Betrayed 02 - Havoc

by Carolyn McCray

  Okay, the bullet hadn’t just grazed it, the shot had taken off the tip of his ear. His good ear.

  “So?” Davidson asked as she put pressure on the wound. “Think it’ll scar?”

  This, exactly this attitude, had been why Rebecca had forgiven Davidson for all of his trespasses. Since her last run-in with the Knot she’d sworn to get a Special Forces assistant. Now she had one.

  The only question being if they could survive the day.

  Brandt didn’t even bother cursing as the SUV narrowly avoided running into a stack of crates.

  “We need to get back into the street,” Davidson said in that weird slurred voice of his. “Take a right at the next street. A right.”

  “So we can get shot at?” Talli retorted, still brushing off broken glass from his jacket.

  “No,” Davidson stated. “So I can take a shot.”

  Harvish snorted. “Yeah right. That sniper is holed up three blocks away.”

  Brandt however didn’t snort, laugh, or otherwise demean Davidson’s skill. His moral fiber? Yes, denigrate that all you wanted, but the kid’s accuracy with a rifle? Never. Traitor he may be, but damn if Davidson’s training by the Knot did have its perks. But was Brandt really going to go off the kid’s advice?

  Lopez looked to Brandt. The questions obvious. Do we trust the traitor?

  “You are sure you can hit him?” Brandt asked.

  Davidson shook his head. “No. But I can back him off, which is nearly as good.”

  The kid was right, all to hell. A hesitant sniper had about the same accuracy as a dead sniper.

  “Can’t we just keep the buildings between us and the shooter?” Harvish asked.

  Lopez shook his head. “The only way to do that would be to keep to these tight streets, giving them time to get their ground forces to surround the neighborhood.”

  As they raced toward the next intersection, Brandt glared at Davidson. It was hard to believe the scarred face in front of him was the same as the one who had betrayed them in Rome. Even though Davidson had been a Knot mole from the get-go, he showed absolutely no hesitation to kill members of the sect. It was how the kid had kept his cover intact for so long. Davidson was the all-American poster boy. Even if the kid was working some treacherous angle here it would still behoove him to get the team out of this jam.

  And Brandt would take it.

  “Talli, give him your rifle.”

  “Sarge!”

  “Now!” Brandt barked, not used to having to give a direct order twice.

  The dark-haired man bit his tongue and hauled out what looked like a large gym bag except the fact it held the parts to one of the most deadly rifles in the world.

  Davidson whistled as Harvish assembled the gun. “Nice. An M107 LRSR. Fifty caliber, right?”

  The Arab only grunted his answer as he handed the loaded rifle over to Davidson.

  As the kid checked the sights he continued. “Lopez, once back out into the street, you’re going to have to make it look like we really are trying to make a run for it.”

  “Done.”

  Davidson looked to Brandt. “And I’m going to have to wait until he takes a shot before I fire.”

  Great, Brandt thought. You kind of buried the lede there.

  “Everyone down then,” Brandt ordered as the car swerved right, fishtailing back onto the main thoroughfare. There was no way the sniper could miss them now.

  Davidson flexed his contracted hand. That damaged forefinger only needed to pull the trigger. Would muscle memory be enough? Timing the shot, especially a shot this far away, relied upon his breath being in perfect sync with his pull. A single shudder in his inhale or a twitch of his finger could ruin a perfectly aligned shot.

  Even more importantly Davidson needed to get his head into the game. How long had it been since he’d shot? Calculations whirred in his head. The current wind speed gained from a flapping Union Jack. Distance versus height. He couldn’t count on his previous notions on where the sniper was holed up. The shooter would have moved by now. Taking up a better roost to spy the car.

  So Davidson had to slow his exhale. Calm his mind. Slowly scan the rooftops, trusting that the best angle Davidson had on the buildings would be the best angle the sniper would choose to shoot toward the road.

