Into the Fire

by Gregg Hurwitz

Mia padded down the hall, her footfalls soft on the carpet, scrolling through e-mails with her thumb. The men swept in from various directions, gathering behind her.

  A graceful convergence on 1202.

  The door was—oddly—open.

  Through the gap she could see that it was a huge corner room.

  Mia palmed the door open and gasped.

  Evan Smoak stood in a Weaver stance, pistol raised, aiming at her face.

  59

  Guardian Angel

  Mia froze in the doorway, staring at Evan and his drawn pistol, seemingly pointed at her. Their eyes locked. Her pupils were constricted with shock, and he read in them equal parts terror and confusion.

  He fired over her shoulders—literally through her hair on either side. It swayed with the velocity of the rounds.

  The sound, even suppressed, caused her shoulders to jump upward.

  Two bodies fell behind her.

  Before she could look, he grabbed her around the small of her back and pulled her close, shooting even as he spun her, cheek to cheek, a violent waltz. Her chest was pressed to his, her palms flattened against his ribs. His body blocked her from incoming fire.

  She clung to him, spinning, disoriented, as the men flashed across the threshold and jerked back and down. The clank of gunmetal on carpet. Wet gasps. A deep-voiced grunt.

  And then Evan stopped, still holding her tight enough that he could feel her heartbeat through her blouse, the heat of her skin. Her hand was curled against his chest, half shielding her eyes.

  She was untouched. All four operators lay heaped in the doorway.

  He released her, and she staggered to the side, one knee buckling, her face blank, stunned. The spilled contents of her briefcase littered the floor at her feet. She stared at the bodies.

  “I’m the one they…” Her voice went husky and guttered out. “They were going to kill me.”

  Two of the men’s pistols lay on the floor. One operator hadn’t yet cleared leather, and the fourth had died with his gun in his hand.

  Evan dragged them in, kneed the door shut behind them, and took a moment to steady his breathing.

  He had counted a straight dozen men spilling from the van outside Max’s apartment. That left eight more out there. He’d brought plenty of extra mags as well as the FN Ballista in case the clash went rangy, but right now he needed to figure out where the other operators were positioned.

  He crouched over a body, reached behind the still-warm ear, and clicked the bone-phone to speaker.

  “—repeat: Confirm target is neutralized. I’m eastbound on Grand, circling around for pickup. I have Little Bird in hand if we need to shift to B plan.”

  A charge went through Evan, snapping him upright.

  Mia’s shock evaporated as it hit her, too. “‘Little Bird’? Is that … Do they mean Peter?”

  Evan recovered and sprinted to the giant windows, looking down on the traffic grid of the surrounding streets.

  He spotted the white van in motion below.

  It blurred, and he grabbed his face hard, squeezing his eyes, and then let go.

  “What are you doing?” Mia asked. “Are you okay?”

  He ignored her, his focus on the road below. He calculated.

  Then turned. Mia wobbled on her feet, her back to the wall, using it to prop her up.

  “White cleaning van,” he said. “It’ll be at the corner of Seventh and Grand. You’ll be clear.”

  Her lips firmed as if to fight down panic. “How do you know?”

  He said, “I know.”

  “I’m unarmed,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Evan was already on his knees before the Hardigg Storm Case, pulling the twenty-six-inch fluted barrel from the foam lining, mounting it on the receiver, and quick-locking the suppressor. He looked up at her, a wisp of hair falling across his eyes. “Go to your son. Draw them out. Everything else is on me.”

  She stared at him. Swallowed down her terror.

  And bolted out the door.

  Evan finished assembling the Ballista, configuring it for the .338 Lapua chambering and slotting in the ten-round box mag. Then he cycled the bolt, flung open the balcony door, and set up on the railing. His right pupil was still blown, but he could use his preferred eye—a bit of luck on this endlessly luckless mission.

  Behind him the bone-phone squawked. “Team One, come in, over. Team One? Team Two, come in.”

