Reaching back into the bag, she grabbed two more thirty-round mags, leaving another five in the bag for later. She zipped up the gun bag and stood, slipping the two mags into her back pockets, then reached back to the top shelf for her bugout bag—a tactical vest festooned with pockets that held still more ammo, plus some rudimentary first-aid supplies, a flashlight, two knives, a thousand dollars in cash, and the kind of stuff that she figured she might need if she needed to keep Graham and herself alive for a couple of days on the run.
Jolaine shrugged into the vest without fastening it, battle-slung her M4 across the front of her body, then lifted the gun bag and headed back downstairs for Graham.
He’d managed to find a pair of jeans, but he remained shirtless and barefoot. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going.”
“But I’m not—what the hell are you wearing?”
“Your one minute is up,” Jolaine snapped. “Grab something for your feet. We’re getting out of here.”
“Just another minute—”
Jolaine grabbed his biceps and pulled. This was about survival. If she had to beat him senseless to save his life, she was perfectly willing to cross that line.
“Let me go!”
Jolaine ignored him, just as she ignored the distant sense of satisfaction that came with hurting him a little. Adolescent angst and anger had hit Graham with staggering force over the past twelve months, turning him into a monster.
Not quite five-nine, the kid weighed nothing, so when Jolaine pulled, he followed. She worked out, he played video games.
Why was she being such a bitch?
Okay, Jolaine was always a bitch, but that was part of her job, and at some corner of his brain, Graham realized that he brought that side out of her, but this was at a whole new level. He yelled as her fingernails stuck into the soft, sensitive flesh of his armpit, but she didn’t seem to care. As he dug his heels into the carpet to slow her down, she merely squeezed tighter and pulled harder. He had no idea that she was that strong.
“Are you serious?” he asked. “Are we really leaving?” And what was with all the military crap she was wearing?
Graham wasn’t even sure his feet touched the stairs as he more or less flew to the first floor. That’s when he saw the blood. That’s when it all became real. The man on the floor writhed in agony. “They know,” the guy said. “Oh, God, they know, they know . . .”
Mom and Dad were arguing about something—they seemed really angry—but if Graham could hear the words beyond the thrumming of fear in his head, he couldn’t understand them. They came out as random sounds: fight, die, kill. He even heard his own name in the mix. He tried to pull away from Jolaine, to be with his parents, but her grip was like iron.
“Mom!” he yelled.
Sarah’s head snapped up, but her face wasn’t the face he was used to seeing. Her eyes had a dead set to them, like a doll’s eyes, and her mouth was set in a tight little line. “Get out,” she said. “Go with Jolaine.”
“Where?”
“I love you, Graham. Never forget that.”
That was the line that triggered the panic in his gut. So simple, yet so final. Of course she loved him. She was his mother. Why would she think that he would assume anything else? Her words had a finality about them that made him want to cry.
He started to say, “I love you, too,” but before the words could form, the front door burst open, as if propelled by explosives, and a bunch of men dressed in black flooded into the foyer. His dad shot one of them in the head at point-blank range, and the air turned red.
At the sound of the bursting door and the gunshot, Jolaine pushed Graham to the ground and planted a knee in his back to keep him there while she brought her M4 to bear. The collapsed stock plate found her shoulder and her finger found the trigger without thought. She popped one of the invaders with a shot to his chin that all but sheared his head from his shoulders. It always sucked to be one of the first people through the door.
Then the enemy adapted and the shooting started in earnest. Sarah and Bernard both dove for cover as the front wall and windows exploded in the fusillade of incoming rounds. Within two seconds, Jolaine realized that she needed to leave while there was still some chance of getting out alive. If they hadn’t done so already, the attacking forces would soon surround the house, making escape impossible.
Do your job.
Easing the pressure on Graham’s back, Jolaine grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him first to his knees and then to his feet. “We’re going out through the kitchen,” she said softly into his ear.
“But what about—” The rest of his question was lost in the next volley of gunfire.
Jolaine focused on the solution, not the problem. That was the secret to surviving any emergency. What was done, was done. Her only chance for mission success was to push all of that away, and concentrate on the single goal of guiding Graham to safety. Everything else, including her own survival, was secondary.
The focused commitment calmed her. The cacophony of the gunfight became so much background noise as she focused on their exit. The car keys were on the peg beside the garage door, just where they were supposed to be. She snatched them up with her right hand and switched them to her left to keep her dominant hand free.
The door to the garage opened with a thump and a hollow echo as she pushed it open. She noted in an instant that the exterior doors were still closed, but scanned the area for threats anyway before pushing Graham through the opening. “Get in the Beamer,” she said, gesturing to the late-model BMW 740Li that sat in the closest bay of the three-car garage.
“We can’t leave them,” Graham objected.
“Would you rather die with them?” Jolaine heard the words before she’d considered them, and regretted the coldness of her tone. She closed the door behind them. In case Graham had any designs on changing plans, Jolaine kept her left hand on his shoulder as they negotiated the four steps down to the concrete floor of the garage, steering him toward the car. Her right hand stayed clasped to the grip of her M4 as she moved backward and sideways to keep the muzzle trained on the door she’d just exited. “Climb in the backseat and get on the floor,” she said.
