Ricochet: Extraction Point

by Heather C. Leigh

  “Rick, we’ll go through the paperwork after the meeting.” Mack turned his attention to their computer whiz. “Tucker, give me the latest location for Travis Hardy’s rental car.”

  The man sat up a little straighter in his seat, ruffling his hand through his shaggy brown hair. “I found visual conformation of them on GA400 North at mile marker 30.8, continuing on the freeway.” Tucker looked around the room, noting that the other mercenaries perked up at this information. “That means he’s past Highway 20, up by Lake Lanier. I can’t confirm how far north he went as there aren’t anymore DOT cameras that far out. I’m currently searching private business cameras off of each subsequent exit. The computers are running an algorithm I created as we speak.”

  Mack stared at Tucker, scratching his thick fingers over the grey stubble that covered his chin. Rick had known Mack a long time. The man was obviously working something out in his head. When he finally came to his conclusion, he floored them.

  “Don’t bother. I think I know where they are.”

  Every head in the room spun around to face Mack.

  Rick bolted up out of his chair, knocking it over in his haste. “What? Where is she?”

  Mack’s face softened for a beat, then he scowled at Rick, knowing exactly what Rick was thinking of doing. “We will come up with a plan, together, Ricochet. You will not rush out of here by yourself all half-cocked and sleep deprived. Do you hear me?”

  The younger man ground his teeth together. “But—”

  “No. I am ordering you to stand down until we have a plan in place. No one here is to go in alone. That is an order. Does everyone understand?” Mack’s stare was hard, his eyes shards of flint. C.O. McEvoy was in charge, and after years in the various branches of the military, every man in the room was trained to follow his every order.

  “Yes sir.” A practiced chorus of shouts went out.

  “Rick?” Mack raised an eyebrow at the scowling man who was still standing rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.

  Rick couldn’t believe Mack was tying his hands like this. His need to get to Quinn had him halfway out the door already. But his brain knew that it would be dangerous to go in blind, so reluctantly, he acquiesced. “Yes sir.”

  “Good. Tucker, get me a map of Dawsonville, specifically the northeast side of the lake and get it up on the big screen. Rick, is there any paperwork in there regarding the sale of Quinn’s house?”

  Rick flipped through the stack, handing Mack a document from Quinn’s lawyer about a real estate agent.

  Tucker leapt from his seat to pull up the map. Less than two minutes later, the image was on the giant television screen mounted on the wall of the conference room.

  Rick was just about ready to jump out of his skin. The urge to scream in frustration was pushing at his chest, itching to burst out like that creature in that movie, Alien.

  Mack pushed a button on the phone to speak to Tucker in Mission Control. “Zoom in on the upper third of the map.” The roads and buildings grew larger. “Now on the lower right quadrant.” The screen complied with each directive until Mack pointed at the only house left in the frame. “There, that’s Quinn’s father’s house. Where she grew up. It matches the address on this document.” Mack made eye contact with each one of his agents. “I’ve been to that house before. It’s been a few years, but I remember it well. Now, let’s figure out how we’re going to get this shitbag.”

  Rick exhaled in relief. This was the break he was waiting for.

  Crying was a big mistake, Quinn thought as she stared into the blackness that surrounded her. Now, she wasn’t just sore all over, but her one good eye was swollen as well and her possibly broken nose was leaking copious amounts of mucus and blood. She used the washcloth to wipe it and gasped. Quinn literally saw stars when she lightly touched the end of her nose.

  Yep, probably broken.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Travis broke her nose. That wasn’t what hurt so badly. It was the mental anguish that pained her. Quinn had truly believed she would never have to go through this again. That she was so wrong, about everything, was devastating. Her lip started to quiver at the thought of Travis, about how she was never going to be rid of him. Not until one of them was dead. Unfortunately, it was looking more and more as if she would be the one to go first.

