Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  “You guys see another light on in this place?” Eric asked quietly. Because I sure don’t.

  His team members fanned out and returned quickly with three negatives.

  “Then who’s he talking to?”

  “You want me to kick up a diversion?” Elsa asked.

  “Not yet.” Eric pulled up his binocs out of his pack, needing one hundred percent intel before he entered ground zero. Dog-guy had hold of a metal door, if those heavy-duty hinges meant anything, and metal doors meant security.

  “Floor plan,” Jordan muttered, jerking something up out of his pocket. “We need the blueprints to this place, and I’ve got an app for that.”

  Unbelievable. “You do?” Murphy asked.

  “Sure. You’re not the only boy scout in town.” Angling his body, Jordan shielded his cellphone as he worked the screen. “Give me a sec.”

  Eric held position, already planning how to breach the rear entry. Which hall to take first. Which level. The mansion was a massive building. There had to be at least twenty rooms inside. This had to be done right.

  While Jordan worked, Dog-guy scratched his head, then entered the room and eased the door shut behind him. Eric watched for it, held his breath and hoped for it. At last. The door settled, still a crack open. By now, Murphy peered over Jordan’s shoulder, his face backlit by the screen. “I’ll be damned.”

  Jordan’s head popped up. “That metal door leads to a basement room with no concrete walls and no windows.”

  “A safe room,” Elsa hissed.

  “It might not be breachable,” Murphy worried.

  “Then we need to move fast.” Eric nodded at Jordan. “You ready?”

  “To the end,” Jordan replied, pocketing his phone while his rifle shifted back into position.

  Without waiting, Eric advanced on the single-windowed rear door, watchful of trip wires and security beams. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If any alarm system had been activated, it was silent—or lying dead beyond the front lawn. Time would tell. Eric just didn’t plan on being inside this place that long.

  Carefully testing the exterior doorknob, he found it unlocked, so he entered first. Jordan followed on his six, both with compact rifles snug to their chests. Close combat could be tricky. Once inside, Eric shouldered his rifle and pulled both pistols front and center. Jordan followed suit.

  The place was quiet. There wasn’t time to do a room-by-room, and Eric didn’t intend to. Trusting his gut, he tested the handle to what he now knew was a basement level safe room. Built to withstand fire or armed assault, most were constructed of concrete, reinforced steel beams, and sufficient staples to survive weeks of confinement, if necessary. The ones Alex Stewart built into all of his safe homes included state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, and damned tight locks that could withstand a blowtorch. They were the definition of unbreachable.

  The key to getting Shea back—if she was in that basement room—would be to move fast. Fortunately, Dog-guy didn’t seem to be trained in black ops. He hadn’t shut, nor locked the door behind him.

  Peering down into a narrow wooden staircase, Eric reported back to Jordan with two fingers, one for the visual of Dog-guy standing at the bottom of the stairs, facing right, the other for the unseen man or men he was talking with. While Jordan kept watch at the basement door, Eric lowered one boot to the first step, his senses flared forward.

  Apparently bored, Dog-guy complained, “Can’t even get a decent signal this far from town. How ‘bout you? Got any bars?” He latched onto the overhead doorjamb at the bottom of the stair as indiscernible muttering answered him.

  Eric cocked his head and took another step. Listening. Waiting.

  “Yeah, well he should.” Dog-guy muttered. “A satellite dish out here would make a helluva difference in this crap hole. I ain’t Einstein. What’s he expect me to do, read something outta his fancy library? Shit. I hate reading. It’s a waste of time.” His shirt rode up to expose a tattooed lower back and a sloppy gut. “How long’s she been out this time?”

  She? Eric took three steps toward Dog-guy that time.

  “You ain’t got nothing outta her yet?” Pause. “You’re kidding. You still ain’t asked the bitch where the shit is? Damn. How long are you gonna wash her down ‘fore you get to business?” He shifted his feet. “Still coaching, huh? That crap ever work?”

  Eric gritted his teeth, fighting for the restraint to not blow Dog-guy to hell and storm this safe room. Coaching, my ass! Standard CIA lingo for interrogation, it amounted to water-boarding a suspect before asking questions. Sometimes for days. By the time coaching was complete, the suspect—guilty or not—was ready to crawl out of their skin to answer anything and everything their coach asked. If they’d survived the lesson.

