“Yeah,” Burris replied, matching the tone.
“And?”
“Just been waiting on you to give the order, El Jefe.”
Chapter Eight
One would expect that with a background like mine, my mind would be impervious to witnessing violence. Between my years in the Navy, bouncing around on ships all over the globe, and then the subsequent time with the DEA working with one of the preeminent FAST – Foreign-deployed Advisory and Support Teams – crews scouring through Central and South America, that something like a front door exploding would barely register.
I’d spot the burst of flames, the hail of wood shards and splinters spurting in every direction, smell the smoke in the air, and I would be out of the truck before Kaylan even hit the ground.
The problem with such an assumption is that in every one of those previous situations, there was an accompanying awareness. An understanding that I was stepping forward into something where physical harm could befall me. Where people were standing opposite with a gun or a knife or a door rigged to detonate the moment the knob was turned.
Never something like this, though. Not on the front porch of the small and unassuming business I owned in an even smaller and more unassuming town like West Yellowstone.
Certainly not months after I’d even held a gun, ending the lives of the men looking to cause me harm.
Sitting behind the steering wheel, it was like having a front row seat at a drive-in theater, my headlights providing the optimal lighting for all that I witnessed. My jaw dropped, my eyes went wide as I sat and watched. My heart clenched in my chest, my stomach threatened to push out everything I’d just eaten.
But not until Kaylan hit the ground did what I was staring at truly resonate.
Only then did the rest of my senses catch up, shoving my logical brain to the side, allowing my baser instincts to take over.
The force of the initial blast had been enough to lift her into the air, shoving her back across the narrow expanse of the front porch. Showering her in busted splinters of brown and green, it dumped her hard on her back, her knees paired together and twisted to the side.
Thumping against the frozen boards, momentum folded her legs upward, knees almost touching her left elbow, before she came to a stop.
Not to move again.
“Kay-laaaan!” I called, separating her name into two syllables, the second extended several seconds as I pawed for the handle on the door. Shoving it open, I spilled out and swung it closed behind me.
Attempting to fight my way forward, the soles of my boots slid atop the gravel, pitching my upper body forward. Folded in half, I splayed my fingers wide, hands and feet all scrabbling against the loose stone, fighting for purchase.
“Kaylan,” I muttered, shoving the word out between quick breaths. Head up, I padded forward on all fours, palms slapping against the cold planks of the second step leading upward.
Focus squarely on her, I used knees and elbows to hoist myself onto the front edge of the deck, spider-walking my way to my friend.
With each small step forward, each incremental gain, more details came into focus. From the blood streaming down her face to the bits of wood caught in her hair. The thick veil of splinters and sawdust covering the front porch to the acrid scent of chemical smoke in the air.
All of it registered with my subconscious. Skills that so often remained dormant rushed back to the fore, imparted from a lifetime of seeing things just like this.
Things that refused to ever be forgotten.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, my entire being drawn tight. Making it up and over the three steps, I came out on the porch beside her, drawing a knee up beneath me along her right shoulder. Using it as a pivot, I spun myself so I was perpendicular to her, one hand going straight for the crease just beneath her jawbone.
A reach that never quite made it there, interrupted by the unmistakable ping of bullets slamming into the front grill of the truck above me.
Chapter Nine
Acting under the unexpected explosion of the front door, the shock of seeing my friend dumped unceremoniously on her back, I had made the mistake of believing there was no further threat. Not once did I pause to even consider what had caused the blast or to think that someone might still be lingering nearby.
Just like my attacker had made the faulty assumptions in thinking that it would be me that opened the door, and if I did somehow survive, I would still be standing directly in front of it.
At the first bark of a gun, the report roiling out into the night, reverberating from the pine trees lining the north end of the property, my body moved on pure instinct. Knowing only where the sound had come from, what the angle must have been for the rounds to hit the front of the truck square, I used my planted knee for leverage, hurling myself back toward the front of the office.
Keeping my body bent in half, I lunged out two elongated strides before tossing myself sideways against the wall. Careful to avoid the window to my right, I slammed into the wooden planks, the structure absorbing the collision without the slightest tremble, vertebra popping the length of my back from the impact.
As I moved, two more rounds were squeezed off, the bright orange glow of the muzzle flashes ignited in the gaping doorway beside me. Shifted in aim a few feet to the side, they slammed into the wall behind me, strong enough for me to feel the faint pulse of their impact, the boards thick enough to hold strong, swallowing them up, keeping them from punching through.
A moment later, the scent of gunpowder joined the putrid smell of chemical smoke, two more things about the moment that seemed so woefully out of place.
Not the least of which was me.
Body tucked tight against the side of the building, I remained pinned on one knee. Making myself as small a target as possible, I peered back to Kaylan, her immediate safety no longer my chief concern. In her unconscious state, my only hope could be that whoever this bastard was would assume he had gotten her, leaving her be, his focus squarely on me.