Graham tried to wriggle free. “They’re killing my parents!”
“Your parents are fighting back,” Jolaine snapped. “And they want you out of here. You heard that yourself from your mother.” She turned her attention from the door and the threats that seethed behind it and focused on Graham. In the silver light that passed in through the windows in the garage doors, his eyes glimmered with tears. She felt her heart skip as she considered what he was going through.
Jolaine tried to adopt a less threatening posture. “We need to get out of here. It’s my job to keep you from getting shot. By any means possible. Now get in the backseat and lie on the floor.” As an afterthought: “Okay?”
Graham swiped at his eyes with his forearm and shook his head no. Then he opened the door and climbed inside.
Jolaine unslung her M4 and put it into the car first, then slid into the driver’s seat and pressed the start button.
“You forgot the garage door,” Graham said.
Actually, she hadn’t. Whatever lay beyond those doors was a mystery of the deadliest kind. The last thing she needed to do was give the invaders notice that they were fleeing. With her foot pressed on the brake, she dropped the transmission into reverse and ran the RPMs up high. When the tachometer needle nearly touched the red line, the kitchen door flew open, revealing Sarah in the doorway. Her shirt was wet with blood and her posture showed that she’d been wounded.
“Mom!”
Jolaine released the brake pedal and the Beamer shot backward like a bullet. The garage door blasted from its tracks and collapsed in a twisted tangle onto the driveway. As the car passed over the wreckage, Jolaine winced at the sound of metal on metal as the broken door tore at the undercarriage.
“No!” Graham yelled. “We can’t leave her!” He threw his door ope
n and prepared to jump out.
Jolaine jammed the brakes and reached back for him, “I told you—”
He was already out, rolling on the ground to find his feet. Outside, she saw a black van parked in the grass near the house, its doors open, but with no lights on. At first glance, she saw no people. A heartbeat later, a silhouette appeared at the front door. Jolaine saw the man beckon to his friends.
“Graham, get back here!” He ignored her. “Goddammit.” Jolaine snatched up the M4 from the passenger seat and wielded it like a pistol to fire four rounds through the passenger side window in the direction of the guy on the stoop. The bad guy ducked back inside. She had no idea if she’d hit him, but that wasn’t really the point. She was buying time.
While Graham dashed back toward the garage, Jolaine shouldered her door open and stood. Forming a solid base with her feet spaced wide, she extended the stock with a quick tug, tucked the butt plate into her shoulder, and switched the firing selector to full-auto. She fired a three-round burst toward the front stoop just to keep their heads down, and then pivoted her aim to the four vehicles that were clustered in the front yard. She fired long bursts—five or six rounds—into the fenders and hoods of each, hoping to take out tires or engine blocks, or maybe both. She’d take any advantage she could get.
The bolt locked open when the magazine went dry, and she never broke aim as she fingered the mag release with her trigger finger. She pulled a fresh one from her pocket, slid it into place, and smacked the bolt release to recharge the weapon. Total elapsed time for the change was less than five seconds. Jolaine was astonished at how quickly her skills had returned.
Sarah Mitchell met Graham halfway, stumbling over the wreckage of the garage door and lurching her way toward the BMW.
“Quickly!” Jolaine yelled. The fact that the bad guys were no longer trying to come through the front door told her that they had developed a different plan. Once they got their shit together, the limits of her firepower would spell the end.
Jolaine fought the urge to run forward to help them. Now that they were all exposed, her job was to lay down covering fire.
As the Mitchells closed to within a few feet, Jolaine knew that Sarah was in trouble. Her face was ashen. She was bleeding out somewhere. Graham’s chest was bloody as well, but from the ease of his movement, she could tell that the blood was not his own.
They were out of time.
“In, in, in!” Jolaine yelled. Fifteen seconds ago, she’d never have believed that they could survive this long. Now that they were on the verge of getting away, time had slowed to an agonizing crawl.
Graham pulled the front door open for his mother. “Be careful,” he said.
“Be careful my ass,” Jolaine said. “Sarah, sit down and close your door. Graham, get on the floor of the backseat and keep your head down.”
She saw movement in the darkness on the near side of the house and she reacted without looking, raking the area with a ten-round burst. This business of keeping heads down burned a hell of a lot of ammunition. Thank God there were no neighbors to get caught in the crossfire.
When the family was inside, Jolaine ducked back into the driver’s seat. With the M4 jammed awkwardly across the center console, she didn’t bother to close her door before she pulled the shifter into reverse and stomped on the gas.
The Beamer launched backward across the lawn for thirty feet. She shifted to drive. She heard shots being fired at them, and she felt a couple of rounds thunk into the car somewhere, but no warning lights came on, and no one yelled in pain.
They were on their way. To somewhere.
CHAPTER TWO
The emptiness of the Indiana cornfields swallowed the headlight beams, revealing nothing but miles of darkness. “Graham, are you okay?” Jolaine shouted over the wind noise from the shattered passenger window. When he didn’t respond, she wrenched her body around in the driver’s seat to look in the back. The boy was still on the floor, his head wrapped in his arms. “Graham!”
