Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  She struggled to control her breathing and heartbeat. Her world felt as if at any moment it would turn on its axis, and she’d pass out into oblivion before she had a chance to defend herself. She blinked hard and squinted her eyes, focusing on the door . . . waiting.

  She knew the moment was upon her as she heard steady breathing on the other side of the door. She suppressed an urge to scream at the intruder just to shatter the maddening silence. Instead, she concentrated fiercely on the opening, the sight of the shotgun aimed where she assumed his chest would be. She intended to make sure whoever was on the other side didn’t get a second chance to hurt her. She was playing for keeps.

  * * *

  Cesar hesitated outside the master bedroom. Through the opening, he saw another door leading to a large bathroom. Light from a skylight reflected off the surface of a glass shower. He heard no movement. She has to be here. He could feel it.

  He wanted to hurt her, but he knew the mission outweighed his own selfish desires. He could at least terrorize her while he had her captive, if nothing else but to remind her of her place in a world of men. First though, he had to find her. He entered the bedroom, his Glock raised in front of him with both arms, searching for his target.

  As he stepped across the doorway, his eyes glanced to the right into what appeared to be a gigantic closet. Americans were so spoiled. He saw shelves of sweaters and racks of hanging blouses, skirts, and dresses. It only made him resent her more.

  Cesar took another step as he turned to the left, and he immediately realized he’d made a fatal mistake. He froze midstride. She’s been patient, like a predator waiting for her prey. I misjudged her . . . bitch. His mind reeled at the knowledge that he’d been lured into a trap by a woman. He opened his mouth to shout when the woman pulled the trigger on the ugly shotgun aimed directly at him. He only hoped the pain would be brief.

  * * *

  Sarah saw the barrel of the Glock before anything else. This monster killed my dog. With that thought echoing in her head, she felt another wave of calm wash over her. As he moved into the room, she recognized a thick black mustache, and slick, jet-black hair parted on the left side.

  He looked into her closet with disgust, which further sealed his fate. He moved farther into the room and turned toward her. She waited for the right moment. He finally spotted her lying down next to the bed.

  As soon as her blue eyes locked on to his dark-brown ones, his eyebrows rose in surprise, and she felt a small chill of satisfaction knowing she’d outsmarted him. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger on the Benelli. This is for my dog, you sonofabitch. You’re done.

  The thunderous roar of the shotgun blast echoed and was magnified in the enclosed space of the bedroom. Her ears rang, but there was no other sound. Oh my God. I can’t hear.

  More important, her aim was true. She watched the gunman take the full brunt of the shotgun triple-aught buck load—what Logan had tactically decided would do the most damage in close quarters—in the chest. Eight .36-inch balls shredded his clothes and turned his chest into a bloody pulp. At a range of less than ten feet, three of the balls tore holes in his heart, immediately stopping it and the blood flow to his brain, killing him instantly.

  As the shotgun ejected the empty shell, Sarah watched the gunman’s body bounce off the closed door and crumple to the floor facedown on the carpet. Blood slowly began to soak her carpet, blossoming on the fibers the way a paper towel absorbs a dark liquid.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have time to process the fact that she’d just taken a life. Through the ringing in her ears, she faintly heard a second intruder shouting in Spanish, racing down the hallway toward her.

  She tried to remain calm and focused. She knew if she moved, she’d reveal her position and the second intruder would have the advantage.

  Logan had often talked about how people in movies and TV shows always made the wrong choices when chased or trapped in a house. It was a soapbox she’d tired of but was grateful for at the moment. “If you’re ever trapped in a room, just keep shooting as they come in. Unless they’re coming armed with flash-bang grenades and assault weapons, you have the advantage. If there’s more than one, they’ll know you’re there, but you still have the upper hand. It will suck, but it’s the only play.” She was about to test Logan’s theory.

  The second intruder stopped outside the bedroom doors. His partner’s body was visible through the doorway. She was sure that was why he’d stopped shouting.