Who the hell this might be, I had no idea. My past is littered with people that I’d rather never see again, many with gripes real or perceived aimed in my direction, but it has been months or even years since I’ve crossed paths with any of them.
Who might now have tracked me into the mountains, have staged an elaborate scheme in the last couple of hours while we were at dinner, would be nothing more than speculation.
Same for what possible motivation they might have for doing so.
Not that it really mattered at the moment.
All that did was isolate the bastard, making sure Kaylan and I both made it far enough to even ask those questions one day.
Jerking my attention back toward the truck, I thought of the Winchester rifle that sat in a case behind the front bench seat. I considered the folding hawksbill blade that was tucked into the glove compartment, and even the tire iron that was squirreled away beneath the driver’s seat.
None would be ideal, but any of them would be a welcomed addition. Any of them would give me something to go back at this man with, bringing the odds closer together.
As if sensing my line of thinking, wanting to point out how far away those items were, how there was no chance I was making it back across the open expanse of the porch again, another pair of shots rang out. Both aimed at the passenger headlamp, they found their target, the glass no match for the gas-powered rounds.
Smashing through, they shattered the underlying bulb, one-half of the illumination disappearing. Without the added glow, I could feel my pupils dilate, long shadows stretching across everything, the thin fog of smoke drifting across the single beam of light.
Back pressed flush against the side of the building, I tucked my chin tight to my shoulder. I tried to imagine who might be standing inside, what they were carrying, where they were positioned.
Best guess, the guy was using a single weapon. Each shot had had a clear report, cycling through the firing mechanism before barking out a second time
.
Never was there any overlap, or even a change in the sequence, the way there might be if using multiple guns.
Based on sound and the sparks flying from the chrome of my front grill, the fact that the rounds hadn’t made it through the wall behind me, the gun had to be a small caliber. Nine-millimeter, maybe slightly larger.
Which meant he could have anywhere from three to ten bullets remaining.
And the preferred position.
Kneeling at the base of the wall, I flicked my gaze from the doorway to the scene stretched out before me. I took in the short breadth of the porch and the truck sitting behind it, Kaylan laying prone in the foreground.
Right now, I did have the advantage of the man’s attention. He knew where I was, that I was unarmed and pinned down. He also knew that his gun wasn’t powerful enough to get to me, meaning at some point, one of us had to make a move.
That advantage evaporated the instant he got antsy, deciding to shift his target practice from my truck to my friend.
Rolling my head back, I allowed the base of my skull to touch the wall. I felt the cool of it pass through my hair as I drew in a deep breath, willing myself to calm down, to push past the initial shock of the moment.
Everything up to this point had been on his terms. He had caught me unaware by blowing out the door, had used my carelessness to put me in my current position. Whether planned or the best possible outcome of the sequence didn’t really matter. What did was the fact that he was baiting me, counting on me to let fear or confusion or whatever else lead me into doing something stupid.
That ended now.
Chapter Ten
Not once in the past week had Tres Salinas even noticed the hot tub sitting on the lower patio. Carved out on the underside of the master suite above, he’d barely considered the area as anything more than storage. A place where firewood was stacked, safe and dry from the elements. Where a plain metal shelving unit was pressed tight against the wall, loaded with old work gloves and gardening tools.
Twice Tres had threaded his way through the area, mid-day jaunts to get a feel for the layout of the property, without ever really thinking much of the blocky unit comprising the back corner of the area.
Not that there was ever much reason to. With the cover on and a few random towels strewn across the top, it looked like it hadn’t been used in ages.
A faulty assumption if there ever was one.
Lips curled back over his teeth, Tres remained rooted in place as the couple stepped out from the house. Resembling a pair of specters in their bright white robes, he could just barely make out the faint din of their voices drifting through the cold night air, loud enough to be heard, but too soft to be discerned.
Backlit by the ambient light of the living room behind them, he watched as the man handed his champagne flute across to his wife and cleared the towels from the top of the tub. Once they were put away, he flipped open one end of the cover, light and steam rising from within.
Moving with practiced precision, he then slid the back end down to the ground, leaving it balanced on an edge, leaning against the side of the unit.
The first time Tres had ever seen the man was eight years prior. Dressed in full tactical gear, an automatic weapon in hand, plenty of California sunshine on his skin, barking orders to everybody within earshot, the man had seemed larger than life.
In the time since, that mental image had only grown stronger, Tres replaying the interaction over and again in his mind. With each retelling, the man’s voice had grown a bit deeper, his jawline a touch more pronounced.
Now, standing in the woods outside his house, Tres couldn’t help but smirk at how foolish he’d been. At how much what he remembered was nothing more than youthful ignorance, the mind conflating things in a way that simply wasn’t true.
For the past week, Tres had been an unknown presence in this man’s world. He had followed his kids to school every day, had watched his wife fall asleep at night and rise again in the morning.
He’d stood in this exact spot, less than forty yards separating them, a loaded weapon in hand, and never even been suspected.