  He had to force himself to breathe deeply and steadily, knowing the sniper participated in the same ritual. No matter how badly either of them wanted to take a shot, for snipers timing was king.

  Then the tiny flare of a muzzle just before a loud ping as the sniper’s shot bounced off the trunk. Davidson didn’t hesitate, letting off a shot of his own.

  Aunush threw herself back as a piece of concrete flew at her. That had been a shot. A sniper shot. At them. That could not be.

  But the way her own sniper had rolled to cover it had to be.

  She could see the thoughts nearly as plainly on the sniper’s face as if he screamed them at her. To make that shot? From a moving car? Monroe’s sniper might be as good as he was.

  “We can’t lose them,” Aunush hissed as another chunk of concrete marked a spot-on shot.

  The sniper clenched his jaw, turning back onto his belly, taking measure through the scope. Aunush stayed behind the small ledge, only rising high enough to peer through her binoculars.

  As a shot rang out, Aunush watched as the car swerved, riding up onto the curb scattering pedestrians. Had her sniper taken out the driver?

  Rebecca covered her head as the car ran into a Vespa, throwing the scooter high into the air only to have it crash back down behind them. Lopez struggled to keep the car on the sidewalk, let alone the road. Their left rear tire blown.

  “I thought you said he’d be shaken,” Brandt growled.

  Next to her, Davidson reset the rifle after firing two quick shots. “What can I say, the guy’s got balls.”

  The rim of the wheel sparking against the road probably wasn’t keeping their presence exactly low profile.

  “Take the next right,” Davidson ordered.

  Rebecca noticed a glance from Lopez to Brandt before the corporal complied. She let out a breath she’d been holding since they’d headed back into the road as the car careened down the street, blissfully flanked by high buildings.

  “Do I need another plan, Davidson?” Brandt asked, doubt etched in his features.

  “No,” Davidson replied, shaking out his hand. “I just need to reset.”

  Brandt’s eyes narrowed, and then all doubt left his features. “We are going to exit at a roll and then have Lopez continue with Davidson.”

  The men nodded as Rebecca’s eyes darted. “Who exactly is we?”

  Brandt didn’t answer. Instead he continued on with his men. “Lopez, you cool with that?”

  “Please,” Lopez scoffed. “I think we just invented SUV skeet shooting. I’m good.”

  “Make a few laps of the neighborhood and then meet up at the Chancery tube station.”

  Rebecca was having a hard time remembering exactly how hard she landed during their last “rolling stop” exit. And this time it didn’t even sound like Brandt was expecting any kind of “stop” to the “roll.”

  “Sarge,” Davidson said, the damaged part of his lip trembling uncontrollably. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

  “I’m not your sergeant, Davidson,” Brandt corrected. “And I was asking too much of any shooter.”

  Rebecca wished she could reach out to the young man. Tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That for the love of all that was holy, he’d at the least slowed the sniper down, but she had to get out of the car at a “roll.” Or with Lopez at the wheel, a “speeding fling” out of the car.

  “Let’s do this,” Brandt announced as he opened his side door. The other passenger doors popped open as well. As the evening chill of London swirled inside the car, Rebecca braced herself.

  “Try to land on your shoulder,” Davidson suggested before turning back to his rifle, prepping for when they made the turn back into the li
ne of fire.

  Great advice. Unfortunately she’d heard it before and doubted she could take it much better this time.

  As the asphalt sped past, Rebecca white-knuckle clutched her laptop just before she threw her body from the car.

  Aunush ran behind her sniper as they made their way to the easternmost corner of the roof. Her ankle jangled with each step, but she refused to allow the injury incurred as they jumped from the Lionel Robbins Building to the library next door to slow her. She could show no weakness, not even a grimace, not even in front of her sniper. Especially not in front of her sniper.

  He made for the edge of the roof and set up, rapidly scanning the area. By now the police’s “Panda” cars, all neon yellow and orange, had arrived. They looked more like clown cars than actual law enforcement vehicles, but they were quick and nimble in London’s tight traffic conditions, getting to the scene far faster than the heavier, more fortified Range Rovers.

