The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  Not a good prognosis.

  The second thug heard a disturbance and turned the corner. His partner had been upright and alive a few minutes ago, and now there he was in a heap on the ground, a stranger over the top of him landing a killer blow.

  He rushed forward but Ice was way too quick for him. Ice’s sixth sense—that warning voice inside his head that had kept him alive in a thousand missions—had already preempted danger and he was already lunging forward, springing out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter.

  Ice came in low and took out the thug by the legs, sending him off-balance and flying backward through the air. But the thug was a street fighter of old and somehow pulled a knife from his ankle sheath as he tumbled, taking a circular slash at Ice as he fell, cutting through the air with a hiss, slicing deeply across Ice’s upper thigh on his way down.

  Ice faltered, grasping his leg tightly with both hands.

  The thug took the fall in his stride and rolled to absorb the momentum, then stood up in a continuous movement. Blood was pouring down Ice’s leg. He momentarily lost concentration, glued to the spot as he tried to center himself.

  The thug rushed forward, thrusting his blade in a movement that was about to rip into Ice’s gut in a violent upward slash.

  The silver of the steel blade flashed in Ice’s peripheral vision and he instinctively stepped sideways to avoid the deadly thrust. But not quickly enough. His injured leg faltered, and he stumbled.

  Ice’s luck had finally run out. He’d lost.

  He was about to be disemboweled.

  Then time slowed.

  The world as Ice knew it stopped turning and went into slo-mo. He was totally aware of the dangerous blade inching toward his gut, but now, ever so slowly. Silver flashes were popping off the blade like a sparkler as it sliced through the air, intently making its way toward him for the kill shot that he knew was about to land.

  Ice never thought he would die this way. His guts hanging out, spread over the ground after a knife fight. He always expected he would die from a bullet. That’s how he’d lived, and that’s how Ice assumed he would die. But not like this. And not at the hands of some lowlife.

  Cait’s inner warning beacon had gone off, snapping her out of her current wait-and-see mood, forcing her to concentrate on the here and now.

  Ding, ding, ding. Something’s wrong, very wrong . . .

  “Shit! Tony’s in trouble.” A vision of him about to do battle with the two men out the front of the warehouse flashed on the screen in her head. And the outcome wasn’t good.

  This wasn’t part of the plan. O’Donnell was supposed to get in, complete a recon, then leave unseen.

  Cait floored the accelerator of the idling car, rushing at full speed toward the warehouse. Forty-five seconds and she’d be there.

  Skidding sideways into the driveway she saw O’Donnell and a man fighting. One of the thugs who had been out front guarding the building was attacking her partner. And he had a large silver-bladed knife in his hand that was moving dangerously toward O’Donnell. In a split second, O’Donnell was about to be slashed.

  Mortally wounded. She knew it. Could feel it.

  Cait delved deep into her inner self. With the speed of a knockout punch from a heavyweight boxer, she viciously thrust her right hand forward, projecting her energy outward through her outward facing palm and grabbing the moment, wrapping Ice up in a shimmering translucent cocoon.

  Time slowed.

  The world inside Ice’s bubble morphed into slo-mo. She had transported him out of this world and dragged him urgently into the Otherworld, a place where time was just a nothing word in what was eternity.

  It had no meaning.

  Desperately grabbing hold of the threatening silver blade as it sliced through the ether, Cait diverted its path away from Ice, deflecting its trajectory up and back toward the thug. In a continuous movement, the blade spun in midair, its travel turning back on the perpetrator, the blade imbedding itself deeply into his left shoulder.

  The thug grunted. He was crippled, out of action, bleeding, in pain, a large knife protruding from deep within his upper chest.

  Cait pulled back, knowing that this was just a temporary fix. Ice had to finish disabling his opponent himself. It was his fight and he had to see it through.

  O’Donnell was pumped. The fight-or-flight response had kicked in and he was on fire. Oblivious to his own injuries, Ice found the strength of ten men. As the thug crumpled, he slammed the point of his elbow hard into the man’s occiput. The thug collapsed, paralyzed from the devastating force of the blow to his cervical spine.

