But the shooter didn’t do that, and the flash of light was enough for Tom to see the face of the man who had saved him.
It was James Carrington, armed with a suppressed SR-25—a long-barreled semiautomatic DMR chambered in the .308 round.
But his former CO, just a figure in the darkness again now that the flash had ended, didn’t linger. He turned and moved, displacing, Tom knew, to the floor below to assist whoever was down there.
Carrington’s echoing footsteps reminded Tom of the second set of footsteps he’d heard as his former CO had made his escape two nights before.
Turning, Tom tossed the light aside and slipped the sling over the right side of his head, then under his left arm.
He ran for the stairs, too, and with everything he had.
Fifty-Four
His weapon shouldered, Tom moved down the stairs, his right eye fixed on what he could see through the AimPoint optic and his left eye open to detect what was beyond it.
He was halfway down the stairs when a backward-moving man passed the doorway below, firing into the room as he exited it.
The man must have also been maintaining his situational awareness, however, because he instantly turned in Tom’s direction.
But Tom had already sighted the man and dropped him with a controlled pair to the head before the man could even elevate his weapon.
Cautiously, Tom continued down the stairs, stepping over the fallen man when he reached the bottom step and taking cover to the left of the door.
From the room came continuous clacking sounds, as well as flashes of light—indications of an ongoing firefight.
Before Tom could peer around the doorframe and into the room, another man was driven backward through the door, firing as he went.
Instantly aware of Tom, he pivoted just enough to direct his M4 at his new, closer target.
Tom and the man fired at the same time—Tom’s shots finding their mark, the man’s striking the wall just inches to the left of Tom’s head.
Tom had no idea how many of the Colonel’s men remained in the room, but the flashes and sounds were an indication that a force of some size was present and fighting.
Peering fast around the corner, Tom glimpsed a scene of chaos before pulling back behind cover.
Despite the smokeless cartridges, the dark room was filled with a shifting haze of gun smoke, but through it Tom had counted a half dozen shooters, all of whom were facing the window and returning the fire coming from across the courtyard.
Tom had also seen Hammerton, still on his stool, his hands bound behind him.
Stealing a quick look again, Tom witnessed one shooter on the left side of the room go down, followed by another shooter on the right.
The danger of Tom surrendering his cover was that he might take friendly fire, but the sight of his friend balanced on a stool with a wire around his neck—and helpless in the middle of a firefight—was too much to bear.
Tom entered the room, assuming a kneeling position and firing at the man who was nearest to Hammerton.
That man was leaning forward, offering no clear shot at his head, so Tom opened up with automatic fire, putting a burst of three into the man’s back, followed by another burst, and yet another—intentional overkill that pushed the steel plate of the man’s body armor beyond the point of failure.
At some point between the second and third burst, the weaker 5.56 rounds penetrated, severing the man’s spine and bringing him down.
The bodyguard to his right pivoted to face Tom, displacing as he fired, his movement causing him to miss, but before Tom could even track him, the man reeled and dropped, struck down by either Carrington or his bodyguard.
The left side of the room was clear, so Tom moved into one of the shadowed corners as he circled for a clearer view of the right side.
Three of the Colonel’s men remained, two of whom were engaged with the shooters across the courtyard, but it was the actions of the third one that caught Tom’s attention.
Kneeling so he was below the window line, he was making his way toward Hammerton. When he was close enough, he kicked at one of the stool legs with the heel of his boot, but Hammerton’s weight kept the stool in place.
The man kicked it again.
Tom needed to reposition to get a clean shot at the man—three long strides to the left were all he needed.
He was making his second stride when the man kicked the stool again, knocking it free.
Hammerton was dangling, his feet kicking, when Tom abandoned his third stride to the left for a quick step forward, followed by another.
The man who had kicked the stool out saw Tom coming and raised his weapon, but before he could even shoulder it, someone appeared behind him—someone who’d also been kneeling and who had risen suddenly.
It was Esa Hirsh, a knife in her hand.
She threw herself onto the man’s back, wrapping her left arm around his head, thereby obscuring his sight and holding him steady as she drove the knife into the back of his head, twisting it once.
Then she was up on her feet, doing the last thing Tom had expected.
Risking making herself a target to the shooters across the courtyard, she rushed to Hammerton, bending slightly and wrapping her arms around his legs, then thrusting her hips forward till she was standing up straight.
She supported him as Tom resumed his maneuver to the left, clearing the way for a clean shot at the last two men.
Instead of bursts of three, Tom pressed the trigger and held it down, spraying rounds at one man, then the other, then back, and then back again.
Each man remained standing as his body armor absorbed the rounds—until the moment the body armor failed and he went down.
Tom felt the bolt carrier lock back on the empty mag, switched it for the other mag connected by the coupler, and slapped the bolt release as he ran toward his friend.
Though Hammerton’s weight was no longer a factor, the wire noose was still tight around his throat.
Tom had no knife, but there wasn’t time to waste.