  Her men at the Institute had already pulled back in advance of the emergency response. They would be long gone before any tactical unit showed.

  Next to her the sniper set up just as the SUV made a wide left-hand turn into the crowded street. Sparks flew as the left rear wheel scraped along the ground. The beast was wounded, but could they kill it, and all who were inside?

  With a fierce grin the sniper took the first shot, taking out a rear taillight.

  “Focus,” she encouraged just as the return shot hit the generator behind them.

  The wait was longer this time, but had she not told her sniper to focus? Which meant patience. Much of which she did not have at the moment. Aunush watched through the binoculars as the car swerved in and around traffic, using the other cars as shifting camouflage.

  The gun cracked and the SUV’s front tire blew out, sending the car into a spin. Another crack of the gun as the sniper tried to take advantage of the other sniper’s distraction. Then somehow the spin took the car around a corner, but not before a bullet zinged past her ear, singeing her dark hair.

  The sniper cursed under his breath as he scanned the streets, waiting for the car to exit. Or had they decided to go to ground? Take to the streets by foot? Aunush picked up her radio and signaled her men the last known location of the car.

  “Anything?” Aunush asked the sniper but knew the answer before he shook his head. If he saw anything he would be shooting at it. She held her breath as he scanned the area back and forth, sweeping his scope over the entire Lincoln’s Inn Fields area.

  Finally the sniper jerked the gun upright, his dark features even darker. Aunush wanted to rail against him. Demand that he look again. Force him to continue his search, even knowing it would do no good. They would have to rely upon the ground forces, however Aunush was certain they would find only air by the time her men reached the car.

  No. The failure was hers. A result of hubris. After running a mercenary crew for over seven years, honing their craft for the day this moment came, Aunush had relied too heavily upon others for intelligence gathering. She would say that she would kill those who provided the intel, but Aunush knew the men responsible were already dead. Her superiors did not take failure lightly. Theirs was the God of the rod not the spoiling.

  Rather than relying upon “soft” intel, she should have insisted on “hard” sightings. Physical confirmation of the target’s presence. She would not make that mistake again.

  If there was a second chance. Her eyes flickered to the sniper. Had he been given orders to punish her as well? Would she be held as accountable for Monroe escaping as those who had targeted the wrong laboratory?

  Swallowing hard, Aunush turned her back on the sniper, making her way to the rooftop door. Each step she expected to hear the snap of the gun into his hands. The short pause as he set his sights and then the loud crack of the shot just before the bullet rent through her tissue. At this close distance? With that rifle? Even a belly shot would result in a closed-casket funeral.

  Yet each step was followed by another’s step.

  Finally she reached the door, but a hand was there first. The sniper’s hand, opening the door for her.

  Breathing a very temporary sigh of relief, Aunush entered the stairwell.

  Now to find their wayward researcher.

  Rebecca stepped onto the subway car just as the doors closed behind her. The Brits were very serious about their Underground punctuality. Brandt pulled her closer, placing her hand on the bar, making sure she got settled before the tram pulled away from the station. Even then it jerked her sore shoulder, sending a shard of pain deep into the joint. She’d somehow managed to land on her shoulder, and what had it gotten her? Hitting the ground at thirty miles an hour hurt no matter what part of your body landed first.

  Her eyes scanned the subway car. Given that this was the fourth transfer, Rebecca had lost track of where they were or where they were headed. Using Oyster cards, they had namelessly paid from one junction to the next. Some of the stations had been all glass and steel. A tribute to modern architecture. Others like this last one had been somewhat...“old fashioned” was probably the kindest term she could use.

  And this particular tram was an old-school style subway car, which was showing its age. It reminded Rebecca of New York. She guessed stale urine smelled about the same no matter what continent you were on.