  Way below, the white van coasted out of view. It would emerge any second onto Grand.

  He didn’t have a range card for the new rifle, but it had been zeroed at four hundred yards. He needed to range the target, so he swung the scope, looking for a standard-dimension object. A half second later, he locked on to a stop sign near the kill zone.

  City stop signs are standard anywhere in the United States. Thirty inches across the red octagon. White border just shy of an inch. Five feet from the bottom of the sign to the pavement. Using the stop sign as a measurement reference point, Evan calculated his hold-under and cosign compensation and focused in on the scope. At three hundred yards, if he held under ten minutes of angle, he’d be right on.

  The white van emerged beneath him, a dot in the stream of traffic driving directly away. An optical illusion made it appear to be rising before him, an air bubble in an IV tube. It disappeared behind a high-rise. Materialized on the other side.

  An image rushed him—Peter in the back of the van, his charcoal eyes flat with shock. Maybe they’d knocked him out for ease of transport.

  Had they taken him from his school? Removed him with a show of false authority and the flash of a badge? Or simply snatched him from a sidewalk?

  They’d taken him as a contingency plan to control Mia if the execution didn’t go smoothly in the hotel. And once Peter was no longer necessary, they would handle him the way they’d handled Grant Merriweather and Lorraine Lennox and anyone else who’d gotten tangled in their web.

  At the thought Evan’s heart rate quickened, a thumping in his neck. A headache spread its steel fingers through the back of his skull.

  And then—all at once—the view through the scope got soupy.

  He pulled his head away, his face washed with sweat. Not now.

  He blinked hard and put his face back onto the stock, in line with the scope. The van was a blur, moving among other blurs. The road was full, and as his vision doubled, it grew fuller yet, phantom vehicles appearing and blending into one another. It was hard to tell which were real and which were illusory.

  Five minutes of clarity. That’s all he required.

  He ripped two autoinjectors of epinephrine out of his cargo pocket. Gripping them side by side in one fist, he popped the blue safety caps off with his thumbnail. Then he rammed the needles straight through the fabric of his pants into his outer thigh, holding them in place until a double click announced that the doses had administered.

  Warmth surged through him, rolling up his stomach and chest, setting his mouth tingling. His vision snapped into focus with a sudden heightened lucidity.

  He’d pay for it later.

  Gladly.

  For the first time since he’d smacked his head on that parking lot, he felt entirely clear-minded. Better than clear-minded. Like the rifle was a part of his body and he was a part of it and together they would operate like a single piece of weaponry.

  Through the scope Evan zeroed in on the van once more. Aimed at the rear right tire. Tracked it as it flickered in and out of sight behind other vehicles.

  He exhaled. Waited for the space between heartbeats.

  And readied to apply 2.75 pounds of trigger pressure.

  * * *

  Mia spilled from the elevator and sprinted across the lobby, knocking over a businessman. She slammed out through the hefty front door and bulled through pedestrians, ignoring the shouts and protests.

  The white van strobed into view a full block away, turning onto Grand Street.

  She forged into traffic, darting up 6th St
reet through blaring horns and screeching brakes. Tears streaked her face.

  She ran to her son.

  * * *

  Even over the city bustle, the crack of the round was audible.

  The van’s rear tire blew. The vehicle reared up on its front tires and smashed through the picture window of Bottega Louie. Glass waterfalled, tumbling onto the sidewalk. Inside the upscale patisserie, patrons screamed and ran. One of the take-out counters shattered, spilling a rainbow of macaroons across the marble floor.

  Directly above the wreckage, street signs announced the intersection of 7th and Grand.

  The package, delivered right on the mark.

  The driver drew his gun, stepped out, and immediately lost half his skull.

  The man in the passenger seat peered into the side mirror an instant before it was sheared off by the next sniper round. Panicking, he flung open the door and dove for the restaurant. Another round whined in.

  He was dead before he struck the ground.

