Witness Security Breach

by Juno Rushdan

  Any assassin worth his weight in salt would have both exits covered. Taking Eugene outside would only increase his exposure. They’d never get him to the car alive.

  Aiden tapped his earpiece. “Torres, don’t. Track where the gunfire is coming from and lay down suppressive fire to give me a chance to move. We’ve got to kill the sniper first.”

  “On it.”

  “Banks?” Aiden waited for the next reply that didn’t come. “Dale, come in.”

  “I think he’s down,” Charlie said, echoing his thoughts.

  If that were the case, the sniper did have a line of sight to the backyard, kitchen, most likely the front, too, and had taken out Banks before unleashing a torrent of slugs on them.

  “Protect Potter,” Aiden said to Charlie. “The fridge door will make better cover and take the brunt of the gunfire.”

  He guessed the rifle was a .50 cal. The thick stainless-steel doors wouldn’t hold up indefinitely under the heavy firepower, but they should withstand the onslaught long enough for Aiden to take care of the shooter.

  “You stay,” Charlie said, her eyes bright and shining, her voice too eager. “I’ll go—”

  “No. It’s an order.” Aiden only played the I-outrank-you card when necessary. It wasn’t that Charlie couldn’t handle the sniper—she was more than capable, but she was drawn to danger like a moth to a flame, and he’d do anything to prevent her from getting burned.

  Coming up on one knee, he drew his gun and then moved without hesitation toward the door leading to the yard. He’d be easy pickings once outside. Since Banks had taken the back, Aiden didn’t know if there was anything out there that he could use for cover besides a couple of stone pillars.

  A grill. He recalled noticing a gas grill on the patio as he’d lowered the blinds, but the propane tank made it more of a hazard than potential cover.

  Going outside was a dicey move, but necessary. Eliminating the threat required two people. One as bait to draw fire while the other went in and neutralized the enemy.

  Aiden stopped before reaching the doors and stood with his back to the double-wall ovens in a pocket of space protected from gunfire. “Torres, you got a bead on our sniper?” Aiden asked, slipping the thumb drive into his pocket.

  “Yep. He’s on the roof of the house on the west side.”

  The location made perfect sense based on the lines of sight, and would put the sun at the shooter’s back, but the gunman hadn’t been out in the open when they’d arrived at the exact same time Eugene had been pulling into the driveway, returning from errands. The sniper must’ve set up while Aiden and Charlie had been indoors explaining things to Eugene. Risked pulling off the hit in broad daylight rather than taking the chance of losing his target.

  “I need a distraction so I can move,” Aiden said.

  “Got it. Be ready on my mark.”

  Aiden glanced at Charlie.

  The fridge doors were doing a good job of absorbing the bullets. Charlie would make sure Potter didn’t lose his head, literally or figuratively.

  Aiden braced for what was to come, for what he had to do next.

  An icy stillness stole over him. His heart pounded, but he grew utterly calm. Resolved. Focused on nothing except the plan forming with brutal clarity. Warfare meditation.

  “Go now,” Torres said in his ear.

  Gunshots from a handgun rang out. As expected, the suppressed rifle fire refocused.

  Aiden dashed through the dining area, slipped outside and shut the door.

  In the grass, Dale Banks was down on his back. Blood pooled from a hole in what was left of his head. Aiden’s gut clenched at the thought of Dale’s pregnant wife and how there wouldn’t be an open casket.

  Aiden pressed his spine hard against a stone column, ensuring he wasn’t in the line of fire. Then he drew on honed professional detachment.

  Low pops from the big rifle whizzed in the direction where Torres must’ve taken position on the side of Potter’s house.

  This was Aiden’s chance. It wouldn’t last long.

  He took two deep breaths and bolted toward the fence, racing across the spacious yard before the shooter spotted him. He scaled the six-foot wooden barrier with little effort while Torres played decoy.

  Making his way around the adjacent ranch-style house, Aiden crossed the short distance to the far side of the home. He had to sneak up on the sniper’s rear and deal with him quickly.