  Rick had to have noticed she was missing by now. Even if no one knew where her lawyer’s office was, today was Monday, so the employees who parked in the garage were bound to find Mack’s abandoned truck and know something had happened to her, maybe called the police.

  It had seemed right at the time, but in hindsight Quinn was really regretting not having told Rick about Travis. If she had, he would know who attacked her. Mara Paxton knew about Travis, but by the time everyone put all the pieces together, Quinn would be dead and gone.

  She had come to terms with the fact that no one was coming for her. In between restless fits of sleep and her sore body being chained to the bed, Quinn tortured herself with that thought all night. Rehashing it wouldn’t make it any less real. She was alone and she was going to die.

  Maybe if she had killed Travis the night she left this wouldn’t be happening. She could have done it. She should have done it. But in the end, as much as she hated him, Quinn wasn’t a killer. She didn’t want to be like Travis. Again, she thought about that night, wondering if she could have prevented this nightmare.

  One and a half years ago

  It had been two weeks since the last time Travis attacked Quinn, busting her father’s flag case and raping her on top of the symbol of his service to his country.

  Every waking moment was spent plotting her getaway. Quinn waited until her body was healed, needing all of her strength to pull this off. It didn’t stop her from thinking about it though. At least once a day, she dug through the bathroom cabinet, pulling out the long shard of glass to stare at it longingly, working up the courage to use it against her husband. Once or twice she considered taking her own life, but in the end, what spurred her on was her desire to get the best of Travis. For him to realize he failed, that she got away.

  Her wait was over. Today was the day. She was going to get out of this hell on earth. Quinn had managed to save over seven hundred dollars over the last two years. Not a lot, but sufficient to get far enough away that Travis wouldn’t be able to find her. She glanced at the clock on the stove—four p.m. He would be home from work soon.

  As quick as possible, Quinn finished getting dinner ready and stuck it in the oven to bake. She didn’t want Travis to think anything was out of the ordinary. She needed to lull him into a false sense of security— and more importantly, she needed to be healthy and uninjured to make her escape. If that meant placating him and catering to his every need, she would.

  Twenty minutes later, Quinn was in the family room when she heard the back door open. She listened as Travis did his usual after-work routine. The rattle of keys let her know he had locked his gun and car keys in a box on top of the refrigerator. The fridge opened and she heard the pop and hiss of a can of beer being opened. He yelled for her as those damn cowboy boots clunked across the kitchen floor.

  “Annie! Get your ass in here!”

  Taking a deep breath, Quinn steeled herself and went to the kitchen.

  “Hi honey. Did you have a good day at work?” She put on a smile and began to set the table even though being nice to Travis was about to make her puke.

  Travis leaned against the refrigerator, drinking his beer and eyeing Quinn warily.

  “Yep. What did you make for dinner?”

  Quinn faced Travis as she spoke, keeping her face calm and pleasant. He got angry if her back was to him while she spoke. “Chicken casserole, cornbread, and green beans.”

  He grunted in approval. It was his favorite meal and she knew it. The happier he was, the easier today would be, even if it made bile creep up her throat by pretending everything was just hunky-dory when nothing could be further from the truth.

&nbs
p; Dinner came and went without a single negative comment or angry glare from her husband. She brought him a beer as he settled into his recliner and flipped on the television. Quinn finished washing the dishes, joining Travis in the family room for a few hours. He flicked through the channels mindlessly, never bothering to look her way. It was as if she were invisible.

  Perfect.

  At nine, Quinn readied herself for bed, pretending to be asleep when Travis joined her an hour later, stinking like beer. She waited, clutching the sheets in her sweaty hands, until his breathing changed to a slow, even rhythm.

  It’s time.

