was so full of weeds. The path took her through dusty brush, thick grass, and short, spindly trees. Sumac, she thought as she steered a hard right and came to a gentle stop. At last the long, elegant car was out of sight from the road.
Mr. Vlad was either asleep, unconscious, or dead by then, but, short of leaving Jameson behind, she’d done all she could. Scared to death he might already be dead, she ran like the wind, backtracking with her meager arsenal to burn the barn down. The night was dark, but there was just enough ambient light to keep her headed in the right direction. Past all those flat tires and into the deep, dark shadowy barn she raced, her pulse a pounding, throbbing beast in her chest, making it harder and harder to catch a breath. Finally, at the haystack piled at the far wall, with the tire iron at her side, she dropped to her knees and prayed this crazy plan worked.
A single BOOM from the house snapped her head up. God, she hoped that was Jameson’s signal. There was no longer a choice. She had to act now! As if he were standing right there beside her, his other encouraging words flashed to mind. I like that you’re willing to fight for our lives.
“I’m sure trying,” she told him, her heart pounding so hard that her chest felt ready to explode. She flicked the lighter’s igniter wheel, but her fingers were trembling, and she was breathing too hard, and she blew the tiny flame out the second it sprang to life.
“OhGodOhGodOhGod, help me.” She’d just managed another spark when—
BLAM, BLAM, BOOM! Jameson was in trouble!
Hurry, hurry, hurry! Into the hay went that little, orange spark and—
WHOOSH!
“Oh, crap!” The entire pile of hay ignited into one huge, hungry fireball. Without taking a breath, it leaped straight up into the wooden timbers of the loft overhead, its wicked tendrils jumping from one rafter to another as if they were in a race. Another hissing whoosh sent sparks flying in all directions. She’d created a monster fireworks show that had morphed from a tiny spark into an out-of-control inferno. Even now, long, crackling tongues of fire licked at the roof overhead. The single, tiny flame from a gas station convenience store was igniting every speck of wood it touched. And some it didn’t.
Scared for her life and crab-crawling backward as fast as she could, Maddie scrambled out of the burning barn and made it between two parked cars just as the farmhouse door burst open.
Right on cue, some guy bellowed, “Fire!”
Good grief! She was on fire, too! Her pants were smoking. She patted her thighs and legs, smothering whatever sparks had gotten into the fabric, then she rolled to her knees for a fast getaway. She’d known fumes and dust were incendiary and could explode, seeing the power it held was another thing all together. She had no idea this old barn would burn that fast or so hot. Her face felt sunburned, and that lightning quick ignition had literally sucked the oxygen out of her lungs.
But it was done. No one had yet spotted the flat tires. Most of the guys were running around, looking for hoses. Mission accomplished. One man down. One to rescue. Maddie Bannister, the woman her father had never believed in, had, in fact, never heard or actually seen—not even once—through all her seventeen years living in his house, would rescue the man she cared about. Jameson said he’d wanted a date, well, tonight was that night.
“I’m c-c-coming,” she told him over the roar of the flames behind her, “and you’d better be ready to go when I g-g-get there.”
Chapter Eleven
Jameson turned himself into a radar dish, his senses unfurled like solar panels into the universe of sight and sound, soaking up every last nuance radiating off the men standing outside his door. They were here to kill him. He’d heard them coming, had even startled them with a shot from his pistol. Sure, it brought a shitload of trouble his way, but that was okay. He’d anticipated three shots, but had been surprised when one of those blasts came from a shotgun. That hollow core door was now splintered, and he knew he’d probably die in the next few minutes. But Maddie would live. She was all that mattered.
He’d been here before. Trapped. Outnumbered and outgunned. But he was a different man now. The tiniest smile flickered across his lips. As Walker Judge would
say, he had mad ninja skills. But all Jameson really had were two ears that knew how to listen better and quicker reflexes that he’d honed to strike true. Like a pool player knew how to angle his shots for maximum results, Jameson knew how to sense and anticipate movement, adjust momentum, and counterattack. It didn’t hurt that Lucy Shade had probably told these guys that he was just some ‘blind guy.’ Big, tough guys weren’t afraid of blind guys. But they should be.