  A trash bin had been propped against a section of the stucco wall alongside an AC unit. The shooter must’ve used it to get up to the second floor, where there was a broken window.

  No time to go through the house to get to the roof. Besides, the plastic receptacle might make unwanted noise or buckle under his weight, giving him away.

  He searched for a better option.

  Fragrant honeysuckle climbed a trellis that screened either side of the back porch.

  The wooden lattice might be perfect. Provided it was sturdy enough.

  A quick shake after putting his full weight on two bottom rungs showed it to be a durable frame that’d been built to last.

  Aiden holstered his firearm and scaled the privacy trellis. He climbed smoothly, moving from one handhold to another. At the top, he hoisted himself up onto the patio roof and landed softly, straining not to make a sound.

  The sniper was clad in all black and in a prone position only several feet away, cheek pressed against the stock, trying to put holes in Torres.

  Aiden crept forward. Slipped his sidearm from the holster on his hip. “Freeze! Or I’ll blow your head off.”

  The semiautomatic gunfire stopped. The shooter stilled.

  “Hands up off the rifle. Now!” Aiden stepped closer, aiming for the shoulder. If he had to shoot, he’d prefer to wound him so they could question him and find out exactly who’d taken out the contract on Eugene.

  Slowly, the man with a buzz cut complied, raising his gloved hands to ear level, staying down on his belly.

  Aiden unhooked handcuffs from his gun belt and tossed them over to the guy. They clattered next to his left elbow. “Cuff yourself. Hands behind your back. Take it nice and slow.”

  “Please, don’t shoot,” the sniper said with a heavy twang that came from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line. “I’m just going for the handcuffs.”

  Dixie reached across his body with his right hand toward the cuffs, posture tightening, muscles shifting gradually. No sudden moves. Fingers dipped out of sight in front of his chest.

  Then a lot of things happened in a flash.

  The killer rotated lightning quick, flipping onto his back.

  In the same heartbeat, Aiden squeezed the trigger. Missed by a hair and hit a roof shingle because the assassin had been anticipating it, prepared for it.

  Steel glinted in the sun. Fast, so fast, Aiden almost didn’t see the fracture of light as the hit man threw a knife.

  If Aiden had blinked, he would’ve been dead.

  He ducked, narrowly avoiding a tactical blade to the throat. But the gunman launched himself up to his feet while throwing a second knife in one smooth motion.

  The four-inch combat knife struck Aiden in the bicep, destabilizing his firing arm.

  Dixie rushed him, two hundred pounds of desperate muscle charging.

  Aiden used the nanoseconds he had and lowered his own center of mass, grounding his body weight for the impact.

  The blow was harder than expected. Aiden used momentum, sending his enemy up from the ground and overhead.

  But Dixie grabbed hold of Aiden and ensured they both went down.

  They tumbled. Pure kinetic energy propelled two conflicting forces. They rolled and rolled right over the edge, plummeted, falling.

  Aiden threw a knee into the other man’s gut and twisted, positioning himself on top.

  The ground r
ushed up to greet them.

  Dixie’s head smacked against the AC unit with a nauseating crunch.

  Aiden slammed down hard, his bones jarred, the breath forced from his lungs, the blade knocked from his arm, but the hit man’s body had helped cushion the fall.

  He rolled off the body. The contract killer’s head lay at an unnatural angle, his neck snapped. That was when Aiden spotted it.

  A wireless, flesh-colored comms device tucked in the dead man’s ear.

  The sniper wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Two

  Dead silence.

  Aiden must’ve stopped the sniper. Of course he had. Whenever her partner set his mind to a task, he accomplished it no matter what.

  Charlie clasped Eugene’s shoulder and gave him a quick once-over, making sure he wasn’t injured.

  Eugene let out a ragged breath he’d been holding. Other than a bloody palm, he was fine.

  The kitchen looked like a war zone. The sniper had turned the cabinets into Swiss cheese and every breakable item that had been in Eugene’s vicinity had been shattered.