Just as he was now.
As he had been a moment before, when the buzz of the cellphone he’d been waiting on pulsed against his thigh, managing to inject a ripple of adrenaline through his system.
Once the hot tub cover was stripped away and lowered into place, the man turned back to his wife. A smile on his face, he unknotted the robe from around his waist and let it slide from his shoulders, the form it revealed confirming every last thought that Tres had been having a moment before.
The man that had shown up that night, had turned his world on edge, wasn’t superhuman. He wasn’t larger than life, the perfect embodiment of everything a man should be.
He was merely a man. Someone that was just past forty and looked it. He was still in decent enough shape but wasn’t winning any fitness competitions in the near future. He was an inch or so above six feet tall but wasn’t towering over a room.
Tres felt his cheeks bunch beneath the ski mask as he stood and watched, a smile coming to his face. The middle and index fingers on his right hand flickered in rapid sequence, tapping at the butt of the weapon, adrenaline and anticipation surging through him.
No longer did he feel the least bit of apprehension. No more was he concerned about his approach or how to best proceed. Armed with the visual now before him, he knew there was no way he could fail.
Raising himself up onto his toes, Tres dropped his heels down, the snow continuing to swallow all sound. The cold that had gripped him just moments before seemed to bleed away, his focus on the man as he accepted his champagne from his wife and took hers, allowing her to strip out of her robe as well, before together they climbed onto the top edge of the tub.
Heart thundering in his chest, Tres slid his hand down around the grip of the Sig Sauer. Pulling it free, he tapped the elongated barrel of the sound suppressor screwed down onto the end of it against the outside of his thigh.
This was it. After everything he and his family had been through, at last it was here.
Barely able to contain himself, to make himself stay in place, he waited until the man and his wife both slid down into the water, their heads completely disappearing from view, before bursting out of the trees, a plume of powdery snow rising in his wake.
Chapter Eleven
In an ideal situation, I would have a weapon. Not a long gun, like the Winchester stored fifteen feet away in my truck, but something small and versatile, able to be wielded in tight spaces. Fully automatic, so I wouldn’t need to worry about reloading, or even injecting a new round into the chamber.
And I would have the high ground, or at least the proverbial equivalent. I’d be firing from a concealed position, safe in knowing my opponent couldn’t see me, and even if they could, they couldn’t possibly hope to get to me.
Basically, I would switch positions with the asshole currently squirreled up in my office, gun in hand.
Unable to do that, that left me with only one possible alternative.
Smoke and mirrors.
Keeping my back pressed flat against the wall, I leaned a few inches toward the door beside me. Listening hard, hoping to catch the slightest hint of movement across the hardwood floors, I lowered my hand to my foot tucked up beneath me.
Grabbing at the laces, I pulled apart the bow riding along the top of it before hooking a finger down inside, loosening the shoe. Easing my heel upward, I slid my foot free of it, the cold night air swirling around the sock, seizing on my toes.
Paying it no heed, I placed my stockinged foot back down into place and leaned forward a few inches, using the space to peel my coat down off my shoulders. Careful not to make a sound, I wrestled it past my elbows before tugging it free, sliding it from behind me and placing it down on the porch beside the boot.
Staring down at the twin items, I could feel my pulse pick up. Despite the frigid temperatures, perspiration came to
my brow, my breathing becoming shallow.
The plan was worse than thin. It was foolish. I knew that, neither of the two objects before me the least bit lethal.
But it was all I had. If I was to stand a chance at surviving this, at getting Kaylan off this ice block of a porch and away to help, I had to do something.
Otherwise, it was just a simple matter of the guy sitting and waiting me out. I couldn’t crouch and hope for the off chance that somebody would drive past and see the smoldering remains of the door. I couldn’t bank on one of the rounds not eventually getting through and puncturing me in the back or the man deciding to open on Kaylan, waiting for help that likely wasn’t coming.
Not on a night like this, not standing outside the office on the far north end of a deserted mountain town in November.
As my wife so often used to say, help comes to those that help themselves.
Grasping the collar of the coat in one hand, the heel of the boot in the other, I drew in a deep breath. Letting the icy chill linger in my lungs for a moment, I took one last glance to Kaylan, the image hardening my resolve.
I had no idea who this man was or why he was here, but I knew what his intentions were.
And I damned sure knew I wasn’t going to let it go that way.
Using the tread on my one remaining boot as an anchor, I drove myself forward, taking no more than a single step before twisting into the gaping maw that was the front doorway. The instant my toes touched the threshold, I let out a deep and guttural roar, pushing the sound out with everything I had while simultaneously tossing the jacket high up into the air above me.
My body folded in half, stomach pressed tight to my thighs, I thundered forward, hearing a pair of shots ring out. In the confined space of the front office, the sound resembled cannon fire, pulsating against the walls, punctuated by two blinding flashes of light.
Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6) Page 4