  Silently, Quinn slid out of bed and crept down the hall, into the bathroom. She dug out the box of tampons from the back of the cabinet, pocketing the sizeable roll of cash she had stashed there. Next she removed a pair of Travis’ protective leather gloves that she had swiped from the carport. Gently, she ran a finger down the scar on her palm, still angry and red from the cut she suffered two weeks ago. It probably could have used a few stitches, but Travis certainly wasn’t going to allow that. Shaking, she pulled one of the thick, too-big gloves onto her right hand. Quinn took the glass shard from the bottom of the box and clutched it tight in her gloved fist.

  She crept towards the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. Carefully, Quinn peeked around the corner. Travis was still asleep. Quinn closed her eyes for a moment, saying a quick prayer that she would get out of the house in one piece.

  Her heart racing in her chest, she gripped her weapon as she tiptoed to her husband’s side of the bed, holding it up high, ready to use if he woke up. With a gloved finger, Quinn gently tugged on the top drawer of his nightstand. It opened without a sound, making her thankful for having the foresight to give the metal slides a good spray down with WD40 last week.

  Quinn easily spotted the small key to the safe in the front of the drawer. He didn’t bother to hide it, assuming she would never have the guts to try and swipe it while he was in the house.

  Think again, jerk.

  She held the key in her left hand, the glass shard still ready to strike out in her right. Once she was safely in the hall, Quinn let out a long, shaky breath, pressing the back of her gloved hand to her thumping chest. At this rate, she’d have a heart attack before she could even get out of the house.

  Scared that Travis could jump out at any second, Quinn hurried to the kitchen to get the final item needed to make her escape. The lockbox on top of the fridge was heavier than she expected, due to the weight of Travis’s firearm. It took three tries for Quinn to hold her hand steady long enough to get the key in the lock.

  Once open, she snatched up the keys to Travis’s blue Chevy Silverado and went to put the box back. Hesitating, Quinn stared at the handgun, wondering if she should take it. It smelled strong— oily and pungent. Her nose wrinkled up. Sneaking away from her abusive husband was one thing, stealing an officer’s sidearm was another. Plus, she had no experience with guns and would probably end up shooting herself. With trembling hands, Quinn left the gun, locked the box and put it back in its place.

  “You little bitch.”

  Quinn squealed, spinning around to find Travis in the kitchen, only a few feet away. She kept her hand behind her back, clutching the glass in her fist.

  I should have taken the gun.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was a deep growl that sank into Quinn’s heart, making it falter.

  “N-nothing. I-I was just—”

  “Shut up you lying slut!”

  Travis stepped forward and Quinn raised her hand, done with being his personal punching bag. She brought the glass down fast and even, slicing through soft flesh easily from the end of his brow, down one side of his face to the bottom of his jawline.

  Travis roared in pain and disbelief, clutching at his face. He screamed as blood gushed from the wound through his fingers. Quinn almost lost her stomach from the sight of it. He flailed, the blood completely obscuring his vision on the side she cut.

  “I’m gonna kill you! You’re dead, Annie! You hear me!

  The threat snapped Quinn out of her terrified daze, sending her running for the door. Her feet slipped in the pool of blood, nearly sending her to the ground. Scrabbling to keep her footing, she grabbed onto the doorknob for balance. Quinn took one last look over her shoulder at her husband, blood covering him from scalp to chin, and ran.

  Still able to hear Travis’s shouts, Quinn hurried to the large garbage bin outside, removing a trash bag she had stashed there filled with some clothes and other essentials. She chucked it into the front seat of the truck and hopped into the driver’s seat next to it. The huge truck roared to life when she turned the key in the ignition, drowning out the sounds of Travis’ fury that were still coming from the house.

  Quinn threw the truck in reverse and peeled out of the dusty driveway. As the house got smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, her pulse began to calm down and she smiled. She did it. She left her own private hell and survived. Annie Hardy died that night, and Quinn Wallace was reborn.

  Chapter 4

  Rick spent the hour drive north running through the details of the operation with his teammates over and over again. Mack and Tucker stayed behind to run things from Mission Control. That left Rick in the Suburban with Clint Paxton, Dane Nolan, Xander Vega, and Ben Price. Price and Paxton came up with the perfect plan, and Rick wanted to make sure everyone knew what to do when, down to the exact second.

