Running Blind

by Cindy Gerard

  He was right. They were pinned down like ducks on a pond, with no flight options in sight. Too many lives were on the line to sit here. Someone was going to have to play cowboy.

  He glanced at his friends. There was nothing he could do for Eva. Mike, Stephanie, and Rhonda were doing what they could. Taggart and Waldrop guarded the shattered window. Green and Santos covered the back.

  He crawled up to join Taggart on the floor at the window and searched outside. The shots could have come from anywhere. The bank of office buildings to the east of the restaurant. An apartment building to the west. An abandoned building in the middle of it all. They had to find out.

  “Toss me a coat. Any coat!” Coop yelled at Rhonda. “Taggart, Waldrop—keep your eyes peeled outside for a rifle flash.”

  Rhonda grabbed Taggart’s jacket and, at Coop’s nod, let it fly.

  The shot was almost instantaneous.

  “Muzzle flash. Vacant building, six floors up. One, two . . . wait, I’ve gotta count . . . thirteen windows in!” Taggart shouted after a brief, intense moment.

  They had him—and he wasn’t as smart as he thought, if he allowed anyone on the ground to see his muzzle flash.

  “Taggart. You’re with me.” Coop headed toward the rear of the restaurant and shot out the back door.

  5

  Waldrop laid cover fire as Coop and Taggart sprinted the length of three football fields. Pumping blood and adrenaline kept them warm in the fifteen-degree weather; their breath escaped in frosty white puffs as it left their burning lungs. When they reached the target building, they drew their guns and took a few seconds to suck in some breath and assess the building. Ten stories of brick, it took up an entire block. Graffiti was scrawled across the walls and the few ground-floor windows that weren’t broken out.

  “I’ll go left,” Coop said, and Taggart immediately took off to the right.

  When Coop reached the first corner of the building, he pressed his back against it, checked around the brick, then raced for the opposite end, stopping at every doorway to check for a possible entry point.

  “Locked tight,” Taggart said, breathing hard, when they met at their original point of contact.

  “I didn’t see any vehicles. You?”

  Taggart shook his head. “Nope.”

  So either the shooter had already left, had a driver waiting for him somewhere nearby, or had arrived on foot. That gave them two chances out of three that he was still up there. And still shooting to kill.

  “Ideas?” Coop asked as they bolted toward the closest door.

  “A good, hard kick ought to do it.”

  Holding his pistol in a two-handed grip close to his body, Coop mule-kicked the door open and burst inside. He cleared the left side of the stairwell and felt Taggart at his back, clearing his sector.

  They’d breached enough enemy strongholds together that their actions were a well-choreographed, deadly dance.

  A hand clasped his shoulder, confirming that Taggart was ready to go up.

  Stairways were a bitch to clear. The “fatal funnel.” The bad guys could toss a grenade or fire a burst of shots and be guaranteed to hit something.

  Quickly, but taking care, they cleared each stairway and landing.

  Coop’s pulse pounded in his head by the time they got to the sixth floor, where they figured the shooter had been hiding.

  Office doors flanked either side of the hallway. They eliminated the side to the north and center of the building.

  “Which window?” Coop glanced down the hall.

  Taggart looked at the first door. “The thirteenth.”

  “How many windows in each room?”

  “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  “Cover me.”

  Two-handing his 9mm in front of him, Coop drew a deep breath. Then he hauled back again, kicked open the first door, and burst through the threshold, staying low and out of the kill zone.

  Taggart rushed in low behind him.

  The room was empty.

  “Captain America couldn’t have done it better,” Taggart said, a weak attempt to cut the tension.

  “Just count, smart-ass.”

  “Five.”

  Five windows in the room.

  They hustled back to the door, checked out the hall, and, finding it empty, rolled out of the empty room together.

  Taggart stopped by the next door. “What do you think?”

  Though they both knew the room after this one held the thirteenth window, it never paid to assume.

  “Clear it just in case.”

  Taggart went in first this time. And again, they found the room empty.

  As they stepped back out into the hall, Coop heard the soft click of a latch on the next door down the hall.

  Beside him, Taggart nodded. He’d heard it, too.

  • • •

  Rhonda hoped that everyone in the restaurant was asking whatever power any of them believed in to save Eva. With more pleas sent in Taggart and Cooper’s direction. They were out there now, easy targets for whoever was doing the shooting.

  “They’ll be fine,” Steph said, reading her mind. “They know what they’re doing.”

  She might not like Cooper much, but her heart beat more for his and Taggart’s safety than for her own.

  And it beat more for Eva’s.

  She fought back tears. Her teammates weren’t just battle buddies. They were good friends, including their wives and kids. To many of them, this extended family was the closest to normal that it got. And now she was one of them. Now she understood that when one of their own was in danger, they’d move mountains to remove the threat.

  She felt so helpless. It seemed like an eternity since the first shot had been fired, though it had barely been four minutes since Eva was hit. Less than two minutes since Taggart and Cooper had raced out the back door after the shooter.

  “Where are the police?” Mike demanded. “Where’s the ambulance?”

  She wanted to help him, to reassure him that Eva was going to be okay. But she’d seen the wound. She knew . . .