  They were lucky not to have been torn to pieces.

  Charlie rose, finger on the trigger of her 9 mm, and stepped out from behind the fridge door, then stopped cold.

  A prickle of alarm streaked up her nape, tightening every hair on her scalp. The back door was ajar. Aiden had closed it behind him when he left. She was certain of it.

  Charlie raised her palm, urging Eugene to stay put and keep quiet. He clung tighter to a shelf inside the fridge, understanding the silent warning.

  Nothing stood out. No overt sign of lingering danger caught her attention.

  But that open door was wrong.

  Her intuition wasn’t nearly as razor-sharp as Aiden’s, but her situational awareness—the instinct that flared if you were walking down a dark alley or found a door open that should’ve been closed—was finely tuned and had kept her alive after four years in tactical operations.

  Charlie remained perfectly still and listened.

  There. Not a breath. Not movement. A presence. Someone else in the room with them.

  Then the whisper-soft slide of footsteps across the wood floor.

  Her blood ran cold. She dropped to a low crouch behind the kitchen island with her gun leveled. Had the sniper taken out Torres, too, evaded Aiden and got into the house?

  The prospect of Aiden being hurt or worse was unconscionable.

  Another subtle scrape across the hardwood. Glass crunched underfoot and it wasn’t hers.

  “Charlie,” Aiden said in a ragged groan over comms in her ear. “The sniper isn’t alone.”

  His little news flash was thirty seconds late. Aiden’s timing sucked, but she breathed an inward sigh of relief that he was alive. Thank God.

  “Charlie? Are you all right?” Aiden’s usual smooth, carefree voice sounded rough-edged, more than winded. He must’ve been really hurting. “Come in.”

  Responding or calling for backup would’ve only given away her exact position. That was the absolute worst thing she could do.

  Shifting the angle of her body, she peered through the holes of the cabinets.

  Movement on the other side of the island. A shuffle. Rustle of debris.

  Pressure already on the trigger of her gun, as soon as she glimpsed a shadow, Charlie squeezed, sending a bullet into the silhouette.

  With an audible grunt, the person changed course. Charlie adjusted likewise.

  Instead of tracking the shadow as training had taught her, getting sucked into a game of cat and mouse while uncertain who was higher on the food chain, she did the unexpected. She leaped up and slid across the countertop to the other side of the island, landing at the back of a man shrouded in black.

  She was about to fire, but he pivoted and threw a leg sweep, moving with a speed and grace that defied his great bulk. The maneuver caught her behind the Achilles, launching her feet out from under her.

  Charlie’s primary weapon left her grasp and went skittering across the floor as she hit the hardwood flat on her back. Landed right on top of her CAR-15 and secondary firearm that was lodged against her spinal column.

  Agony exploded through her lumbar and skull. Scorching pain spasmed in every nerve along her spine. She gasped for air and swallowed the scream rising in her throat.

  Through watering eyes, she spied the hit man’s injury.

  Charlie had shot the thick, wide bruiser in the side.

  Dark red blood seeped between his gloved fingers where he applied pressure to the wound.

  She fought through the haze of pain and kicked him in the gut, using both feet and all her might.

  He doubled over, pressing harder to his injured side. His face stretched wide in a grimace. The tattoo on his neck of an alligator’s head with a skull in its open mouth looked like it was melting.

  This guy was big, skilled enough to get close without her knowing, had a high tolerance for pain since he was still standing, and was armed.

  The gun locked in his hand was the biggest immediate threat.

  Charlie threw a boot heel to his groin, redirecting his focus away from aiming and putting a bullet in her head. Another precise kick to his knee, over and over, until she heard the sharp, cracking noise of the kneecap shattering. A howl of anguish tore from his lips.

  A well-aimed kick was a woman’s ultimate defense.

  She didn’t stop there and rammed the heel of her foot up into his face, crushing his nose.

  He stumbled backward, his arms windmilling in a hopeless struggle for balance that he’d never regain. Blood gushed from his nostrils.

