Kill Count

by Brent Towns

  “Give ’em a warning shot,” Traynor ordered.

  The M230 roared to life, spewing flame like dragon’s breath. Asphalt exploded all around the cop car as the 30mm rounds tore into the road. The cruiser halted again.

  “They tried to run.” Deadshot’s voice came through the com. “That proof enough?”

  “Negative,” Traynor replied. “I might hit reverse too if a fucking Apache showed up in front of me. We need more proof.”

  As if on cue, the cruiser’s doors opened and two men wearing police jackets came out firing pistols. The jackets were unbuttoned to reveal the suicide vests beneath.

  “That proof enough?” Deadshot asked.

  “There’s our dirtbags,” Traynor growled. “Hit ’em!”

  Both chainguns cut loose at the same time, sending 30mm bullets scorching downrange at a blistering rate of 300 rounds per minute. The two terrorists were obliterated beyond anything resembling human beings, shredded into crimson slurry by the chainguns, flesh and bone dissolving in the devastating crossfire. By the time the M230s stopped firing, the terrorists’ remains were strewn all over the bridge. The coroner wouldn’t need anything more than a shovel and a plastic bag.

  “Deadshot to Bravo Two, the targets have been terminated.”

  Traynor was impressed by the firepower he had just witnessed. “Bravo Two to Deadshot… no shit.” He made a mental note to beg Thurston to acquire an Apache for the Team Reaper arsenal. They could always help themselves to some confiscated cartel money to help pay the $200 million price tag. Hell, he would go to school himself to learn to fly the warbird.

  “Deadshot to Bravo Two, you’re still calling the shots. What’s next?”

  “Head back to base, Deadshot.” Traynor looked out the cockpit window at what remained of the dead terrorists. The mission was over. “Time to go home.”

  Chapter 15

  Angel of Mercy Hospital

  Twenty-eight hours later

  Traynor answered his phone on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “We’re here,” Kane said. “Reardon awake?” He kept his voice flat, emotionless. He and Traynor still had some shit to sort out, but first things first.

  “He’s awake,” Traynor replied. “Come on up.”

  “He knows the kid got a little banged up, right?”

  “He knows.”

  “Okay. We’re on our way.”

  Five minutes later, Jeremy Reardon rushed into the hospital room. His eyes lit up when he saw his father. “Daddy!” A big white bandage formed a puffy dome around the kid’s right ear.

  Kane and Cara stood in the doorway as Jeremy climbed onto the bed and snuggled into his father’s arms. As reunions went, this was a good one. Tears spilled down Reardon’s cheeks as he held his son as best he could limited by his crippled leg and assorted wounds.

  Reardon finally pulled away enough to look at Kane. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for giving me back my boy.”

  Kane nodded. “No thanks necessary. You helped us take down a nasty cartel enterprise, and you paid a hell of a price for it.”

  “The one who ordered…” He hesitated, glanced at Jeremy, then back at Kane. “You know…”

  Kane nodded. “The man who gave the order took one right between the eyes.”

  Reardon nodded. “Thanks for that.” He paused, then added, “I thought it would make me feel better, but it doesn’t.”

  “Nothing will make it better but time,” Kane replied. “Trust me, I know.”

  Reardon gave him a nod, then turned back to Jeremy.

  Kane looked at Traynor. “I think it’s time you and I had a chat, Pete.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

  They grabbed a coffee at the cafeteria, then went outside to get some fresh air. The city had come back to life after President Carter announced yesterday evening that Johnny Jihad had been killed by “special forces” and that those same special forces, in conjunction with two unnamed—to prevent cartel retaliation—Apache pilots, had stopped another terrorist attack designed to decimate One Police Plaza. Overnight polls showed the President’s approval rating had skyrocketed with the news.

  They found a concrete bench around the corner and sat down. Neither man said anything, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

  Traynor spoke first. “How’s Carlos? Heard he took some lead in Colombia.”