  By the fifth run through, Dane had finally had enough. “Ricochet, we’re all professionals. We won’t screw this up.”

  Rick eyed Dane, shooting him a doubtful scowl. “You can’t make any guarantees, killer.”

  Dane’s pained expression let Rick know that he was right, Dane couldn’t promise anything. “I understand, Rick. Just—we’re good at this. We have a plan, the husband doesn’t know we exist—we have the upper hand here. More so than our usual missions, and we have a success rate of nearly one hundred percent against armed combatants. This guy? He’s not even military. We got this.”

  Rick blinked, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He nodded, but said nothing. What could he say? That Quinn could die today? That she could very well already be dead? He couldn’t let his mind go there. Not if he wanted to be of any use to the team, besides, they weren’t stupid. They probably had the same thoughts themselves.

  “Five minutes out.”

  Ben’s gruff bark from the front seat broke the tension in the car. He was always the most clinical of the mercenaries. Precise, detached, and able to get the job done like a skilled surgeon. On Ben’s five minute warning, the men began to check over their equipment, making sure their weapons and other gear were ready for whatever they might face.

  Rick ran his hands over his tac vest, feeling for his Glock under his left arm and a few flash bangs in his left chest pocket. He moved to the right, finding zip ties and smoke bombs in place. Rick moved his hands down to his pants. On his belt holster, he had his other Glock locked and loaded plus tear gas canisters. Each thigh pocket held a collection of extra clips of ammo for each of his 9mm pistols. Across his back, Rick had his M14 tactical rifle plus extra ammo on his belt. Finally, he switched his earpiece on. Satisfied, Rick anxiously waited to arrive at the location.

  Xavier tapped his Bluetooth, “Roger, Mission Control. Time to extraction point, two minutes.” He tapped it again, disconnecting the call. “When I pull over at the designated spot, Brennan and Nolan, you’ll head to your positions. Then I’ll drop off Price and Paxton at the second location and let you know when they’re in place. Copy?”

  The three men replied in sync, “Copy.”

  Xavier slowed the Suburban to a stop on the side of a tree-lined street, on a stretch without a single house in sight. He twisted to face Rick and Dane in the back seat, “Get into position. Everyone check in when you’re ready. I’ll be with the Suburban at the rendezvous.” Xav grinned, his dark eyes glinting with excitement. “We’re going to nail this bast
ard, Rick. And it’s going to be very, very satisfying.”

  Dane quietly opened the back door and the two men disappeared into the thick woods under the cover of night.

  Focus on the mission. One foot in front of the other.

  Rick made the short hike to their position, Dane close behind. They reached a shadowy clearing surrounded by overgrown bushes and began to set up. Its location, on the edge of the backyard of a very regular-looking house, made it the ideal spot for recon and attack.

  Dane pressed his Bluetooth. “Alpha, in position.”

  “Copy.” Ben’s deep baritone came over the earpiece. “Beta will be in position in three minutes, making it… zero three sixteen.”

  “Copy.” Dane answered quietly.

  Neither man said a word, both perfectly still as they watched the Wallace home for signs of Quinn or her abductor. The woods surrounding the house were silent except for the chirping of crickets and cicadas. Dane lowered his night vision scope a few minutes later and whispered. “No sign of anything in the windows.”

  “Beta in position. Will go in three… two… one… go!”

  Rick burst from the cover of the bushes, quickly running in a crouch until he was next to the back door. Dane stayed hidden, his rifle at the ready to cover his teammate if necessary.

  “Ready?”

  Rick tapped his headset, “Ready.”

  “On my signal.” Ben counted down again. “Go!”

  Rick spun and with a booted foot, he kicked the door open, splintered wood flying everywhere. In the front of the house, Ben did the same, heading directly upstairs.