  Seizing the momentary advantage, she rolled onto her side, pulled her backup Glock 27 subcompact from the holster at the small of her back, aimed center mass and blew a hole in her attacker.

  The force of the bullet wasn’t enough to knock the big guy down. He stood motionless, hovering in animated death for an instant, and then tipped forward face-first.

  Charlie rolled out of the way.

  He hit the floor with a nauseating thud. She looked at his face, stared in his vacant eyes.

  She’d killed a man. He’d been trying to kill her and a witness. Extensive training had fortified her for this, but nothing truly prepared her for the stark reality.

  Next thing she knew, Torres came in hot through the front, making a beeline for Potter.

  Aiden hustled inside through the back door, coming to her side. “Are you all right?” he asked, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through her. He proffered a hand.

  Charlie accepted the assistance up and onto her feet, shaking off the vestiges of pain. She took in Aiden’s mussed black hair and his deep brown eyes. He looked uncharacteristically weary, and his softer brown complexion that spoke of his Native American heritage was pallid. A nick marred his cheek, but there was a nastier gash on his arm.

  Her breath hitched, her chest tightening. “You’re hurt.”

  The deep cut was below the sleeve of his tight black T-shirt. Blood ran in rivulets down his muscular arm and dripped from his fingers.

  This was the first time he’d ever been injured on the job in six years and she’d borne witness during the past four that they’d been partners. Not so much as a scratch.

  An impressive SOG record that made him a figure of near-mythic proportion in their elite ranks.

  “We’ve got to stop the bleeding, bandage it.” She hated the sound of fear that leaked into her voice. Pushing hair behind her ear, she summoned her composure. “You might need stitches.”

  “It has to wait,” Aiden said. “I’ll bandage it in the car and worry about stitches after we get to the SSPC.”

  Always self-sacrificing. Always a pillar of strength. Always so darn hard to resist.

  Aiden crouched next to the dead body and reached for something s
he’d completely missed. A black nylon belt bag on the dead man’s waist.

  “What about the sniper?” Charlie asked.

  Aiden unzipped the utility pouch and dumped the contents. Two loaded magazines and a cell phone fell out. He picked up the mobile device. “We took a tumble off the roof. He hit an AC unit. Neck snapped.”

  Tumble? She tamped down the watery, sick feeling welling up inside and retrieved her STI Staccato-P from the floor. “Let’s go.”

  The sooner they got Aiden’s wound to stop bleeding and Potter out of danger the better.

  Torres took point and led the way out through the front.

  Charlie and Aiden waited for Torres to give the all clear and start the SUV before they brought Eugene outside and ushered him quickly toward the vehicle.

  A few neighbors gawked at them through their windows as they made their way to the curb.

  She put a hand on top of Eugene’s head, ensuring he didn’t bump it on the frame, and helped him scramble into the third row. After putting the seat back in place, Charlie hopped into the second row.

  Aiden grabbed the medical kit from one of their bags stuffed with gear. As soon as he sat beside her, Torres thrust the SUV into gear and sped off, tires screeching.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God.” Eugene crouched low into a ball on the seat, his teeth chattering between his words. “Do you know how close I came to getting my head blown off? I almost died.”

  But he hadn’t. He was alive and well.

  Unlike Dale Banks, whose eight-month-pregnant wife was going to have to bury him.

  And Aiden had got injured in the process of protecting Eugene.

  Charlie snatched the medical kit from Aiden. No way was she going to let him treat himself. Not when she was there to help. She took out gauze and pressed it to the wound. He gave a small wince and quickly washed the expression from his face.

  Risking one’s life was part of the job that she had got used to quickly, but one thing rubbed her wrong and she’d never get used to it. Ninety-five percent of witnesses in the program were like Eugene—not innocent bystanders but rather criminals looking to be absolved of their illegal actions and to save their own neck. Snitches who were angry, bitter and had a sense of entitlement. Like the government owed them more.