  Davidson brushed against her as he pulled his hoodie tight over his face. Lopez and he had rejoined the team a station ago. Although Rebecca didn’t think her assistant hid his features in shame this time but instead to avoid detection. She could see by the set of his shoulders and strength in his posture that danger had strangely rallied him. For so many months the young man had been a shadow of himself. Withdrawn, indecisive, sluggish.

  Fire a few sniper shots at the guy though and he was back in Rambo mode. Okay, perhaps not Rambo, but way more alive than she’d seen him since that dark cavern under the Vatican.

  “We get off here,” Brandt whispered as he nodded to Lopez, who was stationed down the tram. Lopez relayed the nod to Harvish and Talli, who were one car down.

  The car tugged to a stop and the doors whooshed open. Only then did Rebecca realize that this station was open-aired. They had come out from the London Underground and into the British equivalent of the suburbs.

  Rebecca read their location. The Gunnersbury station. The crowd swept them down the platform, and they spilled out into the sidewalk. From there the train-goers spread off in all different directions as the sun hovered low to the west.

  “Come on,” Brandt urged. “It’s not far.”

  “What’s not far?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with Brandt’s long-legged pace.

  “You’ll see,” was his only answer.

  Rebecca didn’t bother to press the sergeant. She was well aware of Brandt’s annoyingly well-enforced “need to know” policy. Sure, she could berate him the entire way in a futile effort to feel in control, or she could appreciate the walk along the distinctly English streets. Rebecca chose the latter.

  Shaking off the adrenaline, she noticed that the homes they passed were an eclectic mixture of turn-of-the-century cottages to World War II–style apartment buildings to a distinctly modern office building in the distance. As they traveled south a large park opened up to the west. She could only assume it to be Gunnersbury Park. With its two pristine mansions, eighteenth-century temple, and stone boathouse, the park had been on Rebecca’s “must see” locations during her stay in England.

  Of course she had assumed that would have been to have a leisurely stay at the historic landmark, the Osbourne Hotel. Not hurrying down the street to some unknown location, worrying about a sniper every step of the way.

  Streetlights flickered on as the sun dipped lower beyond the horizon. Brandt picked up the pace even more.

  Rebecca gulped with each click of her heel. By now they had gotten far enough from the tube station that there were very few pedestrians. Rain threatened and most other sensible folk had retreated to their home
s or pubs.

  Finally Brandt urged them up the steps of an ordinary-looking terrace-style home. Once on the stoop he pulled out a small case filled with lock-picking equipment.

  “Cover me,” he instructed.

  Davidson immediately stepped in front of him, drawing Rebecca with him. “Just act like everything is okay,” Davidson whispered.

  Rebecca arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Like I said,” Davidson answered, “act.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at her assistant despite their awful predicament.

  Brandt felt the lock give and turned the brass doorknob. A loud beeping filled the entryway. He followed the blinking light to the keypad and entered a six-digit code. The red light went to yellow. He followed with an eight-digit code pulled from memory. No electronic files, not even a handwritten note. Nope. This location was so secure that only his unhackable brain held the necessary pass code.

  The light blinked green and then held steady. They were in. Rebecca and Davidson followed close on his heels. Talli and Harvish brought up the rear, sweeping past them to check the rest of the house, making sure they were as alone as it seemed. Lopez, of course, was still out, securing an escape vehicle in case it came to that.

  Rebecca did a slow spin in the center of the living room. “What is this place?”

  Her mouth hung slightly open as she took in the small chandelier that hung from the ceiling bordered by ornate moldings. A large fireplace with a wide mantel stood to her right and French doors, which opened out to the garden, on her left.

  This was the wonder Brandt had hoped would be on Rebecca’s face when he guided her to the home he’d meant to buy in North Carolina. He’d had his eye on a distressed but beautiful Southern-style beach home.

  Now all he could give her was a British safe house. One that he wasn’t even sure was safe.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said, far more gruffly than he meant to.

  “For what?” she asked, still soaking in the nearly Better Homes and Gardens setting.