He waited for Delaney’s men behind the concrete wall to the left of the none-existent door. He was ready, had counted the three sets of heavy boots that pounded down the stairs. He knew these guys were operating with plenty of light, while he was consigned to total darkness. But they weren’t quiet, and he wasn’t stupid. He could smell them and the beer they’d been drinking. He knew precisely how close they were to breaching the already shattered doorway. A bow wave of body odor, cigarette stink, and cheap aftershave had preceded them. The closer they came, the stronger the stench. They meant to assassinate him. He meant to let them think they could.
His nostrils flared as the acrid scent of fire and ash drifted into the basement. Before this standoff, he’d heard some guy yell, “Fire!” Either one of Delaney’s men was an idiot and had started the blaze that had taken everyone outside, or someone else was on the property. Hopefully, The TEAM. It’d be a shame to die on his first day of work.
For now, Jameson stood stock-still with his body angled sideways and his head cocked. The guys outside his door would soon charge in and kill him, but not before he took out one or two of them. Three’d be better. It was the guys outside the farmhouse who were the problem. Whether he killed these goons or not, by the time the rest of Delaney’s men came running, he’d be out of ammo. So he waited and listened as those boots advanced. One cautious step after another until—
He jumped into their view and fired quick successive shots through the bullet-ridden door. Jameson heard one killer groan. To his right, a big body connected with a wet splat on what sounded like a damned hard wall. Something grated like leather against granite until it hit the floor. Relying on nothing but sheer instinct, Jameson charged through the splintered hollow core, brought his fist up, and punched the only killer standing in the throat. He’d aimed, hopefully, for the guy’s face, but blind men couldn’t be choosers. He took what he got. Number Three gurgled and went down like a bag of wet concrete mix.
By then, Jameson was sure he’d eliminated Numbers Two and Three. But Number One had climbed to his feet again and was coming up behind Jameson. He was the jerk with the shotgun. Jumping sideways to avoid what would be a life-ending shot, Jameson crouched into a squat and swept his dominant leg forward. Contact. The guy went down with a profanity laced curse. Which was all Jameson needed to know, precise location and distance. Like he’d been trained, he sent another well-placed kick. This time, he connected with the killer’s face. He heard the guy’s nose crunch and the spin as the shotgun flew. Jameson picked it out of the air on its downward arc. Spinning the butt end of the weapon into his chest, he pointed the barrel where Number One crouched. Jameson fired. The battle was won. Three assholes down. Righteous kills, all of them. Now for the others.
Quickly, he scavenged what the dead men had brought to the fight. Two pistols and a high-capacity, double-barreled, bullpup pump action, twelve-gauge shotgun. He jerked the nylon ammo bag of shotgun shells from the guy he’d killed last. Slick with blood, but still a sweet reward. When he was through, he had a total of six loaded mags for the pistols and a nearly full fourteen-round magazine for the shotgun. Backing into the nearest corner, he sank to his ass on the floor and swiftly reloaded all weapons. The shotgun would be his first line of defense. It went across his knees. The pistols and their specific mags went into a straight line he could reach without wasting time fumbling. He was ready.
Until he heard a lighter tread coming down the stairs and headed his way. Step by cautious step. Ever so slowly. Could that be Lucy Shade? Jameson didn’t want to kill a woman, even though she was behind the kidnapping. Taking a deep breath, he stood and waited for a clue that would tell him who he was up against.
His nose flared at the lovely scent he’d thought he’d never smell again. “Maddie?” he asked as he stepped forward. “What are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be gone.”
She nearly bowled him over. “I couldn’t leave you! I came back to save you,” she said breathlessly, burrowing into his side and under his arm. “C-come on, Jameson! We have to g-g-go right now.”
Damn. She’d seen the bodies and gore. Might even have seen him kill that last guy. He curled her inside his arm, confused as to why she was there, yet so damned relieved she was alive. His senses surged out from him like a hearing-seeing-feeling sonar wave. Instant data poured back. More heavy footsteps in the yard, coming his way. The thwack-thwack-thwack of a helo flying high overhead and, unfortunately, away. It would’ve been better if that helo was The TEAM coming to his rescue, but he suspected it was more likely Lucy Shade and Pops Delany getting away. Shit.