  The sound of sirens cut into her dark thoughts and provided much-needed hope.

  “Thank God, they’re here!” She felt a rush of relief as the first wave of squad cars rolled to screeching stops in front of the restaurant, lights flashing. Uniformed cops piled out of the cars, guns drawn, and carefully approached the building.

  “DOD!” Joe Green shouted, flashing his government credentials high in the air so the cops could see them clearly. The rest of them did the same.

  “Take cover,” Green warned them. “The shooter’s still out there.”

  Half a dozen cops scrambled inside and tucked in low beside them.

  “We’ve got two men out there looking for the shooter,” Green said.

  Normally, Mike would coordinate the action, but his head and his heart were wholly focused on Eva. It broke Rhonda’s heart to watch him.

  “And we’ve got a victim down,” Green told the lieutenant in charge. “GSW to the abdomen. Big bleed.” He glanced over his shoulder at Mike, who looked lost and desperate.

  “There’s an ambulance on the way,” the lieutenant said after double-checking with dispatch.

  “Tell them to step on it,” Green pleaded. “Tell ’em we’ve got a critical.”

  Rhonda felt as if another lifetime passed during the next several seconds, before the wail of another siren announced the rapid approach of the ambulance.

  The restaurant, the terrified customers, and the rest of her team all faded away amid the eerie flash of red, white, and blue strobes that rolled against the walls and glinted off the broken glass.

  Her gaze fell to Eva, who was now unconscious and who she feared was dying on the floor.

  Fear for Eva, for Mike, for Taggart and Cooper
pressed down on her shoulders as she watched the ambulance crew tend to Eva, load her up while the police provided cover, and finally race away to the hospital with Mike at her side.

  Don’t let her die. Please, don’t let her die.

  Several more police cars arrived in the meantime. As soon as the restaurant was secured, Green, Waldrop, and Santos took off to provide backup for Taggart and Cooper.

  Rhonda and Stephanie stayed to supply information to the police. Sitting in the kitchen on a stack of boxes, Rhonda answered question after question . . . all the while thinking, pleading, and bargaining with the powers that be that no one else got shot.

  6

  Wrong! Everything had gone wrong!

  Her hands shook with rage, making her fingers clumsy as she disassembled her rifle and rushed to pack it away.

  She’d hit the woman, but it hadn’t been a head shot like she’d planned. She must have estimated the thickness and the density of the plate-glass window incorrectly. The miscalculation had altered the trajectory of the bullet, deflecting her shot slightly off course.

  Quickly setting the stage for her exit, she placed her props where they couldn’t be missed and told herself it didn’t matter that the shot hadn’t been clean. The view through the rifle’s scope had been clear. Judging from the blood and location of the wound, the bullet had riddled Eva Salinas Brown’s gut. Chances of surviving an abdominal hit like that were minuscule. She’d have a massive bleed, most likely be dead before the paramedics even had a chance to take her vitals. One of the advantages of designing and packing her own bullets was knowing exactly what kind of damage they could do.

  One last look around the nest told her that all was in place. She ran to the interior door, pulled out her handgun, and carefully checked the main hallway. Empty.

  Then she heard the heavy steel door open from the inside stairway. Then footsteps on the concrete floors.

  Shit. They’d found her hide.

  Should she stay and pick them off like flies as they stormed the door to this room? Or cut her losses and retreat?

  She fought the temptation to stay. She couldn’t be certain but she had a good idea who was out there. She’d just killed their partner’s wife, so it would be Taggart and Cooper to the rescue. As predictable as a fat man having a heart attack. God, she’d love to see their faces just before they died.

  Yet if she stayed, she could end up dead. There’d be cops and feds all over this building in another few minutes.

  Wisdom won out over excitement as she heard them out there, kicking in doors, searching for her.

  When she’d arrived this morning, she’d rigged the hall door to her room in case anyone came snooping. She’d tucked a standard M67 hand grenade into a tin can, pulled the pin, then wedged the spoon inside the can so it couldn’t release. Then she’d wired the can so when the door opened, it would pull away the can and arm the grenade. Her standard insurance against intruders; it worked every time. Whoever came through that door didn’t stand a chance.

  Carrying her rifle case, which resembled a valise, she slipped out a rear window that led to the exterior fire escape and raced down the stairs.

  And all the while, she envisioned the investigators finding her hide and the bloody, mangled bodies of Taggart and Cooper. She could see the rest of their team finding her special “calling cards” and the wrong turns they would take before eventually realizing who had killed them.

  Discovering that the woman they’d thought was dead had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of hell, to extract her long-awaited revenge.

  • • •

  “On my go,” Coop said, his frosty breath clouding the air in the frigid hallway.

  Taggart nodded. He was ready.

  Coop sucked in a breath, gave a quick nod, then kicked in the door. He rushed into the room, Taggart diving low behind him.

  The room was empty and deathly quiet.

  Except for a soft hissing noise.

  Coop instantly recognized the sound. “Grenade!”

  He grabbed Taggart by his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Then they ran and dived across the empty room, as far away from the door as momentum would carry them.

