Countdown to Zero Hour (22 page)

Taking aim down the long hallway, which had been where the guard’s rooms were, Art fired a volley, then quickly reloaded. Bullets answered him, and he ducked out of the way. A pool table absorbed the attack. Chips from the shattered balls and splintered wood flew through the room.

The fighting intensified at the front of the house, where Art had been shooting. He ducked into that hallway long enough to let loose another barrage. When he returned, avoiding the returned deadly answer, he tilted his head to the hall on the other side of the room.

“That’s where the bosses are.” His pistol clicked, metallic, as he checked it with expert hands. “We converge on this point.”

Footsteps thundered up the hallway where Art had been shooting. Wild gunfire came with them, clearing a path. She shrank closer to the wall, knowing she would never get small enough to avoid the bullets.

Somehow Art watched the situation with his usual calm confidence, picking it apart and staying balanced. “Let them panic. We stay cool.” He bumped his hip on hers. “You cool?”

“Ice-cold.” And hot. She went from numb to burning to back again, trying to process the war around her.

Three men burst out of the guards’ room hallway. Art shot the first, and the guard stumbled and spun to the ground. The other two scattered—one leaped to the cover of the stairwell, while the other kept running and dove under the pool table, slamming his head and shoulder hard on one of the thick legs.

Art traded shots with the guard at the top of the stairs. The man didn’t have a good angle on them and was temporarily pinned.

The man under the pool table gathered himself, rubbing at the back of his head while still holding his pistol. It was Gogol, one of the few guards who’d had a genuine smile for her, especially after they’d made the
syrniki
together.

His swimming eyes focused and he gaped when he saw Hayley and Art taking cover together. She raised her gun and pointed it at him before he could collect himself any further.

“
Nyet
, Gogol!
Nyet
!” It was all she could think of.

Art barked in a steadier stream of Russian while maintaining his concentration on the man in the stairwell.

Torn, Gogol glanced at the hallway behind him, where Art said the bosses were. The gun was in his hand, but it was on the ground, where he’d been trying to steady himself. His mouth moved as if in conversation with himself.

The pistol shook in her grip. She continued to tell Gogol,
“Nyet,”
praying he wouldn’t make her pull the trigger. Art didn’t stop working on him, too, sounding forceful but not threatening.

To counter them, the man in the stairwell spat sentences. She didn’t understand his words, but he was angrily shouting orders at Gogol.

Reeling, Gogol squeezed his eyes shut. Could she shoot? The metal in her hand was the heaviest thing she’d ever held.

Gogol shook his head and shouted over everyone else’s voices.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

When he looked up again, it was into her eyes. He was drained. Releasing his grip on the gun, he pushed it so it slid across the floor toward Art and Hayley. Gogol placed his hands behind his head and sank into the ground, no fight left in him.

But the man in the stairwell wasn’t ready to give up. Gogol’s sudden silence must’ve spurred him, because he became reckless, firing wildly as he sprinted back onto the landing.

She and Art ducked out of the way. If he continued to fire like that, she would be hit. There had to be better cover somewhere. Before she could run, Art fired a single shot. The guard fell, his attack over.

The battle at the front had stopped, and in the silence she heard footsteps hurry up the guards’ rooms’ hallway. Hayley tugged on Art’s arm, conscious now of the blood that streamed down his biceps.

She whispered urgently, “We have to move.”

“Not yet.” He held up his hand and waited. “Friendlies.”

The two men who rushed from the hallway were the ones who’d attacked from the gate. They immediately spread out when they reached the room, covering the angles behind the walls, including Art and Hayley.

The man closest to them wore a helmet and goggles, but his smiling mouth was exposed, surrounded by a tight, dark beard. “You were right, mate.” He had a roughened British accent. “That is a terrible hallway.”

The other man circled around, making sure the room was clear. His complexion was much lighter than his partner, and he was clean-shaven. He put his fist out for Art and received a quick bump. “Thanks for the assist.” A bit of country twanged in his words. “We still on the rails?”

“Affirmative.” Information came from Art in quick, efficient packets. “One POW.” He pointed at Gogol, who remained under the pool table with his head down. “Targets remain in one or both of the rooms in that hallway.”

“Injuries?” the British man asked, quickly scanning over Art and Hayley.

“Nominal.” Art turned to her. “And...?”

If she was hurt, she couldn’t feel it. “I’m fine.”

