False Signs (John Taylor Book 2)

by Travis Starnes

  The bullet impacted just above the man’s sternum, sending him bouncing into the open door and collapsing to the floor.

  Taylor may have stopped the shout of warning, but the gunshot rang out down the corridor, echoing and bouncing off its concrete walls. As he neared the door, he could hear shouts and movements inside. Taylor didn’t stop but crossed past the door, gun raised.

  Taylor switched from running straight forward to a side step with his body angled towards the door.

  The people inside were still working out what happened to their man and were not expecting a guy in a t-shirt and jeans to side step past the doorway. Taylor, however, was ready. As soon as he crossed the door frame, he could see five men inside a largish room that he readily identified as a boiler room of some type. Large pipes were running up from the floor to the ceiling and others into large metal containers that, if Taylor had to guess, were water heaters.

  There were two guys by one of the pipes, and Taylor could see they already had C4 wrapped around one of the pipes. It was the three people holding assault rifles that Taylor focused on first. By the time he had almost crossed the doorway for cover on the other side he had assessed the situation and fired twice, dropping the closest man cradling an assault rifle.

  That, unfortunately, was the last free pass he would have. Almost as soon as he had returned to cover, the men had reacted, raising their rifles and firing into the open doorway. Also unfortunate was that these men had fire discipline, firing their weapons in short bursts.

  Looking at Whitaker, he held up four fingers, to indicate how many men were still standing. When the fire subsided, he leaned through the door and fired three times more. He only leaned out of cover for the time it took to pull the trigger, causing his fire to be unaimed, missing both shooters.

  Whitaker had followed suit. Thanks to taking a little more time, she was able to hit one of the gunmen. It didn’t look to be a killing shot, but the man dropped to the ground, letting go of the rifle to hold his gut, blood seeping between the fingers.

  Her extra time aiming came with a cost. Taylor looked over at her just as she began to recover from her shooting stance, back into cover, and saw the bullet impact high in her side. If it were a pistol, he would have called it a flesh wound, but a 7.62 rifle bullet caused significantly greater damage than most pistols would.

  The shot twisted her, with her other shoulder slamming into the concrete wall, ricocheting off and down to the floor. He could see her moving, her hand on her side, moans coming from her.

  Every inch of him wanted to go to help her. But years of training and almost a decade of experience under fire forced him to ignore what he wanted to do.

  One other thing experience had taught him is that most people, when they managed to hit a target, they were aiming at, did not immediately shift off that target, even if it moved out of sight. There was the briefest moment spent savoring the victory. Trained soldiers were drilled over and over to ignore this, but Taylor placed a bet that this man wasn’t a trained soldier.

  Leaning back in he saw the gunman was still pointing toward where Whitaker had fallen. It was the briefest of hesitations, but enough. Taylor fired twice more, the slide of his weapon locking back as the last bullet in the magazine left the weapon. His aim was high, but still good enough, with one round impacting in the man's lower neck and the second along his right temple.

  The gunman crumbled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, his weapon clattering to the floor. Taylor continued moving, transitioning out of the crouch he had been firing from into a forward stride. The two guys working the explosives had opposite reactions to each other.

  One man, a brick of C4 still in his hand, dashed out the door they were near, on the opposite side of the room into a different corridor. The second man had something in his hand as well. A detonator.

  Taylor, his weapon empty with no time to reload, started running, trying to cross the room as the man twisted, reaching out the thin, tube-like piece of electronics, trying to stab it into the putty surface of the C4 that had been molded around the pipe leading towards the water heater.

  Taylor knew these devices intimately. Typically the detonator would be hooked to a remote switch or timer of some type, to allow the user to have it go off after all friendlies were clear. Taylor saw neither type of device in the man's hands. He also knew detonators could be rigged to be set off manually. He feared this is what the man had done, planning on taking the building with him in one last desperate lunge.

  By the time Taylor was almost in arms reach, the detonator was in the C4, the man doing something with the top connectors. Taylor leaped, catching the man in the center of his chest, slamming both of them against the cement wall next to the explosive covered pipe.

  Taylor pushed the ache in his shoulders caused by the impact away, ignoring it, when a fist slammed into his back, trying to get Taylor to loosen his grip around the man’s waist. Taylor did release his grip and launched himself up and slightly backward, smashing the back of his skull against the man's lower jaw.

  He was rewarded with a crunching sound as the man's teeth smashed together but, as Taylor pulled himself the rest of the way up, his head pounding from the impact, he could see the man was not down for the count.

  Blood poured from the man's mouth as he lurched forward, trying to get his hands around Taylor’s throat. Taylor took a step back and reached out with his left hand to hold the man back as he lifted his right hand up, still holding the empty gun, and smashed it against the man’s temple.