He knelt over the man Esa had killed, removed the knife from his neck, and pushed the stool closer to Hammerton with his foot. Stepping onto the stool, he dragged the serrated blade across the wire, severing it.
Hammerton dropped to the floor, knocking over the stool as he landed and taking Tom and Esa down with him.
In a heap together, Tom and Esa were face-to-face.
The fire from across the courtyard ceased immediately.
Esa moved first, scrambling to her knees and climbing over Tom to reach Hammerton.
The wire had cut into him, and she had to slide her fingers between it and his skin to loosen the noose.
Hammerton was coughing as Tom joined Esa, the two of them examining him for any serious lacerations.
To Tom’s relief, his friend’s wounds were only superficial.
He looked at Esa, was about to thank her when she spoke.
“We’re not out of this yet,” she said.
Tom heard footsteps moving below as Esa used the knife to cut the plastic ties securing Hammerton’s wrists.
They helped Hammerton to his feet. Standing on either side of him and holding him up, they faced the courtyard.
Tom saw Carrington standing beside a man in his twenties. Though Tom didn’t recognize him, he knew this similarly armed individual was Carrington’s bodyguard.
“We’re coming around to the door,” Carrington called. “White panel van.”
Tom nodded, and he and Esa turned and started toward the door, Hammerton between them.
The man was stunned but still had the presence of mind to stop as they passed the first of the fallen men and say, “Grab his weapon.”
Esa did as ordered, also grabbing two spare magazines from the man’s carrier vest.
She handed the items to Hammerton, repeating the process when they reached the next fallen man.
That weapon and spare mags she kept for herself.
Hammerton was able to walk o
n his own—or so he insisted.
Together, the trio readied their weapons as they approached the door.
Fifty-Five
The last flight of stairs was clear, but Tom remained cautious as he took point.
Esa followed Tom, Hammerton behind her.
When Tom glanced back to check on his friend, he noted that Hammerton seemed just as concerned with the woman in front of him as he was with the remaining men in the building.
She had, after all, saved Hammerton’s life, but she had also killed the man whose murder Hammerton had spent the past two decades seeking to avenge.
Even under the best conditions, such conflicting information would be difficult to process.
Tom paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening for the activity he had heard before—footsteps and hushed voices coming from the street-level room, all of it hurried and urgent.
But there was none of that now, and just feet from where he stood was the exit, the two fallen scouts not far from it.
Still, men could be waiting to ambush them from the rear as they exited, so Tom positioned himself by the doorframe and peered into the room.
He saw no figures in the dim light, but there was something in the middle of the empty room.
The shape of it was familiar, and Tom recognized it immediately.
Three fifty-five-gallon drums joined together by wires, all of which fed into a single control panel mounted to the top of the center drum.
On the panel was a blinking light, either indicating that the incendiary device had been armed or signifying the ticking down of a digital timer.
Either way, it was time to leave.
Tom turned to Esa for answers.
Anticipating his questions, she said, “It was set for a two-minute countdown, but there’s no knowing when it was started.”
Hammerton had gathered enough of his wits to say to Tom, “Jesus, full circle again.”
Tom started a countdown in his head as he led them past the two fallen men to the main door, which was ajar again.
He gave them thirty seconds to get clear.
Beyond the door was a downpour that sounded like the steady roar of crashing waves.
Here, though, Tom and the others faced a similar problem: men were likely waiting outside to ambush them as they fled.
Tom knew from his study of the blueprints that there were other exits, but none was near enough that they would reach it in time.
The only way of escape was the door in front of them.
The only way out is through.
Tom once again took point position, standing to the side of the door and opening it halfway. Ten seconds had passed. When the movement of the door didn’t draw any fire, Tom peered around and scanned the street beyond.
He saw nothing—no armed men, no indications of movement, and no vehicles, including the white panel van Carrington had promised.
But the lack of an enemy out in the open didn’t mean no enemy was present.
Ten more seconds had passed—so ten more were all that was left.
Drawing back behind cover, Tom took a breath before risking another look, this time scouting the Jeep Rubicon parked at the far end of the block.
More than one hundred yards away.
It was a long haul to make, and they’d be out in the open for a good minute, maybe more, but it was the only option he saw.
To make matters worse, they would need to cross the wide street not once but twice—first to get clear of the building, and then again to reach the vehicle once they were down the block.
Tom turned to the others and said, “Straight out the door; stay close.”
Then he exited, Esa behind him, Hammerton behind her. Crouching low and moving as a phalanx, they sprinted, crossing the street at an angle, Tom scanning ahead, Esa looking to the right, Hammerton to the left.
Tom’s thirty seconds ended as they reached the other side of the street, so as they continued toward the Jeep, he began to count forward.
Maybe—maybe—they had another thirty seconds, but he couldn’t imagine it would be more than that.
Tom was thinking this when a vehicle rounded the corner where the Jeep was parked.
But it wasn’t the white panel van he’d been on the lookout for.