  Kane nodded. “Some bandits caught us in an ambush. Arenas took two in the leg, one in the ribs. We got him fixed up last night and sent him off for some R and R with his family.” Carlos’ wife, daughter, and son had come to the United States when the ex-Mexican Special Forces operator joined Team Reaper.

  Traynor sipped from his coffee. “That’s good.”

  Kane sighed, then dumped the rest of his coffee on the ground—it tasted like lukewarm mud anyway, just like all hospital java—and crushed the paper cup in his fist. “No, Pete, it’s not good. He took three bullets while you sat on your ass.”

  Traynor’s head whipped around. “The hell is that crap, Reaper? Are you seriously blaming me for Carlos getting wounded?”

  “Directly blaming you? No,” Kane replied. “But the fact of the matter is, you weren’t there, and you should have been.”

  “And just leave Mike to fend for himself? He was attacked, Reaper. Omega crippled him and slashed him to ribbons, but you expected me to just leave him lying in a hospital bed and fly off to the land of coffee and coke?”

  “Yeah,” Kane said. “That’s exactly what I expected.”

  “Mike and I went through some bloody times together, Reaper. He’s my brother, and I had to have his six.”

  Kane fixed him with a piercing stare. “Are you saying the members of Team Reaper aren’t your brothers?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I said, and you know it.”

  “Kind of sounds like you did.”

  “Kiss my ass, Reaper. Of course, they’re my brothers. I’d give my life for any of them.”

  “And yet you didn’t have their six this time, and Carlos ended up down for the count.”

  “That’s so un-fucking-fair that I can’t even believe you would—”

  Kane cut him off. “I know it’s not your fault Carlos got hit.”

  “Sure as hell doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Seriously, I do,” Kane said. “But if you had been there if you’d had his six like you’re supposed to, then maybe you could have stopped it from happening. Maybe one more gun would have made all the difference. I expect—no, demand—that everyone on this team never gives each other a reason to question their loyalty. But you chose your buddy over your teammates, and that raises a big question about where your loyalties lie.”

  Traynor drained his coffee and mimicked Kane by crushing the paper cup in his fist. Kane could see the veins in his tattooed arms bulging and knew the ex-DEA agent was getting angry. Kane didn’t care. Saying the hard words was part of being a leader.

  Traynor rose from the bench, walked stiff-legged over to a trash receptacle, and threw away the crumpled cup. When he came back, he towered over Kane, who remained seated. “That’s some real crap you’re spouting, Reaper,” he said. “The kind of crap that some might say deserves a punch in the mouth.”

  Now Kane stood up. He did it slowly, calmly, sure of himself. Traynor was tall, but Kane was taller. He took a step back, arms hanging loosely at his side. “Go ahead and get it done then,” Kane said. “First shot’s free. The rest you’ll have to earn.”

  Traynor bunched up his fists. Tension burned hot between the two warriors and for a few strained moments, Kane thought Traynor would actually take a swing. But then the anger seemed to abruptly drain out of him like air from a punctured balloon. “I’m not going to hit you, Reaper,” he said, slumping back down onto the bench. “Just kick me off the team and get it over with.”

  Kane remained standing. “That what you want?”

  “Doesn’t much matter what I wa
nt, does it?”

  “I’m asking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to hear the answer.”

  Traynor leaned back, rubbing his hands over his bearded face. “If you’re asking me if I want to get kicked off the team, then the answer is no.”

  “But do you understand my position?”

  “Yeah,” Traynor said begrudgingly. “Yeah, I guess I see where you’re coming from. But it was an impossible choice to make, Reaper. Loyalty to my brother from the old days, or loyalty to my brothers in the here and now.” He gave Kane a look that was both regretful and tinged with defiance. “It wasn’t like I didn’t want to be there in Colombia with you guys. I just felt Mike needed me more and I couldn’t walk away.”

  Kane looked him dead in the eye. “And that’s why I’m not telling you to pack up and get off my team.”

  Traynor clearly wasn’t expecting that. “You’re not?”

  “No. Like I said, I demand my team shows loyalty to their brothers. You did that. You stood watch over a fallen brother. That kind of loyalty, that kind of brotherhood, is exactly what I want on Team Reaper.”