  As he tried to figure out what had happened, Sarah remained still and silent. Her finger was on the trigger. She prepared to squeeze it a second time.

  The second gunman suddenly spoke, startling her, causing her to lose her focus momentarily. “Mrs. West, let me be blunt. We are not here to kill you. We need you as leverage to persuade your husband to help us. Cesar—the man you just shot—obviously underestimated you. I won’t do the same. We can wait here all night if necessary. It will serve the same purpose, since you’re trapped. If you move, I’ll see you.” She knew he was right.

  “If you come out now, this will go much smoother. It’s going to end the same, no matter what you do. My orders are not to kill you, but I will shoot you if you leave me no choice. If you want to stay there, that suits me fine as well. You have nowhere to go and can’t do any harm from there. Like I said, Mrs. West, we have all night. More men are on the way. There’s nothing you can do. One way or another, you’re coming out of that room. Count on it.”

  More men? My husband? She had killed this man’s partner, and it hadn’t even fazed him. Who were these people? She knew it didn’t matter. She only had one move left, and she had to make it quickly. She exhaled again, aimed at the slightly ajar door panel and pulled the trigger a second time as she silently prayed for help.

  BOOM!

  Luck was on her side—or at least, not on the gunman’s—since the second shotgun blast shattered the door panel into small fragments of splintered wood. The shards mixed with the buckshot and created a lethal cloud of wood and lead that struck the second intruder on the upper left torso. Several large splinters tore into the side of his neck, piercing his carotid artery. Blood splashed onto the carpet in a crimson waterfall.

  Sarah heard the gunman fall to the floor. Logan would be proud. She waited for the ringing in her ears to subside. She didn’t hear any sounds in the house, but she couldn’t be sure it was empty. It was a risk she was willing to take. She knew she had to get out of the house now. If reinforcements really were coming, she wanted to be as far away as possible before they arrived.

  She quickly rose to her feet, keeping the shotgun in front of her with her finger on the trigger. She moved to the doorway, past the first gunman’s corpse and into the hallway.

  She saw the second gunman, lying in his own blood, which continued to pump from the side of his neck, his dark eyes vacant. Why were these men after Logan?

  She didn’t have the luxury of time to contemplate. She needed to leave. Now. And fast.

  As she sprinted down the hallway and down the spiral staircase into the foyer, it never occurred to her that there might be two more men in the house, professionals waiting patiently for her to come to them.

  CHAPTER 6

  When Antonio and Tomas heard the first shotgun blast, they were in the basement on the opposite side of the house. They’d been clearing the first of two guest bedrooms connected to a gigantic common area that served as an entertainment area and fitness center.

  When the shotgun blast reverberated through the walls and floors, the men exchanged a wary glance. Both immediately knew something unplanned had just occurred: neither Cesar nor Angel carried a shotgun.

  Antonio thought he heard a voice shouting upstairs, but it was extremely faint. The floors and insulation separating them dampened the speech to an almost inaudible level. “Let’s go,” Antonio said.

  The two men exited the bedroom and moved through the common area with a single purpose. Once up the basement stairs, they’
d entered the hallway outside the kitchen.

  A second shotgun blast startled them once more. Both men froze. Neither spoke. They were too well trained to reveal their position.

  Antonio whispered, “Give it a minute. We wait here until we hear something else.” The men positioned themselves on either side of the hallway entrance to the kitchen, waiting for any sign of movement.

  Antonio stared at the dead dog on the floor. He was a mercenary and paid handsomely for his services. As a result, he compartmentalized his personal feelings on a job like this one. He wasn’t supposed to know the details of their mission, but he’d overheard Juan and Roberto talking.

  He knew what they were doing would change the political balance in the Middle East. He didn’t care. The money trumped everything—politics, ideals. None of it mattered to him. So it was ironic that he felt a twinge of remorse at the sight.