“More than fine.” Art gave her a wink, helping the blood run in her body and chasing some of the cold.

All three men suddenly raised their weapons, ready. She hugged closer to the wall and tried to keep her hands steady on her pistol. There was no shooting below, or on this floor. A new threat approached, but she wasn’t as tuned as Art and the others. Where was it? What was coming?

Then she heard the quick footsteps. The two men in tactical gear relaxed a bit, and the British man whispered to Art, “SEAL Team Zero.”

Art bit back a chuckle as two men sped out of the hallway. Their equipment was strapped to heavy vests across their broad torsos. Even with his helmet, she recognized Harper from the hotel. The other soldier with him was an African-American man with a black bandana tied above his alert eyes.

Harper shook his head. “Who fucking designed this house? More blind spots than a goddamn minivan.”

She noticed that while the soldiers spoke, none of them stayed in the same place very long. All four of the men in the tactical gear circulated around the room, checking out windows and down hallways, their guns loosely gripped but ready.

Art put his hand out. “Can I get a radio so I can avoid surprises?”

The African-American man pulled a small walkie-talkie out of a pouch on his vest and handed it to Art, who snapped it to his belt and ran a cord from it into his ear.

“Trigger’s on com.” Art barely uttered the words, and the other men nodded.

Harper stepped closer to Hayley. He bristled with weapons but still asked gently, “You still kicking ass?”

“I guess.” There was a lull in the battle, but she knew better than to relax. She might never catch her breath.

“She is,” Art answered definitively.

“Then you were right, Diaz.” The African-American man gave Art a friendly pound on his uninjured shoulder. “She isn’t a liability.”

All her kitchen knives had been destroyed, but she found some steel. “And you should taste my meatloaf.”

The men chuckled, and the soldier backed off a bit.

Art explained, “Jackson was our man in the dirt this whole time. He’s finding his way back to civilization.” Art pulled ammunition from Jackson’s vest and reloaded his own pistol. “Glad you got my message.”

Jackson smiled, as relaxed as if it was a sunset beach meet-up and not a gunfight. “Nothing like a fifty-foot fireball to start the party.”

“How many heavies remaining?” The man with the southern twang was back to business.

“Unknown,” Art answered. He made quick hand gestures to the others, and they fanned out through the room and started approaching the hallway with the doors leading to where he said the bosses had been.

Her exploration of the house had only taken her to where the guards’ rooms were. This part of the floor was unknown. It felt airless, a hallway leading to a dead end. No windows. The sun shot all the way through the house and streaked the walls with amber and orange.

Art stalked behind the other members of Automatik, and she followed. Together, the team moved silently and coordinated. All the angles were covered. The hallway ahead was quiet. At least five armed men waited there. She couldn’t imagine that any one of them would want to be taken without drawing blood.

The soldiers moved around the pool table and Gogol. Scattered furniture piled like bones. The room narrowed into the hallway. She stared at the shadows and light on the doors, searching for movement with such intensity that the shapes persisted when she looked away.

Art shook his head and scowled, something bothering him. He reached forward and tapped Jackson on the shoulder. Once he had the man’s attention, he indicated the edges of the room with hand gestures. The other soldiers watched and understood, and quickly spread out, away from the hallway and along the perimeter.

Three quick shots roared, louder than she’d heard so far. The room shook with the concussion. Huge chunks of plaster and wood sprayed out from one of the walls next to the hallway.

None of the soldiers were hit, but if they’d been walking through the room as they had been before Art had redirected them, at least one would’ve been wounded. Or killed.

Three more blasts rattled off. The bosses weren’t using the doors—they shot their way out.

Led by Garin. He smashed through the perforated wall carrying a huge shotgun that fired and fired again. His eyes were red with rage, and he shouted what sounded like Russian curses and oaths. Strapped to his chest was a loaded black tactical vest.

His shots drove the Automatik soldiers to cover. Behind him came two screaming guards, firing pistols. Then the bosses streamed out of the actual door of the conference room, guns barking and filling the room with bullets.

Art hurried backward, taking her with him. They avoided the initial outburst of the escape. The wall of gunfire chased them. Returning fire as he retreated, Art bought them a sliver of space. The other soldiers were pinned behind narrow pillars and broken furniture and couldn’t knock down the attack.

Garin brought hell with him. Fire and hot metal. Death.