  Shea! They were water-boarding Shea for god’s sake!

  “Eric,” Jordan whispered, halting his progress with a firm hand on his arm. “Elsa’s at the back door signaling us. Come on, man. Pull back. Something’s up.”

  Like hell. Dog-guy had a double-tap coming and Eric meant to deliver.

  “Don’t do it,” Jordan hissed, but Eric had no room in his heart, not even for his buddy. Not now, bro. I’m not that guy anymore. He jerked his arm free of Jordan’s grip and planned to murder an unarmed piece of shit.

  Dog-guy kept shooting his mouth off. “When’s the professor gonna get back? Do you know?”

  Whoever chatted with Dog-guy needed to speak up, but at least Eric now knew Grover wasn’t onsite.

  “We’ve got plenty of time then. You want a Guinness? A Heineken? Professor’s got both on tap.” A pause. “’Kay. I’ll be back, but I want to see some action when I do. Shit. Strip her naked if you have to. Let’s have some fun before she comes to. I’m past due.”

  Eric’s thin hold on composure evaporated. He took another step down that dark basement stairway to—

  Jordan jerked him backward by his collar, a ballsy thing to do in the middle of a showdown. Eric found his back to the wall on ground level again, beside the still open security door with his buddy’s fist in his shirt. Nose to nose, Jordan growled, “Stand down, Sergeant. I swear to God, we’re not leaving Shea. We’re just making sure we do this right.”

  Eric blasted him with a blistering, “Fuck off!” The image of Shea struggling while some ass straddled and water-boarded her triggered his deepest rage. God, she’d be scared to death—or close to death. Jordan needed to get the hell out of his way. Now!

  Instead, he jerked Eric around the corner just seconds before Dog-guy cleared the doorway, cracking his knuckles and oblivious to the fact that he had company inside the house.

  Jordan hovered like a righteous fullback in the middle of Eric’s emotion driven quarterbacking, his fist under Eric’s chin. “Trust me. We go in smart,” he said quietly, his eyes ablaze. “I know this bullshit’s killing you, Eric, but if you off this meat sack too soon, we might not be able to get Shea out of there alive. You feel me?”

  Eric blinked, not understanding one word that had just come out of his buddy’s mouth. His eyes were on Dog-guy. The dumb ass wasn’t following any covert rules Eric knew. He’d hiked the front of his T-shirt up and slapped his hairy belly like bongos, rapping in time to some piece of crap lyrics about doing a bitch, do her ‘til she screams, ba dunk, ba dunk, bad-da-da-da.

  Jordan’s observation should’ve meant more to Eric, but all he wanted to do was rip this motherfucker’s heart out and make him eat it. He would’ve if Jordan hadn’t still been strong-arming him, holding him to the shadows.

  At last, Dog-guy strolled past the corridor where they were standing. Down the hall he went like a teenager whose parents were out of town for the weekend. Either these guys were over-the-top-confident that they thought they were untouchable, or they were complacent as hell.

  Eric’s gaze dropped to that bulging ex-Army Ranger’s arm muscling him in place. He’d never noticed how strong Jordan was before. Or how right. They still didn’t know how many were down in that
basement safe room with Shea. To go in guns blazing could get her killed. Eric had to get his head back in the game. Swallowing hard, he calmed enough to be civil to the one man in as much danger as he was.

  “What then?” he ground out, forcing slow, even breaths.

  “Now I go see what’s up with Murphy and Elsa. You good?”

  Hell no, I’m not good. “Make it quick,” Eric said, his gaze on the light down the hall. The second Jordan stepped away, he lifted his SIG back to the direction Dog-guy had gone. Come to me, you bastard. You’ll never touch that gut of yours again. Or my wife.

  But Eric was smart enough that he held position until Jordan returned with news that, “Alex is on the ground.”

  Like that meant shit. “So? Is he here? Is he close enough to get here in time?”

  “No, but Elsa also has two more guys in her sights outside, and Murphy’s sure there’s more. He wants us to pull back before we ruin our one shot at saving Shea.” Jordan sucked in a deep breath. “But it’s your call, brother. You stay, I stay.”