  Antonio had owned a yellow Labrador as a boy. It had been his closest friend until he was twelve years old, when the dog had somehow escaped the confines of his family’s fenced-in backyard. The dog never returned.

  He’d desperately wanted to believe the dog had been picked up by another family, free to live out its existence. Unfortunately, Antonio knew the world was a different place. Things like that didn’t happen in Mexico. There were no fairy-tale endings. More than likely, the dog had been killed by a vehicle, or worse.

  Quick footsteps from the front staircase shifted Antonio’s attention from his troubled memories to the present.

  Neither man moved, their dark eyes fixed on the kitchen entryway. Wait for her . . . a few more seconds.

  Antonio heard soft shoes strike the hardwood floor of the foyer. There was a squeak as the West woman turned sharply and moved toward the kitchen. And then for some reason, she suddenly stopped in the hallway.

  Antonio wondered what had happened. Did she hear us? Then he realized why she’d stopped, and he felt a moment of sympathy for this woman he didn’t know. She’d seen her lifeless dog lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, and the sight had stopped her cold in her tracks.

  He heard a stifled sob of grief, but then she regained her composure. Oblivious of the two men, she walked into the kitchen toward her fallen companion.

  Antonio waited for her to reach him before he acted. As soon as she entered the kitchen in front of him, shotgun held in front of her in both arms, Antonio lashed out and covered the distance between them in one stride.

  She’d heard the rustle of his clothes, but it was too late to react.

  Antonio snaked his right arm around her throat and locked his right hand into the inside of his left elbow. He placed his left hand on the back of her head and squeezed.

  The suddenness of the attack forced her to drop the shotgun, which fell loudly to the hardwood floor. Unlike them, she was not a trained soldier.

  As Antonio secured his grip behind her head, he heard a clatter as something else hit the kitchen floor. He looked down and saw that she’d dropped her cell phone. It was in the process of making a call.

  “Turn that off, Tomas,” he hissed to his partner as he applied more leverage to the back of her head. “She’s trying to call someone.”

  Tomas quickly bent down and picked up the phone. He saw a small picture of her husband, Logan West, smiling back up at him. Even on a small screen, this was a fearsome-looking man. It was in his eyes. Before Logan could answer, Tomas pressed the “end” button and disconnected the call.

  “It didn’t go through. I think we’re okay.”

  Antonio grunted acknowledgment and squeezed harder. She never had a chance. A gasp escaped her throat. Before she could scream, Antonio’s iron forearms and biceps cut off the circulation of blood to her head. Even with no oxygen, she continued to fight, surprising him. She’s stronger than I thought.

  Instead of underestimating her, which had obviously been fatal for the other team, Antonio applied more pressure. He was as calculating with his use of force as a doctor prescribing an especially dangerous medication. Just a little more . . . and after an additional ten seconds of struggling, the West woman finally went limp in his arms.

  CHAPTER 7

  Logan was parked and waiting. His was the only vehicle in sight. He’d pulled off at the end of a service road just inside the community entrance. There was a guardhouse, but it wasn’t staffed during the day. All residents owned electronic key cards that provided twenty-four-hour access.

  He exited the vehicle and forced himself to stand still as he waited for Mike. Now that the initial hangover was finally subsiding, withdrawal symptoms had begun. He’d started trembling approximately twenty minutes ago.

  Out of desperation and necessity, he’d grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark as he ran out of his house. As he waited, he swallowed a few gulps of the smooth brown liquid.

  He felt the immediate warm rush as the alcohol hit his stomach. After a painful moment of nausea, the familiar sensation he was physically addicted to became the dominant feeling. His thirst temporarily satisfied, he concentrated on his breathing as the alcohol coursed through his system.

  Within a few minutes, the shakes diminished in intensity. He was ashamed that it had come to this, that he’d used whiskey to avoid severe withdrawal. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury or time to suffer through the various stages of sobering up. He had to be as clear-minded as possible for what was coming, his aim true and without hesitation.