  Ice then dropped down hard, the full weight of his body concentrated on the tip of his knee as he landed in the middle of the thug’s back.

  Snap! Several ribs shattered and a thoracic disc painfully herniated.

  The man screamed as one of the broken ribs pierced his lungs. Blood started bubbling from his mouth with each painful labored breath. He was failing, lips turning cyanotic, his damaged cervical nerves after the blow to his neck inhibiting his respiratory function.

  He was done for. Probably confirmed kill number thirty-four for O’Donnell.

  Eighteen seconds—plus slo-mo time—from start to finish.

  Ice kicked the knife out of his attacker’s reach . . . just in case. Quickly disarming him of his gun, he glanced around.

  No other immediate danger.

  Snatching up both weapons, Ice stuffed the handgun into his pocket, and picking up the knife and holding it in the attack position in his left hand, ran toward the front door. He was left with no other option now but to enter and capture Tariq himself.

  Their previous plans had just been superseded. A simple recon and report was now totally out of the question.

  Oh shit!

  Cait had broken ranks and was running toward him.

  “No, stay back,” he wanted to yell to her, but the words never eventuated. Cait was already at his side, ready for action.

  “Did you actually do that?” whispered O’Donnell in a gravelly voice, panting, bleeding, but pumped nonetheless.

  “Eh?” said Cait, focusing more on the moment than what had just transpired.

  “The knife. Whatever you did. Everything just seemed to stop.”

  “Oh . . . yeah. Funny about that.” Cait had too many other things going on inside her head to even consider explaining.

  Glancing down at Ice’s now blood-soaked leg, without a second thought Cait whipped off her belt and strapped it tightly around his thigh immediately above the wound where the knife had deeply slashed his leg.

  Cait needed her partner to be functional. There was no time for Oh, you’re bleeding or Does it hurt? That could come later. Ice had to suck it up and perform. He was a trained professional and she expected nothing less.

  The front door of the warehouse burst open with a resounding crash.

  But Cait and Ice were primed and ready. Two armed men exploded through the entrance, each with a double grip on their pistols, ready to shoot. With a forceful upward thrust of his left arm, Ice connected with the first of the assailant’s forearms, forcing it up into the air as he grabbed his wrist at the same time with his right hand, pushing the handgun to one side.

  A random shot fired with a deafening crack, narrowly missing Cait’s head and ricocheting off the stone wall, dislodging a large piece of crumbling plaster, leaving a plume of white dust in the air.

  Ice took the man out with a fast chop to his throat, using the curled fingers of his right hand as a weapon.

  Accurate, deadly, lethal.

  Two quick blows to his head: one behind the ear and a second to his temple, and the thug dropped, out cold.

  Thug number two had rushed out immediately behind his mate, stupidly disregarding Cait as a pushover and instinctively turned toward Ice. After all, she was only just a young girl.

  Bad move.

  Cait was tingling with power, alive, on fire, her grandmothers standing behind her, actin
g as her sentinels and backup. She felt totally invincible. And she probably was at this very moment.

  Immediately focusing on the man’s gun, Cait acted on instinct, her ancient warrior past from decades long gone powerfully rushing out of her hidden memory banks, guiding her every move.

  Like a bolt of lightning, Cait’s left arm shot out and grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it forcefully backward and away from her. The gun dropped safely out of his hand, bouncing off his knee and skidding across the concrete doorsill with a metallic whooshing sound.

  As part of a continuous movement, Cait smashed the stiffened side of her right hand down onto the thug’s thick arm with such iron-fisted power that she felt—heard—the radius and ulna crack. Her grandmothers had entered her body and were fighting the battle for her. She was the powerful warrior queen once more; the shield-maiden who had been laid to rest centuries ago, but who had just reemerged again.

  Cait was the chosen one. It had been prophesied, and her grandmothers were there for her.