  The sidewalks erupted with panic. Commuters left their cars in the middle of the street. Pedestrians shouted and headed for cover, washing through the abandoned vehicles to the safety of the surrounding buildings.

  Inside the van the six remaining operators kicked through the damaged bulkhead partition, crawled to the front, and spilled from the doors. They fanned out, carbines at the ready, a strike team unleashed.

  * * *

  Evan cycled the rifle, ejecting the brass. He eased out a breath through his teeth. Heart rate—normal. Body temperature—normal. Hands—steady.

  Eye back to the scope. A breeze riffled his hair. Cries carried up to him from the street. Mia came into view below, running into the chaos.

  His view was blocked by panicked civilians. But there were slivers between the rush of bodies that let him see through to the operators readying for battle.

  No margin for error.

  He would have to be perfect.

  He emptied his lungs once more. At moments like this, the voice inside his head was Jack’s.

  Don’t think about Mia.

  Don’t think about Peter.

  Don’t think about anything that matters.

  A simple process.

  Track. Exhale. Squeeze.

  Repeat.

  * * *

  Mia sprinted toward the crash, sobbing with fear, dread, rage. People were surging away from the van, banging into her, knocking her back against the tide.

  She tripped, bloodying a knee, but kept on.

  She emerged from a clot between abandoned cars and saw— finally—what everyone was running from.

  A formation of heavily armed men, spread in a V-formation, advancing directly at her. They were a half block away, the van that held her son at their backs. It was shoved crookedly through the restaurant’s window, hoisted higher on one side from the impact. One of the men rolled his neck, another shook out an injured arm. They readied their rifles.

  Mia braced herself.

  And sprinted directly into their midst.

  There was no way she wouldn’t be killed.

  And yet.

  She floated through the fray untouched.

  A man spun to aim at her and was ripped out of sight as cleanly as if he’d been lassoed by a passing truck, his dome cracked from a V split of a round.

  The operator behind him caught a faceful of bone fragment, pounding him into the asphalt.

  A third lunged as she neared and took a bullet to the neck.

  She sprinted through the blood and death to her son.

  Invisibly protected by a guardian angel.

  Ten yards ahead two operators closed ranks, sighting on her. They were afraid now; she could see that in their rolling eyes. But even as their ranks thinned, felled by an invisible hand, they kept coming at her. She was the only thread they had to follow, the sole target for their desperation. Two barrels rose and aimed at her critical mass.

  She closed her eyes. Did not slow.

  She heard the crack of the gunshots and knew herself to be dead. A double clap of corpses struck the ground. Neither was hers.

  She opened her eyes. Warm syrup on her cheeks, her shirt. Flecked with blood, she never slowed. Breath burning. Lungs on fire. A panic heat lighting her skin, flushing her face. Running past the fallen men.

  Running to her son.

  She was almost there.

  The last operator lifted his rifle to aim at her. Her legs had gone numb, sprinting of their own accord, carrying her forward. The world turned to slow motion, every detail rendered with hyperclarity—the single furrow of his brow on the right side, the glisten of sweat at his hairline, the whiteness of his hand on the grip. She sensed that her mouth was open, that she was screaming.

  Fifteen yards out. Now ten.

  She saw the bore come full circle. Stared down the throat of the rifle. Every muscle clenched, a razor edge of rage slicing through her fear, cutting her to ribbons.

  And then he was gone, a blood spray painting the van’s rear door.

  She halted before the bumper, panting, terrified. Glanced back, sweaty hair whipping across her eyes. A trail of dropped bodies charted her wake. She turned back to the van.

  The rear door gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.

  She reached with a trembling hand and opened it.

  It creaked on ungreased hinges.

  A boy was balled up in the corner of the cargo hold, face tucked behind the tops of his knees. Through a fall of golden hair, Peter peered up.

  The tiniest of voices. “Mommy?”

  He scrambled forward and fell into her arms.

  Sobbing, she held him.