  That word. Brother. Eric knew Jordan would lay down his life for him or Shea tonight, but Murphy should’ve known better than to ask. Pulling back wasn’t an option. “I won’t leave her.”

  Jordan nodded once. “Knew you’d say that. Let’s do this thing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It took longer coming to this time. Shea tried to lift her head off her shoulder, but the thing was heavy. For now, the torture had ceased, but her limbs were ice. Her feet were numb. Wet clothes plastered her body. She couldn’t feel her fingers. Worse, there was no way out of this concrete chamber.

  The last time she’d felt this bad had been on that beach when Cheyenne appeared to her in the angelic guise of that other little girl. The one who’d patted Shea’s bloated cheek with the tender touch of an innocent and said in the sweetest voice, “Hi, Mama. I found you.”

  Only now Shea knew the little girl had probably said to her real mother, “Hey, Mama, look what I found.” That scenario made more sense, but for that one split second in time, Shea’s heart had believed. That one spark of hope was all she’d needed to remember the life she’d tossed away.

  “Cheyenne,” she murmured, wanting that hope back again. How like her father Cheyenne was, both saviors, but on different dimensions in the grand scheme of things. And now she’d lost them both.

  Voices buzzed around her. Angry voices. She tried to make sense of it, but the cold won. She yearned for freedom, but knew better. She would die in this chair. This was the end. And yet…

  Across the room, her blurry eyes locked with—Eric?

  There she is!

  Shea sat strapped to a wooden chair bolted on the concrete floor over a large metal grate. Barely conscious, she was drenched and pale. Wide plastic restraints circled her forearms and ankles.

  Two men sat in front of her, their backs to Eric. One smacked his open palm with a baton, the other finger tapped at his computer tablet. The son-of-a-bitch was taking a break. Playing a video game. Didn’t that add gasoline to the blazing fury already stoking Eric’s rage? Not one flicker of remorse entered his mind when he advanced on the whisper-quiet feet of an executioner. Until everything went south.

  “On your right!” Jordan yelled just as some guy came out of nowhere and sent him flying. The heavy security door at the bottom of the stairwell clanged shut when Jordan hit it, shutting Eric and him inside the safe room with Shea.

  Spinning around, Eric brought his AR front and center as a meaty fist hit him squarely in the face. Not enough to knock him down, but enough that he lost hold of his rifle and his nose gushed.

  The man who’d hit him was a hulking monster in a black robe and brandishing a scimitar just like in the video. Bulky arms crossed over a wide, thick chest. He wasn’t the real Abdul-Mutaal though. He wasn’t even Mideastern. No way in hell. He was a punk-assed white guy with a thick, red beard who had smeared his clown make-up.

  The guy was quick, though. Using the handle of that scimitar like a pair of brass knuckles, he punched Eric hard in the chest with the side of it and knocked the air out of him. Once. Twice. The guy pummeled him, shoving him backward with every blow.

  Muscle training took over. Shifting his AR over his shoulder and out of his way, Eric countered with an uppercut that clipped the bastard’s chin and knocked his head back. One, two, three more fists to that whiskered face, and the wannabe fell back a few steps.

  Eric reached for his right holster, but came up empty. He’d lost both pistols in the scuffle, and he barely had time to grab the blade in his boot, a pitiful match against a three-foot sword that could take his arm off, if and when this extremist got serious. The guy seemed to be holding back.

  “You came for your wife,” he taunted, the scimitar now poised in his right hand, his feet spread wide. “Come get her if you think you’re man enough.”

  Yeah. Not an Arab at all. Liverpool, maybe. Still going to die.

  Eric jumped at the guy, feinting to the right. Startled, the Brit pulled his sword arm back, needing more room to swing than the low ceiling allowed. Wrong move. Bigger didn’t necessarily equate with better. Or faster.

  In the time it took him to wield that three-foot blade, Eric charged, slicing the Brit’s arm as the scimitar parted the air at his left with a whistle. He dodged, but not before landing a solid kick in the Brit’s ribs.

  The big guy lost his balance with a grunt, but stuck a solid three-point landing, one palm to the floor. Reaching into the folds of his robe, he came up grinning with two bleeding fingers. His tongue snaked out to lick his own blood. “That all you got, Yank?” he asked, his eyes wide.