  Screaming in agony, the thug spun his head back toward Cait, a look of absolute shock and disbelief on his face, only to be greeted by two cold, glacier blue eyes boring into him, tearing his head apart, invading his mind with such power that he felt as if his brain was a pressure cooker about to explode.

  With the power of a hydraulic ram, Cait projected her concentrated energy toward the thug.

  Next moment he was airborne. Flying backward through the air, the thug forcefully smashing into the wall opposite the entrance door, limply collapsing on the ground next to his mate whom Ice had just dispatched.

  The two thugs wouldn’t be getting up for a while. A very long while.

  O’Donnell allowed himself the split-second privilege of assessing Cait’s handiwork.

  “Holy Jesus, Cait, that was some takedown.”

  Once again Ice was dumbfounded by her abilities. Then as quickly as he allowed the luxury of a free thought to dwell in his consciousness, O’Donnell snapped back into being Sergeant Tony O’Donnell again.

  Soldier. SAS operative. Coldhearted killer.

  “In through the door. Now!” Ice knew that the only advantages he had were the elements of surprise and creating chaos. They couldn’t afford to allow the last two guards inside time to regroup.

  They had to go in immediately.

  “I’ll go first and take left. If it’s safe, I’ll call you in. You take right. There’s a void inside, then a wall across the building. Move along the outside and stay out of the open space. Watch me for instructions.”

  Ice still had a clear picture in his head from his prior recon when he had peered through the windows looking for Tariq.

  He rushed inside, the thug’s gun still gripped in both hands, safety off, pointing forward, sweeping in tune with his body as he moved in a forty-five-degree arc side to side, looking for any sign of hostility. Tariq and the two remaining guards were in there somewhere, hiding, waiting in ambush no doubt.

  All clear.

  He signaled to Cait with a circular movement of his raised left arm, fingers together and pointing straight ahead, then repeatedly thrusting his arm forward.

  Go, go, go!

  Cait stealthily moved inside, back against the wall. Creeping around the perimeter, wild eyes ever vigilant, tensed and ready for immediate action, she ended up in the opposite corner of the parting wall to O’Donnell, mirroring his position.

  With no communication other than a glance, Cait knew instinctively what Ice would do next. She was totally in sync with his every thought.

  He’s going through the entrance next to him into the back of the building. He wants me to keep a lookout behind and cover him.

  Then Cait’s grandmothers rushed into her head again: The back door, Cait! They’re about to escape.

  Cait sprinted across the void to O’Donnell.

  He looked up, shocked.

  “No, no, no. Get back,” he whispered urgently. “It’s not safe . . .”

  But it was too late. Cait was already by his side and running through the door in the parting wall, flinging it open and bolting inside.

  “Follow me . . . now!” she ordered. Ice was shocked at Cait’s assertiveness, grabbing her as she rushed past.

  “They’re at the back door. We’ll lose them. Quick, they’re escaping,” Cait muttered out of desperation.

  She was in a controlled panic. There was no way Cait intended to let Tariq flee again. He was hers this time. She’d come way too far to be this close to Tariq, only to see him slip from her clutches again.

  Without giving it a second thought, O’Donnell bolted after Cait. Her intuition hadn’t been wrong so far, and events were happening so fast that he had no time to process the moment.

  Bursting through the last partition at the back of the warehouse, Cait saw her man, not more than twenty short paces away, running flat out for the back door.

  Tariq! She finally had him.

  One of Tariq’s two minders had already escaped out the back door, while the other was standing by it obviously waiting for him, frantically signaling silently to his charge to hurry up.

  “You take the guards,” yelled Cait in a commanding voice, like a battle cry from the past, words that left no other option but to be obeyed.

  “I’ll get Tariq.”

  Ice bolted as best as he could, his injured leg now starting to give him grief, but still catching the second guard by surprise with his speed. The first guard had just made it to the abandoned wreck—which wasn’t really a wreck at all, but rather a strategically placed getaway car in disguise—and was jumping inside, about to start the motor in preparation for a hurried retreat.