She still had her pistol but couldn’t figure out where she could shoot to stop the onslaught. And if she stopped long enough to aim, she’d be torn apart.

Art and Hayley passed the pool table, and Gogol sprinted out from beneath it, disappearing down the guards’ room hallway. A stray bullet caught him in the leg, and he crashed into a wall, then the ground. Her stomach flipped as she heard his agonized scream.

Art continued to move them from cover to cover, shooting when he could, but barely keeping ahead of the mayhem. How long could they run?

One of the Automatik soldiers pierced a shout into the fight. “Grenade!”

The deadly metal explosive clanked on the ground in front of Art and Hayley.

Chapter Nineteen

The unknown fuse could set the grenade off in a split second. Art dove at the weapon, shoving it away with his outstretched hand. The alloy sphere, designed to fragment and tear flesh apart, skittered across the wood floor then exploded under the pool table.

He turned and found Hayley taking cover farther up the room, toward the guards’ rooms’ hallway. Safe from the grenade. The shooting continued, though he couldn’t hear it after the blast. But he could feel the wake of the bullets as they streaked in all directions. He fired a couple of wild shots into the mix, gaining space so he could rush the few feet between him and Hayley.

Another grenade arced through the air and thudded to the ground near them. Art shouted to Hayley as he shot in a different direction, clearing a path for her escape. She ran toward the back stairwell.

One of the two guards with Garin swung a gun around toward her. Art spent too many bullets eliminating the threat, but he wasn’t going to conserve anything until he knew she was safe.

She made it into the top of the stairwell.

Two seconds had passed since the second grenade had fallen. Art leaped into the guards’ rooms’ hallway just as the explosion hit. He pulled his feet around the corner and watched the destructive wave take the wood and drywall apart.

He jammed himself to standing, then was rocked by a third blast, somewhere between him and Hayley. It had to stop. She was in the middle of a firefight.

After reloading his pistol, he took himself to the edge of the hallway to assess the fight in front of him.

Hayley was gone. The top of the back stairwell was a collapsed jumble of plaster and exposed wood studs. Cold fear boiled off to rage.

He stepped into the fight, bullets flying all around him. A boss, Krylov, turned in a circle, firing a submachine gun erratically to hold anyone back. The jumping barrel came around toward Art, and he fired a shot into Krylov’s knee. The man buckled in pain. Art put another bullet through his shoulder. The gun fell from the boss’s hand. Harper tackled him and bound his wrists with zip ties.

Two other bosses were already subdued and on the ground. The youngest, Yemelin, kept Sant and Raker pinned with a flurry of pistol shots.

The big noise of the fight was gone, though. Something was very wrong.

Garin was missing. Rolan wasn’t among the bosses.

Alarm knifed deeper into Art.

He leveled his aim and shot Yemelin in the forearm. The boss’s hand sprang open, and the gun fell to the floor. Sant broke his cover and took Yemelin to the ground, restraining him and shoving him toward the other captured bosses.

“Only four.” Raker scanned, checking for where the other threats might be.

A truck engine screamed below the second floor. Art rushed to a window in time to see Garin jumping onto the running board of the water truck as Rolan drove it around the house.

Holding on to the passenger door, Garin fired a spray of bullets up at Art and the others. They ducked, avoiding being injured but allowing the truck to gain distance on them. Different shots popped from the first floor. They sounded a bit unsure, the pace slow, but managed to strike the truck in loud thumps.

Garin’s attack passed, and Art peered down the broken windows.

Hayley stood, smoking pistol in her hand. Her face was stern, resolved.

Art breathed for the first time in his life. He wanted to vault himself out of the window to her, but when she saw him, she pointed toward the escaping truck with her gun.

“I’m okay,” she shouted through rushed breaths. “Get them.”

For her, he would. For his father. For anyone else they might hurt.

The rest of his team was occupied with the bosses in the room. He sprinted across the space to the opposite windows. The glass was all blown out, but the wood framing remained. It wasn’t enough to stop him.

He picked up speed and barreled into the window. Wood snapped and shattered. Jagged edges scraped at his arms and shoulders. Through the barrier, he landed on a short roof that curved above the edge of the first floor. The surface buckled under his weight, but he managed to run a few feet on it before leaping off.