  Taylor was relieved to see the man’s eyes roll up as his knees let go and he collapsed against the floor. He could see blood seeping from the wound caused by the smashing metal barrel of the pistol, but didn’t stop to check on him beyond confirming the man was out for the count.

  Slapping a fresh magazine in the gun, and working the slide to load a round into the chamber, Taylor rushed back to Whitaker and checked to make sure she was still alive.

  “Are you still with me?” Taylor asked as he pulled the radio on her belt.

  “I’m ... I’m still ...” she said, but started choking, a racking sound coming from her chest.

  Taylor was terrified for her, visions of losing yet another person close to him flashing through his mind, but he pushed it aside. There was still at least one terrorist left, carrying explosives. A lot more lives were on the line.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Hang in there.”

  He caught an almost imperceptible nod as he stood up and ran past the bodies now littering the boiler room through the other door and after the last man.

  “Agent down in the basement. One gunman carrying C4. Am in pursuit,” Taylor said into the radio as he ran.

  He remembered seeing the man turn right, and Taylor turned that direction. About thirty feet ahead was a corner. He could either turn right, a move that would loop him back around to the entrance to the boiler room that he and Whitaker had entered through, or go through the stairwell door on the far wall.

  Taylor wrenched open the door when a small green object dropped down the space between the stairs from a few floors up. It was only in view for a second, but Taylor would recognize a grenade anywhere. Letting go of the door, Taylor leaped to the right. Thankfully the combination of the closing door and the cement wall protected him from most of the blast, although some shrapnel found its way between the crack in the still closing door, ripping into his left leg.

  Taylor yelped in pain, but pulled himself back up, realizing that could have been a lot worse. Dragging his leg behind him, Taylor went through the door again and crossed over the blackened area caused by the grenade blast.

  It had been a risky move on the guy's part. He had stopped his dash away from Taylor to lie in wait, watching for the stairwell door to open so he could release the grenade. Of course, had it worked, the guy could have come back down and finished the job or made a dash for freedom.

  It, however, didn’t work and brought him a lot
closer to Taylor than he otherwise would have been. With each step Taylor took as he mounted the stairs, his bleeding leg slapped against the stairwell, sending a bolt of pain up Taylor’s spine. Taylor pushed that away, too.

  One of the bizarre benefits of years of torture, was an incredible pain threshold and an ability to separate yourself from the pain. Not that Taylor would have recommended the regimen to anyone who thought that was a benefit.

  Taylor hobbled up the stairs wincing with each step, he could hear the man running and a door one floor up slam open. Taylor knew the man was gaining ground and pushed himself hard, ignoring the pain.

  Going through the door, he found himself at the far end of a hallway, looking towards the lobby. The guy was messing with the brick in his hand, although what Taylor couldn’t see, as his back was to Taylor.

  “Hey,” Taylor yelled.

  He hadn’t expected anything, but to his surprise, the man turned at the sound. Taylor could see the detonator already in the brick of C4 with a timer attached. The man’s fingers working over the controls of the timer.

  Taylor lifted his arm and fired four times, three of the rounds finding the man dead center, sending him flying back, the explosives flinging from his hand as he collapsed.

  Taylor kept his weapon trained on the man as he approached him, but he didn’t move. Taylor didn’t need to check for a pulse to recognize a dead man. Seeing the C4 Taylor rushed to it. He could see something on the screen of the timer but didn’t stop to read it, yanking the detonator out of the explosives.

  Almost as soon as it cleared the grayish mass of C4, the timer vibrated almost imperceptibly in Taylor’s hand. He could actually see the spark the electric detonator let off, just inches from the surface of the explosive.

  Taylor allowed himself a moment to calm his shaking hands as the terror of that moment, holding explosives that had been a few milliseconds from going off, washed over him. No amount of experience could prepare a man for that feeling, and it took effort on his part not to shut down from the horror of what had almost happened.

  But, he wasn’t done yet. Taylor turned and headed back towards the stairs.

  Back for Whitaker.

  Chapter 14

  Whitaker slept peacefully, her dark hair a sharp contrast against the bleach white pillow she rested on. Her face was calm and restful. Staring at her as she slept; Taylor thought back to how she looked in that gray, smoky concrete hallway, two days ago.

  When he’d returned to her, Whitaker was in bad shape. Her skin had gone ghost white, and she was sweating profusely, lying in a pool of her own blood. She had only briefly opened her eyes when he’d gotten to her, and started basic first aid while they waited for the paramedics.

  She was clearly in shock and strangely smiled up at him, although her smile quickly morphed into a mask of pain before she passed out completely in his arms. As he sat with her, holding a makeshift bandage over the hole in her side, Taylor was sure he’d lost her.