  If someone did have Sarah, Logan knew she’d be counting on him. No matter what he’d done to her in the past, he wasn’t about to let her down again. If that meant using the same thing to save her life that had wrecked their marriage, so be it. Sometimes you do have to make a deal with the devil.

  The isolation of the gated community was an advantage for Logan and Mike. There was no traffic at this time of day. It was still a few hours before the evening rush.

  The fact that there were only twelve homes in the entire community also played in their favor. With approximately a half mile between each home, the chances of a neighbor’s seeing anything was remote.

  A dog barked from across a field behind him. Must be from one of the other homes. No strays out here. He didn’t know which neighbors owned dogs, since neither Sarah nor Logan had made an effort to meet any of them. Seclusion had been a main attraction of the location for both of them.

  He thought of Daly. He hoped his loyal retriever was okay. Other than his wife, the dog had been the only other thing he’d truly loved in his life in recent years. Daly had helped preserve his sanity, even when he’d been trying to self-destruct in an alcoholic rage. No matter what he said or did when drunk, he’d never hurt his dog. On more than one occasion, Daly had brought him back from the brink of some very dark places.

  He looked up to see Mike’s dark-green Toyota Land Cruiser pass through the gate. Logan had given Mike a key card for emergencies. Now was definitely one of those times.

  Logan moved to the back of Mike’s Toyota as it stopped behind his own Land Cruiser. Mike cut the engine and stepped out to join him at the rear of the vehicle, where Logan had already opened the hatch to pull out the assault gear Mike had brought with him.

  Mike looked hard at Logan without speaking, anger and concern mixed on his face. He noticed the fresh wound on Logan’s left cheek.

  “Jesus, Logan, you okay? That looks like hell. You need anything for it? I have my med kit.”

  Logan shook his head, gestured to the trunk of Mike’s SUV, and said, “Mike, I’m fine. The only thing that’s going to make me feel better is what’s in here and what I’m going to do with it.”

  Mike nodded. He knew it was pointless to argue or ask questions, at least right now.

  “Fair enough. As for Sarah, first we need to get eyes-on. Then we can figure out how to handle it. Until we get an idea as to who’s inside—if there is anyone—we can’t just go in guns blazing. We have to figure out who the fuck they are and what they really want.” He touched Logan’s shoulder to get his atte
ntion. Logan snapped his head around and glared at him, an impatient intensity on his face, green eyes blazing.

  “Logan, depending on how many men there are, we have to take at least one of them alive. We’ll need him for information, especially on this Juan character or whatever the hell his name is. The more information we get, the better this whole thing goes. I can contact my uncle to find a secure location where we can sort this out with the appropriate security and methods.” His words hung in the cool air. He prayed that Logan saw the logic in his reasoning. He was relieved when his friend finally spoke.

  “We do it right, Mike. If we can, take at least one—if not more—alive, but if I think for one second that Sarah might be in danger, I’m shooting to kill, and you know I don’t miss—even if I am hungover as all hell.” The whiskey was working its magic. He was starting to feel somewhat normal. Normal for a bingeing alcoholic who just woke up from a two-day blackout, he thought.

  “One last thing,” Logan went on. “We approach the house from the back and conduct a solid recon from a distance. And then we wait until just after the end of dusk before we make our move. It’ll provide us with the most cover and the best chance of success.”

  “Good plan.” Mike grabbed his own bag from the back of the SUV. “You know, Logan, you’re going to have to figure out how to stay sober once and for all. You had what? Seven? Eight months? I don’t know what happened.” He paused, redirecting his thoughts. “You can tell me later. First, let’s make sure your wife is safe.”

  Having established the ground rules, Logan relaxed a little bit as he looked across the surrounding environment. Even though there was no one in sight and the only sound he’d heard was the call of one lonely dog, he still felt exposed in the middle of his rural neighborhood.

  “Deal . . . when this is over.” His voice hardened. “But now, down to business. What toys did you bring?”