The truck was just passing the wrecked corner of the house when Art jumped. Water sprayed from the holes Hayley had punched into the back of the giant tank. He hit the top and bounced on the hard metal. One of his hands held his pistol, making it hard to grip the curved surface. He scrambled to stay on as the truck bounced over the rubble from the fallen cinder block wall, grabbing one of the metal fittings that protruded out of the top of the tank.

Art sprawled, finding the center point of the tank just as the truck hit the desert and tore across the hard-packed earth. Jackhammer impacts bounced him, chest down on the metal. He crawled forward until he could hook a grip on the front edge of the tank, where the desert air burned across his face.

Voices from Art’s team came over the radio in his ear.

“The fuck?”

“Mission’s not over.”

“Not until Art finishes it.”

Holding the lip of the tank with one arm, Art fired into the passenger section, where he’d seen Garin climb in. The jumping truck threw his aim off, and the bullets punched through sections of the roof or skipped over the hood or were lost into the desert.

More radio chatter: “Dragonfly, time to dust off this roundup.”

They were calling for the helicopter. The house had been secured.

Jackson’s voice carried extra urgency. “Chef is unaccounted for. The chef is unaccounted for.”

Fuck. Hayley needed him. He had to end this fight and get back to her.

As calm as a redwood tree, Mary’s voice crackled over the radio. “Art, you have an armed heavy prepped for egress out the passenger side.”

Garin swung the door open and fired a burst from a submachine gun. The bumping terrain threw his shots off, the same as had happened to Art.

Art tried to shoot back, but each time he pulled the trigger, the truck lurched and the bullet went wild.

The terrain grew severe, and the truck bucked like a bull. Garin swung out on the door, slamming back and forth. Art went airborne, then slapped back to the top of the tank, knocking the wind out of him.

The truck hit another hard rut, and Art had to decide between keeping his gun or holding on. The pistol skipped away into the growing shadows on the desert floor. By the time Art had collected himself, Garin had moved out of the cab and was now crawling onto the top of it, submachine gun in hand.

Before Garin could fire, Art lunged forward and grabbed the barrel. He twisted the gun from Garin’s sweaty grip. But he couldn’t maintain a hold, and the weapon was lost to the speeding landscape around them.

Garin snarled and leaped onto the top of the truck with Art, who had to scuttle backward on his knees. He banged against the pipes and fittings on the top and barely rolled out of the way as Garin stomped down toward him.

The guard shouted into the wind and swung out a vicious kick that caught Art in the ribs. The pain made his side seize up, but he managed to wrap his arm around Garin’s lower leg and hold on.

Art drove his fist again and again into Garin’s lower belly, then spiked his elbow into the side of the Russian’s knee.

Howling with pain and rage, Garin kicked with his unpinned leg in an attempt to lurch himself out of Art’s control. And the truck continued to bounce, barreling through the desert.

Art couldn’t let Rolan escape. If he made it to town, he might disappear, then be able to rebuild the organization. And he’d have Art’s and Hayley’s identities.

Blows landed on Art’s shoulders, the side of his head, but he wouldn’t let go. He turned his body so Garin’s leg twisted under him. Garin then pounded on his back with the edge of his fist.

Both men started to slide down one side of the tank. The hard dirt sped beneath them. Art used his free hand to draw the knife on his belt and slashed out to slow Garin’s attack.

The blade bit into Garin’s arm, and he recoiled. The truck bounced hard, knocking Art against the tank and forcing him to lose his hold on Garin. As soon as the guard pulled away, he snapped open his own knife.

Finally. One of them would die. Art promised that it would be Garin. The man had antagonized Hayley since the beginning. Now he was keeping Art from her one last time.

Crouched low for balance, both men swept forward with bladed attacks. The knives scraped each other, but no flesh was cut. Garin tried again quickly. Art turned out of the way but stumbled and couldn’t counter.

The clock that had wound so tight in him now spun completely out of control. Wild rage fought against his trained calm in the face of danger. His mission was here, on this speeding truck. And all he wanted was to find Hayley, to get her to safety.

With their positions reversed, Art now faced the back of the truck. Another car charged through the desert, gaining on them. It was his SUV.

Hayley drove.

Garin glanced at where Art stared. When the guard swung back around, his face was tight with fury.

Art shouted to him in Russian, “You’re not going to leave this desert alive.”

The guard readied for another attack, steadying himself on one of the fittings at the top of the truck.

Art yelled into his walkie-talkie, “Mary, give me a full stop on the water truck.”