It was a black SUV, shiny and ominous, and bearing down on them.
Just seconds after it turned the corner, another SUV appeared, following the first.
Passing the Rubicon, the lead vehicle locked its brakes and slid sideways to a stop. The second SUV did the same.
Obviously, the drivers of both vehicles didn’t want to be near the factory when the device detonated, but they also weren’t about to let Tom and the others get clear.
The instant the SUVs stopped and the barricade was complete, the doors opened, and men scrambled out.
Six in all, including the drivers.
With no cover or concealment immediately available, Tom dropped to his knees, Esa and Hammerton following his lead. All three opened fire just as the last of the Colonel’s men, still fanning out, did the same.
The men being in motion, as well as under steady and more accurate fire, meant that their shots were less than precise, but Tom knew it was only a matter of time before those men took position behind their vehicles.
And once they did that, Tom, Esa, and Hammerton, pinned down with nowhere to go, would be easily picked off.
Another vehicle appeared at the corner.
The white panel van.
Instead of turning, however, the van continued straight before skidding to a stop in the middle of the street, its right side facing the barricade of SUVs.
Even before the vehicle had come to its stop, the panel door slid back, revealing a kneeling shooter inside—Carrington’s bodyguard.
His SR-25 shouldered, he began firing immediately.
Four of the six men turned to face the new threat, so Tom and his team focused on the two still firing at them.
At this distance, roughly seventy-five yards, precise head shots would be difficult, and the body armor would stand up to the 5.56 rounds, at least initially.
So Tom went for the two-foot-by-two-foot target that started at the abdomen and extended down to midthigh—the generally unprotected part of the human body that kept it upright. He dropped one man with a pelvic shot, and either Esa or Hammerton followed suit, dropping the other man with a shot to the lower abdomen.
With no more enemy fire coming at them, Tom said, “Move.” He stood and pressed forward, the others behind him.
The running count in his head was approaching twenty, and they still had twenty-five yards to go before they’d be clear of the building. Even then there was no guarantee that they’d be safe from the effects of the IED inside.
His eyes forward, Tom saw that one of the Colonel’s men was turning around to face the running trio. Tom was slowing and taking aim at the threat when a bright flash of light all but blinded him.
Then a gust of heated air hit him like a speeding bus.
The last thing Tom felt was the sensation of his feet losing contact with the pavement as the violent blast cast him airborne.
Fifty-Six
Tom heard ringing, and when he opened his eyes, he was in a dark room.
It took a moment for him to understand that he was in a warm bed, stretched out between clean sheets and beneath a heavy comforter.
Stella was there, leaning over him, smiling and saying in a soft, teasing voice, “Get up, Tom. Get up.”
Tom looked up at her, wanted to reach out for her but couldn’t. He needed just a little more rest before he could move his arms, so he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the dark and serene room had been replaced with a raining nighttime street, and the woman leaning over him wasn’t Stella but Esa.
And though she was telling him to get up, she wasn’t smiling, and there was nothing playful about her manner.
Tom knew by the look on her face that she wasn’t speaking softly.
She was, in fact, yelling loud enough to pierce the sickening ringing in his ears.
“Get up, Tom! Get up!”
He was flat on his back, and there was debris around him—glass, pieces of brick, thick dust that had yet to absorb the rain.
Placing his left hand on the sidewalk, Tom pushed himself into a seated position. Two pairs of hands grabbed him and pulled him the rest of the way to his feet, then proceeded to half carry, half drag him forward.
He looked to the left. The incendiary device on the ground floor had been powerful enough to blow out the factory’s remaining windows, but the only damage to the structure was a missing chunk barely big enough for a vehicle to drive through.
The heart of the long-abandoned building, however, was ablaze, and the fire was spreading fast.
The panel van had maneuvered between the two sideways SUVs and around the downed men scattered on the pavement. Tom was uncertain if they, too, had been knocked unconscious by the blast or had been shot dead by Carrington’s bodyguard.
Even in his current state—ears aching, senses overloaded to the point of numbness, mind rattled—Tom concluded that since they’d been farther from the explosion than he and his friends, it was unlikely that they were simply unconscious.
Still, he kept an eye on them as the van approached, almost willing them not to get up.
The van came to a stop, and Hammerton and Esa helped Tom inside. Carrington’s bodyguard—young, with a middleweight boxer’s build, blond hair, and beard trimmed close—was helping Tom sit on a tool bench as Esa entered, followed by Hammerton, who swung the door closed and called to the driver, “Go!”
Carrington flattened the accelerator, steering the van past the burning factory and turning right onto Kingston Drive.
Tom looked at the rearview mirror until Carrington glanced at it and met his stare.
“That was you in the apartment window,” Tom said.
Carrington nodded.
Tom said, “What were you doing there—”
He was cut off by the sound of gunfire, which was followed by the shattering of glass as rounds penetrated the rear door windows.
That was followed by the whizzing of rounds flying past Tom like angry bees.
The Shadow Agent Page 32