  Cait skidded to a halt and focused, calling on the power of her grandmothers one more time. She instantly morphed into her Otherworld avatar, a powerful Shapeshifter who could bend time and manipulate events around her.

  Thrusting both arms forward, Cait lassoed Tariq using a conductor-like motion with her index fingers as if she was on a dais in front of an orchestra, encapsulating him in a burning ball of white energy.

  Tariq stopped dead in his tracks, frozen to the spot as if he was a captive inside a giant ice cube. Cait could see him squirming, panicking, freaking out, his life force on hold, frozen in time along with his pathetic self.

  She had finally captured her brother’s nemesis. Now it was payback time.

  Revenge will be so sweet, the vicious thought all consuming in Cait’s rage.

  She let go of her projected energy and the ice cube that was encapsulating Tariq vanished. He tumbled to the floor, dazed, frightened, fearful.

  Unmoving.

  In Tariq’s eyes Cait was the Al-Shaitan—Iblis—the Devil, and he must have somehow arrived at Judgment Day.

  “Allah the Most Gracious, where are my seventy-two virgins?” muttered Tariq pitifully, tears of confusion running down his cheek.

  “I was meant to die a glorious death. A jihad. Not this, Allah my Lord. I was your servant.”

  Cait looked down at the broken creature squirming pathetically at her feet. Lifting her arms in preparation for the kill shot, she screamed out loud: “This one’s for my brother Dec, you bastard.”

  She dropped her arm through the air, leaving a trail of sparks like a meteor entering the earth’s atmosphere and . . .

  “No Cait, not this way!” Ice yelled in a desperate tone. “Tariq has to go to jail . . . for life.”

  O’Donnell had just disposed of the thug at the door, who was now lying on the floor, writhing, groaning, incapacitated. After taking the man out with four lethal blows raining from his fists like a cage fighter, he finished the thug off with a sleeper hold that knocked him out cold. Ice had let the thug’s partner run for the getaway car, as he was already thirty meters away, and instead had immediately turned his attention back to Cait.

  And Cait was about to play executioner.

  He’d seen that determined look before . . . many times: a vengeful look of hate that more often than
not was the precursor to a kill.

  O’Donnell’s frantic plea to spare Tariq’s life registered just enough on the periphery of Cait’s consciousness to force her to make a split-second decision.

  But Cait continued the downward movement of her arm.

  Tariq was about to meet his Maker.

  “I curse you for all eternity,” Cait incanted, using a spell that her grandmothers pushed into her consciousness.

  “May you forever be possessed by evil thoughts whenever try to find peace. Your sleep will be an endless nightmare, haunting you forevermore with the memory of the innocent souls you’ve murdered.”

  Her voice took on a deep, eerie, unnatural raspy tone, distorting as if she was speaking through a synthesizer. Cait’s aura shimmered a white light that was increasing with the intensity of her incantation.

  O’Donnell looked on in awe. Never in his life had he seen anything that even came close to what he was just witnessing.

  He was speechless.

  “You will be scarred, just as you scarred my brother, to forever remind you of your evil deeds.”

  Cait raised her hand, pointing her right finger menacingly at Tariq’s chest. The smell of burning human flesh invaded the air as a wisp of acrid smoke curled upward from Tariq’s body.

  He screamed. Again, and again, and again.

  A long, intense, agonizing scream as the laser-beam likeness of pure energy emanating from the tip of Cait’s right index finger etched a burning scar deep into his chest that was an exact likeness of the scar that Dec now carried.

  Tariq would be painfully marked for life.

  “And from this day forward you will forever live in the frustration of total darkness. I condemn you to a life of blindness. A life where the light of day will never be available to you to admire or enjoy.”

  Tariq raised both his hands to his eyes in shock and agony as they painfully glazed over. All that was left in his eye sockets were two white, visionless orbs. No cornea, no iris. Just white pebbles.

  Silence and stillness suddenly took over . . . apart from the groaning of the injured henchman, and Tariq’s pathetic whimpering.

  Cait and O’Donnell stood their ground, pensively lost in their own thoughts.