  • • •

  She heard the explosion just as she hit the street.

  She’d have to enjoy the satisfaction later. Right now, she needed to make tracks. Outside the building, there was nothing but litter and cracked asphalt and a little skiff of snow.

  She calmly walked two blocks, looking like a businesswoman with an oversized valise hurrying to get to work. When she reached the Jeep she’d stolen in D.C. last night, she stowed her rifle on the floor in the backseat, then slid behind the wheel.

  A healthy dose of fear raced with her along the backstreets behind her as the facts set in. She’d fucked it up. Had she lost her edge? Had the two-year hiatus, while she’d healed and mourned and plotted her revenge, taken her out of the game?

  The Russians would not be happy. The entire team was supposed to be taken out or disabled. Brown, Taggart, and Cooper were supposed to be dead. Maybe Taggart and Cooper had died back there in the building, but maybe wasn’t good enough. And for certain, Brown was still alive.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror. Even though she’d changed the plates on the Jeep, she half-­expected to see a squad car, lights and siren blazing, or a black sedan filled with hard-eyed, ruddy-faced Russians bearing down on her.

  Regroup. Her mentor’s voice echoed inside her head. Regroup and redeem yourself.

  He was right. Of course he was right. This could still work out well. Her chest fluttered with excitement. Now she’d have Brown and his team on the ropes. Have them on the defensive, hunting in the dark.

  As for the Russians, maybe she could turn this to her advantage. Create another opportunity to squeeze them for more money. And enjoy more anticipation, knowing that whatever remained of Mike Brown’s team would be running scared when they realized that a ghost could reach out and kill them at will.

  It would take them a while to put the puzzle pieces together, but once they figured it out, they’d be looking over their shoulders for the rest of their very short lives.

  Would she get them in bed, sleeping? In their car, stopped at a red light? One thing she knew for certain: there wouldn’t be any more Monday breakfast meetings. No socializing, no lighthearted banter, no chance of anything being normal ever again.

  That thought, coupled with what had happened to whoever had opened the door to her nest, finally made her smile.

  • • •

  “What did you say?” Coop poked a finger in his ear, then tried to shake away the incessant ringing.

  Joe Green stood over him. “Can you walk back down the stairs on your own?”

  “I can walk,” Coop muttered. “What I can’t freaking do is hear.”

  When the grenade had gone off, they were a good ten yards away from the rigged door, hugging the floor.

  That’s where Green, Santos, and Waldrop had found them. Then they’d dragged them down the stairs, where the ambulance Green had called—just in case—was waiting. Several police cars also filled the lot.

  Now Taggart was at the hospital. The rest of them were back up on the sixth floor, studying the shooter’s nest.

  “What’s the word on Taggart?” Coop asked Green.

  “Concussion. Dislocated shoulder. Lots of bruises—he hit a radiator when he slid across the floor. He’ll be fine. He’s already awake and bitching to be released, but he’ll be on the DL for a while.”

  Coop let out a huge breath of relief. Thank God. They’d been through the fire together more than once, and this had come too close to being the last time.

  “Any sign of the shooter?” He wrapped the blanket the ambulance crew had given him tighter around his shoulders and winced. He’d taken some shrapnel in his left calf and low on his
shoulder blade, and the local anesthetic the EMTs had used when they sewed him up had started to wear off.

  He and Taggart were lucky to be alive. The grenade had exploded only partially inside the room; most of the damage had been done out in the hallway. The shooter had wanted to cover a partial breach in addition to a full one, which had saved them—though Coop was sure that hadn’t been the intent.

  He stared at the playing cards lined up like soldiers on the dusty windowsill, where they were sure to be spotted. His gut knotted. The intent was now pretty darn clear.

  A jack of hearts, burned around the edges, with “COOPER” printed precisely across the middle.

  A jack of spades, with a slice through the center, had “TAGGART” written in the same bold, black ink.

  Another jack of hearts, pierced with a bullet hole, had been labeled “BROWN.”

  And finally, a queen of hearts. The name “EVA” was clear beneath the black X that stretched from corner to corner.

  One bullet had been carefully placed nose-up on top of each card. The four bullets were identical: .223 Remington cartridges that were almost exact matches to the bullets the U.S. military shot in the M16 rifle.

  “What do you want to bet these cartridges will match the bullets we’ll dig out of the wall in the restaurant?” Green said grimly.

  Santos crouched down so he was at eye level with the shells and looked them over well. “These didn’t come out of a box someone picked off the shelf. They’re designer. Hand-loaded. Someone’s very particular.”

  “Someone who’s got it in for the One-Eyed Jacks.” Waldrop frowned at Coop. “He even used ammo similar to ours. You thinking vendetta?”

  Coop stared at the bullets and nodded. Someone was out to get them for a very specific reason.

  “An Al-Qaeda cell bent on retribution?” Santos suggested.

  Coop shook his head. “This is too staged. Too selective. Al-Qaeda or one of its splinter groups would have taken out the entire restaurant if killing us was their goal.”

  “Why Eva?” Waldrop speculated quietly, then glanced at Coop. “What does she have to do with the One-Eyed Jacks, other than being married to one?”