“Make it stop!” he yelled.
“Are you hurt?”
“Why are they doing this?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No! I’m not hurt! Why are they doing this?”
“I don’t know,” Jolaine said. “Mrs. Mitchell? Sarah?” She could smell the blood.
“We can’t go to a hospital,” Sarah said. Her voice was soft. Jolaine didn’t know if it was because she was weak or because she didn’t want Graham to hear.
“How bad are you hit?”
Sarah shook her head. Jolaine saw it as a shift in her silhouette. “It’s not good. I’m hit in my middle.”
“So we do need to go to a hospital.”
“No. That’s where they’ll be looking. The doctors will have to call the police for a bullet wound.”
“Yeah!” Graham said from the back. “We need to call the police.”
“Not for this, sweetie,” Sarah said. “We don’t want the police involved.”
“Where’s Dad?”
Sarah shot a look to Jolaine that said it all. But she didn’t respond.
“Mom?”
“Dad’s staying behind,” Sarah said.
“But he’s okay? He’ll be joining us?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“Let’s talk about this later, okay, Graham?” Sarah asked.
“Is he okay?”
“Later, Graham.” That tone cut the conversation off at the root.
Jolaine said, “What’s going on, Sarah? Tell me why this is happening.”
With effort that seemed to trigger a spasm of pain, Sarah stretched her leg out to gain access to the front pocket of her jeans and went fishing for something.
“Mom?” Graham said. “Why aren’t you answering?” His voice trembled in a combination of anger, fear, and sadness.
Sarah was holding herself together pretty well, especially with her bullet wound. Since she hadn’t bled out already, and clearly no bones had been clipped, Jolaine had hope for her. But she needed a doctor, and she needed one now.
“I’m sorry, Graham,” Sarah said. “I’m okay, really. I’ve just got a lot of things going through my mind right now.”
“So, are we going to the police?”
“No, not tonight.”
“A hospital, then,” Graham said. “You’re hurt. You’ve been shot.”
Sarah’s hunt through her pocket produced a cell phone. Jolaine was hoping for something else. She wasn’t sure what, but some kind of a solution would have been nice.
“You’re going to make a phone call?” Jolaine said. “How about you answer my question? We’re all in danger here, you know. Not just you.”
Again, Sarah ignored her. The smart phone’s screen bathed her in a silver-blue light that highlighted her pallor. As she swiped at the screen, she left bloody streaks.
“What are you looking for?” Jolaine insisted. Ahead, the twisting country road was an opaque black ribbon.
“I found it,” Sarah declared. She pressed a button and brought her phone to her ear. Whoever she was calling had better be of calm temperament, Jolaine thought. Ten-thirty at night was late for anyone.
“Doctor Jones, please,” Sarah said into the phone. “This is Mrs. Smith.”
Ah, Jolaine thought. They’re spooks. I should have known.
“Four seven four bravo,” Sarah said after a pause. “Gunshot. Serious.” After another pause, Sarah said, “I’m sorry, but I’ll never remember all of that. Let me hand you over to someone who will. Yes, a trusted source.” With that, she handed the Droid across the center console to Jolaine. “This is Doctor Jones,” she said.
Sure it is, Jolaine didn’t say. She brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“What’s your name?” the voice asked from the other side.
“What’s yours?”
“Don’t trifle with me, missy. You already know my name. I am Doctor Jones.”
“Fine,” Jolaine said. “My name is Doe.
Jane Doe. Don’t trifle with me, either, Doc. The last few minutes have been really, really intense. I’ve got a seriously injured woman sitting next to me who needs help, and you want to do small talk. Seriously, Doc, who’s trifling whom?”
Five seconds of silence convinced Jolaine that she’d either made her point or driven the doc to hang up. “You sound like you’re part of the Community,” Jones said.
“On the periphery,” Jolaine confessed. “A contractor, never official.”
“I see. How bad are her wounds?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them. There’s a lot of blood. She’s pale but she can talk, and she seems to have it together cognitively.”
“Cognitively,” Jones mocked. “That’s a high-dollar word for a grunt.”
“Why did you want to speak with me?” Jolaine pressed. She didn’t have time for bullshit, and she figured the best way to avoid it was to stay away from the bait.
“I want you to bring Mrs. Smith to my clinic. We can care for her here.”
Translation: the Company had a contract with a quick-quack that would keep serious injuries off the grid.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
The doctor laughed. It sounded like genuine amusement. “Well, Jane, you don’t. You can’t. But let’s be honest. You have no option.”
Jolaine didn’t answer.
“All right, then,” Jones said. “I’m going to give you an address. Do you have a GPS system to punch it into?”
“I have my phone.”
“Are you ready to copy the address?”
“Stand by,” Jolaine said. Then into the rearview mirror: “Graham, listen up. Are you listening?”
“To what?”
“Just listen.”
“Who’s Graham?” Jones asked.
“He’s the patient’s son.”
End Game Page 2