  By the time the paramedics reached her, Whitaker’s pulse was nearly non-existent. They’d gotten to work, putting IVs in her and getting her on a gurney, rushing her out of the still dark building.

  She'd been rushed into surgery the moment she'd hit the hospital, while Taylor paced in the hallway, occasionally joined by Whitaker’s colleagues. His shirt and pants were still stained with her blood. Rollins had shown up shortly after she had gone into surgery, demanding Taylor come back for a debriefing.

  That had been a tense few moments. Taylor had made it clear it would take more than one FBI agent to pull him out of the hospital. Eventually, he did relent. He agreed to come in once he knew Whitaker was out of the woods.

  Of course, he'd later regretted those words. He spent almost an entire day going through every moment of the investigation; from the minute he had landed in Dallas a week and a half ago up until he pulled the detonator out of the brick of C4. Then they had him do it a second time, and a third.

  Taylor ignored the various forms of indignation and outrage his rotating cast of interrogators seemed to exhibit as he laid out all the ways the FBI had screwed up. He offered no apologies for the places where they thought he had almost cost the entire investigation.

  He didn’t know if that was why they kept having him go over everything again and again, or if it was just the way they did it; but he was happy when it finally ended. When it was done, he made a short stop at a local store for a change of clothes. Hospitals didn’t look fondly on people in blood covered clothes hanging around. Properly attired, he headed back to Whitaker’s room, where he’d been ever since.

  Taylor was staring at the TV in the corner of the room, its volume off, watching Rollins giving yet another press conference; when a voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

  “Hey?” Whitaker said, her voice croaking.

  Taylor reached to the side table and picked up a small cup of water, holding the straw to her lips.

  “Thanks,” she said after a long pull of water, her voice clearer.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like I got shot,” she said with a grimace.

  “You should probably avoid that, next time.”

  Reaching a hand up, her arm trailing IV tubes, she stroked the stubbled side of Taylor’s face.

  “I’m going to assume the building didn’t blow up.”

  “No, we stopped them in time.”

  “We?” she laughed, then groaned. “I was a big help, lying in a pool of blood.”

  Taylor chuckled, saying, “Nah, the only reason we stopped em is you were there with me. Not sure I could’ve done it on my own. We made a good team. Rollins seemed pleased with you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re saying you’re the hero who ‘nearly gave her life, single handily taking down the terrorists’.”

  “Great. I'll bet they have me talking to reporters before I’m even out of this bed.”

  “Probably. By the time we landed on the roof, every news station in the world was carrying on about how domestic terrorists were launching a full out assault on America. Trevor stopped by and said the word is, you're going to be shipped back to Washington and given a higher profile role. He framed it as a reward for a job well done, but I’d bet they want to get their money out of your current high profile status. The news is loving you, today.”

  “That won’t last. Trevor made it back from Tulsa?”

  “Yeah, the Hostage thing ended shortly after the building didn’t blow, the guys there gave up with no shots fired.”

  “That’s something. So what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m guessing they’re not mentioning your involvement.”

  “No. Rollins talked to me yesterday after my debriefing. He offered me the thanks of the FBI and the Nation, and then hinted strongly that he would prefer if I was never involved with a Bureau case ever again. I get the feeling I didn’t make too many friends.”

  “You made one,” Whitaker said, putting her hand on his.

  Taylor just smiled across at her.

  “So where do you go, now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I guess I could go back to Florida, but Albert said he wasn’t running a rest home for burned out old soldiers, and hinted strongly that he’d prefer I found something more my speed.”

  “You could come with me?” Whitaker said, looking at him hopefully.

  “To the Bureau?” Taylor asked, sounding skeptical.

  “God, no! You’d be a disaster. I meant, come to Washington. You are a natural at this kind of investigation. You saw right through to what was really going on. There are a lot of people who would hire someone like that, for those times when law enforcement can’t or won’t help. Missing person’s cases, industrial espionage, that kind of thing. Plus, you have more friends in the Bureau than you think. They would help you to find jobs.”

  “Hang out my own shingle, huh?” Taylor said, leaning back in his chair, looking thoughtful.
<
br />   “Consider it. Plus, it would have an added benefit.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’d be in the same city.”

  He smiled at her, earning a rare smile back from Whitaker. They sat quietly, just enjoying being alive, while Taylor considered the future.

  About The Author

  Travis Starnesisa freelance writer living in Texas. He has a love for books of all types, but preferably sci-fi, mystery and the occasional history. His passion is creating worlds and characters that live and breathe, letting them loose, and seeing what happens.

  Find out more at

  amazon.com/TravisStarnes/e/B072YBDC3S/

  Or visit tstarnes.com

  Other Books By Travis Starnes

  Other books available on kindle

  Other John Taylor Stories

  Rebirth