  This guy might just be on drugs, Eric thought as he shot back, “I’m just warming up.” His inner warrior wanted all ten of this freak’s fingers. Maybe his head, too. It seemed a fair trade.

  Pushing up from the floor, the Brit toggled those same bloody fingers for Eric to come play. The scimitar shifted hands. “You must do better than that, Reynolds, or soon I’ll be licking your sweet little wife.” His lips puckered as he blew Shea a kiss. “Want to watch?”

  Keep playing with me, asshole, Eric thought as he stomped a boot forward again, and I’ll carve those lips off your ugly face. Parrying a stab and a fake punch, he refused to let his emotions rule no matter how crass this clown got. This pompous Brit needed to think he had the upper hand. It kind of felt like he did.

  Jordan was on his feet and heavily engaged with the two that had been sitting with Shea. He looked like he was holding his own, but Eric was too busy to go to his aid. Charging the redheaded killer, he drew up just short of that slashing blade. The tip of it caught him this time, slicing his chest, cutting shirt and skin. But that was what Eric wanted, to be inside that down stroke. Seizing that split-second window of opportunity, he thrust his blade upward, into the Brit’s bicep and he twisted. Now it was Eric’s turn to taunt. “That all you got?”

  The liar groaned, but the handle of that damned scimitar caught Eric across the side of his head. He landed face first on the floor a good ten feet away. Blood trickled into his eyes. He wiped it off, along with some stars and a few flashing comets. Holy shit, this guy was built like a bull, all rock-hard muscle. But once more, the Brit had held back.

  It was time to recalculate and re-strategize. Eric sucked in a deep breath, buying time. He might be faster and more agile, but his previous wounds were wearing on him. This is no way to save Shea.

  Rolling to his side and breathing hard, enlightenment dawned on him. Damn it to holy hell. This is just foreplay. That was why the Brit hadn’t used his scimitar as effectively as he could have. He was toying with Eric. Playing. He meant for Eric to live just long enough to break Shea. Torturing and beheading her husband in front of her would surely do it.

  That shit’s NOT going to happen.

  Eric dragged his tired ass up off the floor like a guy who’d given up. He knelt on the concrete. His shoulders sagged like a weakling’s. He groaned. He frown
ed. Didn’t bother to wipe his bloody nose. Let the Brit get his hopes up.

  The asshole stomped one boot. “You call that a fight?” he bellowed, smacking his chest with that fisted blade. “Come on, Reynolds. Up with you. Fight like a man.”

  “I can’t. I give,” Eric wheezed like the pansy he was not. He lifted his hands, palms forward, not taking his eyes off this jerk for a second, but willing to play the game. “Damn it. You’re bigger than me. I can’t win. I give. Who… who are you?”

  The Brit’s bushy brows lifted. “You Americans. Quitters! All of you! Nothing sporting about the lot of you. As for who I am, I’m your worst nightmare, Reynolds. The name’s Lord Piers Yeoman, if you must know, though it will make little difference at the end of this day. You’ll still be dead, but not before you serve my purpose.”

  Knew you’d say that. Eric blew out a big breath. I was right. He intends to torture me to break Shea. I’ve never killed a lord before. “Why… why the torture?” he gasped, going for broke. “Why water-board a woman? Looks like you’ve got her where you want her.” You flaming asshole.

  The man’s right eyelid twitched. “Why not? All is fair in war and…” He glanced back at Shea with a salacious leer, “love. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Eric let him get two steps closer before he jerked his ace-in-the-hole off his back, where it had been beating the ever-loving shit out of him this whole wrestling match. Tough guy didn’t look so smug all of a sudden with a Sig Sauer pointed up his big ego. Funny how life can change in the blink of the eye of one pissed-off husband.

  “That’s my wife!” Eric bellowed as his trigger finger wiped the smirk off Lord Yeoman’s ugly face.

  It took four body shots to knock the bastard down. His shiny scimitar hit the floor first. While the Brit collapsed like an accordion within all those black robes, Eric sent a round into one of the men beating on Jordan. That freed Jordan to finish snapping the last guy’s neck.