  60

  Fly Away

  The sound of sirens drifted up to the twelfth-floor balcony.

  Evan scooped up the kill brass and hustled across the hotel room, leaving behind the empty Hardigg Storm Case. Stepping over the bodies, he cracked the door and peered down the corridor.

  Empty save for an overturned housekeeping cart, probably upended by a fleeing employee when gunfire had broken out.

  He jogged to the cart, fluffed out a transparent trash liner, and slid the FN Ballista inside. Tommy had been right. It was an excellent rifle, and if Evan had been the type to grow attached to tools, he wouldn’t have been so quick to discard it.

  He grabbed a jug of bleach and emptied it inside the bag as he moved swiftly down the hall. Knotting the bag, he dumped it in a trash chute and then stepped onto the elevator.

  A Muzak rendering of Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away,” heavy on woodwinds, accompanied him down. His heart rate started to slow, the epinephrine easing off to a more gentle glow in his veins.

  Though the lobby was largely cleared out, a few workers and guests huddled behind the front desk.

  Evan stepped out into the street and hustled up 6th to the intersection. The intensity of holding perfect focus had cost him, as he knew it would, the concussion symptoms seeping back, messing with his perception. Squad cars were pulling up on Grand Avenue from all points of the compass, clogging the side streets, corralling the damage zone. He misjudged a step and banged into the fender of an abandoned car hard enough to knock himself into a quarter turn. Straightening himself up, he progressed more cautiously, ignoring the mounting pressure at his temples, concentrating to keep his vision clear.

  Looking up the block, he spotted Mia.

  She was holding Peter.

  Relief tore through Evan, something giving way under a strain he hadn’t let himself acknowledge.

  Peter was clamped onto his mother, his face buried in her shoulder. Mia spoke to first responders, gesturing at the bodies around the van with her one free hand.

  Evan had no idea what she was telling them.

  For the first time, it struck him that the life he had built in Castle Heights was now over. As an officer of the court, Mia would be obliged to implicate him. She’d made her position clear. And he’d be on the run once again.

  He thought of the informal pardo
n that President Donahue-Carr had dangled before him, the different life so tantalizingly close.

  But staring at Mia and Peter now, he knew he’d make the same choice a thousand times out of a thousand.

  She turned slightly and—way across the mob of cops and civilians—spotted him.

  For a suspended instant, they locked eyes.

  The officers speaking to her noted her shift in position and started to pivot. They were just about to spot Evan when Mia turned and stepped in front of them.

  Blocking their view.

  She squared to them, hoisting Peter higher to wall out their vantage.

  When she turned back around, Evan was gone.

  61

  Speechless Terror

  The boys assembled around the conference table on the seventh floor. The meeting had been hastily called. It was 11:00 P.M., and they were off their usual crisp standards in appearance and demeanor. Crooked ties, untucked shirts, patches of stubble.

  The Steel Woman, however, was seamless. Pressed suit jacket and slacks. A perfect veneer of makeup. Her bun as tightly wound as ever, a water-smooth stone at her nape.

  With a smudge of dried ketchup on his cheek, Fitz shakily finished his update. “So that’s it. My entire contingent wiped out. I don’t know what the next steps are.”

  “Fortunately, I do,” Stella said. “You boys—all of you—will use your considerable resources and reach to hunt down Max Merriweather and the man responsible for this, eliminate them, and retrieve the thumb drive.”

  There was no sound save the rush of the air conditioner, blowing an even sixty-five degrees.

  “Additionally,” she said, “we are dissolving the LLC until further notice.”

  A few of the men leaned forward as if to object, but she stilled them with a single look.

  The city treasurer mustered his voice. “I don’t know that that’s entirely fair.”

  “I did my job perfectly,” Stella said. “For years I worked to set up this arrangement. Never so much as a misplaced comma. You boys were given a single task, and you fucked it all up. So I share your assessment, Neil. It isn’t fair.”