“It’s too late. We can’t leave now. They’re coming.”
“Hurry,” she cried, slipping one slender hand into his. “We can still make it. I have a car.”
“Where?”
“Down the road with Mr. Vlad.”
“Who’s Mr. Vlad?”
“The other guy I saved. Come on, Jameson. We can make it.”
Other guy? “Wrong, Maddie. We’re out of time.” He pulled her back into the corner, then positioned her behind him, as more of Delaney’s killers thundered down what sounded like a narrow flight of stairs. Thirteen steps to that staircase. A truly unlucky number, considering the incident had happened on the thirteenth of May, five years ago. This night just kept going from bad to worse.
Angry roars went up when the other six spotted their dead friends. Jameson focused on the vibration of all those soundwaves to locate his first two targets. A double-gauge came in handy when faced with mob violence, and the one in his hands could dispense fourteen rapid rounds. He cocked the lever and prepared to get ugly.
“Drop your weapons,” he ordered Delaney’s men.
“Aye, and then you shoot us in the face.” Sweet Baby Jesus. The top dog himself was here with his guys. “Face it, boyo. Me and my boys have you and your little girlfriend outnumbered. You’ll never get out of here alive.”
“Pops Delaney,” Jameson stated for the record. “I’m taking you in for kidnapping, racketeering, money laundering, extortion, tax fraud, and a shitload of other federal crimes. Hands up or die. Your choice.”
The air in the stuffy basement crackled with tension and bloodlust. It’d been a long time since he’d last smelled it. That time, in Iraq.
“Who’s he kidding? He’s that blind guy,” one of Pops’ guys snickered. “Look at him. Look at his feckin eyes. He can’t see us to shoot us.”
“Last chance, assholes,” Jameson threatened.
“Aye, and the one with him’s just a wee girl,” another added. “Look at her, hiding behind her boyfriend like a scared rabbit.”
“I like bunnies and little girls,” a deeply sinister voice whispered salaciously.
“I’m no little girl!” Maddie yelled as she stepped around Jameson and—
BLAM!
She had a gun? Judging by the gangster’s uproar, she’d just shot Pops Delaney. Sweet baby Jesus!
Jameson fired one round from his shotgun, hoping to quell the upcoming slaughter. But vengeance was a hard beast to rein in once unleashed. When Delaney’s gang commenced shooting, Jameson was all that stood between them and Maddie. He unloaded round after round of hell until there was no one firing back at him.
By then, he’d trapped Maddie behind him. She might’ve gotten off that first shot, but beginner’s luck had no place in a gunfight. Only skill. Only quick thinking and faster shooting.
The stink in the basement swelled up like noxious poison in Jameson’s nose. He could only imagine what was
going through Maddie’s mind. But another vehicle had rumbled into the yard, and more heavily bodied men in boots were already on the ground. This wasn’t Tombstone, Arizona, nor was it a gunfight at the O.K. Corral. This basement was a kill box.
Like hell.
Chapter Twelve
Maddie held her breath as the farmhouse backdoor creaked open. Her mouth was as dry as a desert, and she was shaking like a leaf, but there were no words for what she’d just seen this warrior in action accomplish. It was as if he could see. Every time he’d aimed and fired, he’d taken out one of Delaney’s men. Every shot had been on target, but now more killers were on their way into the house. They’d be down here soon. There was no way out. Not even through the vent. She wouldn’t leave Jameson behind this time.
Wearily, she pressed her forehead to the center of his sweat-soaked back. The intimacy of their shared dilemma, their concern for each other, and the very real possibility they could die in the next few minutes, had stitched them together like matching mittens. He being the more adept right, her the clumsy, unreliable left.
Her nostrils flared at the salty scent of the man she meant to die for. Or live for, that’d be even better. But they were outnumbered again. How long could a blind man fight off all these monsters? How long could she?
His free hand reached behind him and found her biceps. “Hang in there, babe,” he said with a firm squeeze.
“I know. One step at a time,” she breathed. “That’s how we get the tough jobs done.”
“That’s right. Whatever you do, stay behind me.” He ended the moment with another squeeze, then dropped to a knee and reloaded the stubby rifle in his hand.
Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22) Page 12