  Traynor stood up again and faced him, features solemn. “I appreciate that, Reaper. I really do. I hope to God I never have to make that kind of choice again.”

  “You and me both,” Kane reached out and clapped Traynor on the shoulder. “Consider yourself on a leave of absence. Stick around here until Reardon is ready to take care of himself. We’ll hold things down until you’re back.”

  “Thanks. But if something pops, give me a call. You have my word I’ll be there.”

  “With a pistol in each hand, right?”

  “And a knife between my teeth.” Traynor grinned.

  Cara rounded the corner. “There you boys are.” Her eyes flicked back and forth between the two men, figuring out where things stood. “All good?”

  “Yeah,” Traynor said. “He tried to fire me, but I told him I wasn’t going.”

  “How’d that work out?” Cara asked.

  “We thumb-wrestled for it,” Traynor replied. “Reaper lost.”

  “Yeah,” Kane snorted. “That’s how it all went down.”

  Cara smiled. “Glad it all worked out.” She looked at Kane. “Reaper, I’m starving. Let’s go find a steak before we head back to HQ.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “Great. I’m just going to use the ladies room. I’ll meet you at the Jeep.”

  Both men watched her walk away. Sure, she was a fellow warrior, but she was also a woman, and their eyes looked where men’s eyes are prone to look.

  “So is it true she’s got a picture of Donald Duck tattooed where the sun don’t shine?” Traynor asked.

  Kane smiled and shook his head. “A gentleman never tells, right?”

  “You’re a lucky man, Reaper.”

  “Was,” he corrected, with just a hint of regret in his voice. “Not anymore.”

  Traynor snorted. “Yeah, okay, you two keep acting like it’s over. The rest of us are smart enough to know that things are just on pause.”

  Kane gave him a crooked grin. “Time will tell, I guess.”

  They said their goodbyes and Kane made his way to the parking garage next to the hospital. Cara might be craving a ribeye, but with the mission now behind them, Kane was thinking it was time for a celebratory shot of whiskey. Maybe even two shots.

  Visiting hours were almost over, so the parking garage was only half-full. Kane’s hand was reaching for the door handle of the Jeep when a scruffy cat bolted from beneath the vehicle and raced away with a yowling screech. A second later it went sprawling in a boneless tumble as its head vanished in a red smudge.

  Kane recognized the sound of a suppressed gunshot and spun around, drawing his Sig M17. But the stranger already had him dead to rights; the suppressor-equipped HK45 tactical pistol pointed at his chest. The gun gleamed black and ugly in the murky lights of the garage.

  Kane kept the Sig down by his side, waiting to see how this would play out.

  “I hate cats. Worthless animals,” the gunman said. “Now, I see you managed to pull your piece. Do me a favor and drop it.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “It wasn’t a request. Besides, you’ve got nothing to worry about… for now. I’m not here to kill you unless you make me. I just want to talk.”

  “Not much for chit-chat,” Kane replied.

  The stranger smiled, and it was a mirthless smile. He was tall, almost as tall as Kane, with buzzed hair and flat eyes that had seen things that deadened a man’s soul. Whoever this guy was, he had danced with the devil a time or two. Kane had no doubt there was blood on the man’s hands, and he had a strong suspicion whose blood it was.

  “Drop your weapon,” the gunman said. “I won’t ask you again.”

  Kane shrugged. “Man with the gun makes the rules.” He let the Sig fall to the concrete. He still had a Ka-Bar sheathed under his jacket and began calculating how to close the ten-meter gap between them so he could bring the blade into the game. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Let’s talk about your team, Reaper, and how I’m going to kill every last one of them after I finish the job on Reardon.”

  So, you’re Omega, Kane thought. Nice to meet you, asshole. He didn’t try to play dumb. The guy clearly had sensitive information and wasting time acting stupid wasn’t going to get him anywhere. “How the hell do you know about my team?” he asked.