She answered smoothly, “Stand by for a fifty-caliber parking brake.”

He sheathed his knife and motioned for Hayley to get parallel to the truck on his left. She struggled with the wheel but managed to bring the car closer.

Close enough for him to jump.

She gaped with shock when he flung himself off the side of the water tank and slammed onto the hood of the SUV. As soon as he had a grip on the edge of the sheet metal, he looked up to the truck.

Garin was just coiling to jump when the truck’s engine burst into a sputtering ball of flame and smoke. Rolan made the mistake of slamming on the brakes. The chassis screamed and torqued as the truck ground forward, then curled sideways. It hit a rut and groaned, toppling over in a roll that sent Garin flying into the shadows. The water inside the tank jerked the truck, sloshing and booming.

Hayley brought the SUV to a relatively controlled stop, and Art rolled off the hood and onto the ground. He’d staggered up to a hand and knee when she reached him.

“Are you hurt?” Just having her hands on him lifted some of the pain.

But not all of it. He strained out a laugh.

“Much?” she added.

He stood, still buzzing with adrenaline. “You can’t shoot, but you sure as hell can drive.”

She curled an arm around his waist and tried to guide him toward the passenger side of the SUV. Her voice shook with emotion. “Did you think I was really going to leave you out here alone?”

His eyes glossed and he clenched his jaw while his mouth searched for words. He whispered back, “Never leave me.”

“I won’t.” Her hands curled tighter around him. “I—”

A shuffling attack came from the desert dark. Garin, streaked with blood and dust, flailed toward Art and Hayley with his knife drawn. Art thrust himself between Hayley and Garin, but she was way too close to the conflict. The first swipe from the thick blade almost cut Art across the chest.

Garin hissed blood through bared teeth. He was fighting to the death.

Art would give it to him.

The next slash came down, and Art sidestepped it. Before Garin could pull back, Art grabbed his wrist and elbow. Twisting with all his strength, Art turned Garin’s knife, still in his hand, toward the Russian’s chest.

Garin tried to wrestle free from the grip, but it was too late. Art threw his weight into the bellowing man, driving the knife in under his ribs. Both of them fell to the dirt.

As Garin breathed his last, Art whispered to him,
“Adiós.”

The dying man tried to shake his head in denial of the word and his fate at Art’s hand. Stillness overtook the body, and he lay heavy on the desert ground.

Art stood, Hayley immediately with him. She didn’t look at Garin. Her face was grim, tired, but not defeated.

But he resisted letting her take him to the car. “The mission’s not over.”

The wound in his shoulder started to burn. His ribs were bruised. Every joint ached. He pulled himself together and walked to the crashed truck. Hayley remained with him, cautious.

The SUV’s headlights striped blue through the swirling dust, shining on the growing pool of water and mud.

The three-quarter roll had crushed the truck’s roof and bent down a corner of the driver’s door. Art wrenched the door open and dragged the semiconscious Rolan out. Blood stained the man’s silver hair, and his eyes swam, unfocused on Art and Hayley.

Art paid no care to any injuries Rolan might’ve had as he searched the boss for weapons, then dragged him to his feet by his lapels. “The Orel Group is dead.” He fumed in slow, clear Russian. “Tony Diaz ended you.”

“Who?” Rolan winced, his brows bunching as he tried to form thoughts.

“Tony Diaz.” Just saying the name brought the emotions up through Art. His breath came in ragged rasps. “My father, who you had killed. And now he’s at rest, because you’re done.”

“Tony...” Rolan processed while his head lolled from side to side. “I don’t remember...”

“But you knew something.” Art shook him, needing to know if there were any leaks about Automatik. “You knew something about me.” A secret that Rolan had kept, like a poison knife under his coat.

Rolan laughed, cut short by wheezing pain.

Art pushed him against the leaking water tank. “What do you know?”

Rolan looked over his shoulder and frowned, disappointed. “You could’ve been...strong...with us. Power... But a woman... You were a fool...to fall in love with her.”

Hayley stood behind Art. The last light of day outlined her in amber. She was scraped and dirty and exhausted and undefeated and beautiful.

Art released his hold on Rolan. “Dead wrong.”

Without his support, Rolan couldn’t stand and flailed. He slid down the side of the tank and onto the ground. Art grabbed his lapel and dragged him through the dirt and mud toward the SUV.