  Omega smiled thinly. “You’re a drug task force with ties to the DEA. I also happen to have a connection with the DEA and a high enough security clearance to dig up the dirt on you and your merry band of mutts.”

  “Did you dig deep enough to figure out we’re not people you want to fuck with?”

  Omega’s grin widened. “Yeah, yeah. Always fear the Reaper, right?”

  Kane shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

  “What if I said I wanted to join your team?”

  “I’d tell you we don’t hire psychopaths.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” Omega countered. “Sure, I’ve killed people. But you and your team killed more people in the last seventy-two hours than I’ve killed in my entire life. But yeah, sure, I’m the brain-twisted psycho.”

  Kane had no regrets about who he had killed. He eyed the gun trained on him and felt the numbers running down toward zero as he rasped, “They had it coming.”

  “We all got it coming.”

  A hospital security guard chose that unfortunate moment to step out of the elevator. He was young and unarmed, but Kane seriously doubted that mattered to a heartless killer like Omega.

  The guard saw the gun pointed at Kane, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Hey!” he shouted, pointing at the assassin. “Put it down!” He reached for the nightstick at his side. Even with the gravity of the moment, Kane couldn’t help but think there was a tragic joke in there about bringing a club to a gunfight.

  But it was no laughing matter when Omega, in the blink of an eye, swung his pistol around and pumped two bullets into the guard’s chest, drilling right through the tin badge he wore over his heart. The guard catapulted backward as blood splashed all over the elevator doors.

  While the man’s casual murder infuriated Kane, he nevertheless seized the opening the fickle gods of war had given him. He launched himself forward as Omega started to bring the pistol back into play. He closed the gap faster than the assassin had anticipated, slamming into him a split second before he fired. The impact caused the shot to go wide and smack into the door of a nearby Lexus. The shrieking noise of a car alarm filled the parking garage like the soundtrack to the apocalypse.

  As they crashed to the ground, Kane managed to knock the gun from Omega’s hand. He also managed to draw his Ka-Bar, but before he could even think about using it, Omega drove a knee into his groin and used the leverage to flip him over his head. Kane felt himself airborne for a moment, then hit the ground hard, with a loud thud
like a slab of beef dropped on the butcher’s table. His mashed balls screamed for payback, demanding that he ram the knife between Omega’s ribs and carve his name into the assassin’s black, beating heart.

  He quickly powered to his feet. Omega did the same, and the two warriors faced each other. With a twisted smile, Omega drew a knife of his own, a Spyderco.

  “You see this knife?” Omega taunted. “I’m gonna stick it in you.”

  “I’m guessing you’re not a big believer in ‘no means no.’” Kane held the Ka-Bar low, ready to move in for a disemboweling strike.

  “You know, Reaper, I think I’m done talking,” Omega said. “I think it’s time to kill you.”

  “About damn time,” Kane growled. “I thought you’d never shut up.”

  “Let’s dance.”

  They met in a clash of razored steel and thudding fists. Kane sucked in his gut as Omega’s blade sliced through his shirt and kissed the skin beneath. He responded with a vicious left cross that caught Omega’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. But when he tried to seize the opening and thrust the Ka-Bar up under his enemy’s chin, Omega managed to evade the blow.

  Kane pushed his attack, stabbing low, going for the belly. But Omega quickly sidestepped, and Kane missed. The Spyderco flicked out and cut a gash in his left shoulder as punishment for his failure.

  Kane ignored the pain and dropped into a crouch, spinning toward his opponent at the same time. He slashed with the knife, aiming the ankle tendon. But once again, Omega dodged the strike, and instead of cutting flesh, Kane’s knife scraped concrete.

  “Nice try,” Omega said. “But if those are your best moves, then you’re gonna die.”

  “Thought you said you were done running your mouth,” Kane rasped. He had to find a way to take Omega out, but he was starting to suspect the assassin was simply better with a blade and was just toying with him.

  As if to prove the point, Omega suddenly lunged at him. Kane retreated, but Omega was too fast. In a blur of motion, the killer came in low and without even knowing how it happened, Kane found the Spyderco stuck in the meat of his thigh.