by Leslie Jones
His phone vibrated. He pulled back into the forest before answering. The number wasn’t familiar, but he recognized the Concordian country code. “Morgan.”
“It’s Aart Jansens,” came a deep voice. “I hear you want my services.”
“If you’re willing. You’re still a cop. This might be a little outside your jurisdiction. A lot outside.”
Jansens snorted a small laugh. “I am on administrative desk detail until my case is reviewed. Assassination of a royal is treason. I’ll be lucky if I only lose my job, and not my head.”
“Do you still have your sniper rifle?”
“No. It was confiscated at the Nabourg residence when I was arrested.”
Gabe had forgotten that. Dammit.
“I have a personal rifle, however. It’s very nearly as high quality, with the modifications I’ve made. Where are you?”
Gabe told him. “Uh, did Chief Van . . . did the chief fill you in?”
“Yes, and also swore me to secrecy,” Jansens said. “Let me gather some equipment, and I will meet you. An hour and a half.”
“Thanks, man. I can’t tell you how grat . . .”
“Let us save the thanks until after we have saved your princess, ja? Am I right in thinking she is your princess, your love?”
Gabe didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then I will help you save her.”
Trevor joined him.
“We’ll have a sniper in ninety minutes. Meanwhile, what kind of man is Fedyenka Osinov?”
“A brute,” Trevor said. “Intelligent, but vengeful if he feels he’s been ill-treated. He’ll smile at you and stab you from behind in the next breath.”
Yeah, that’s what he’d been afraid he’d hear.
“And he blames Christina?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“So what happened in Baghdad? From your perspective.”
“Christina did nothing wrong. You have to know that up front.”
Gabe nodded. “I know. She’s too damned good to have fucked up that badly.”
Trevor raised the binoculars to his eyes and swept the area. “The whole operation was coordinated by your American Customs Agency. It targeted criminal networks behind the illegal exports of parrots into Western Europe and the Americas. The largest network belonged to the Osinovs. Once Christina’s team made contact with them, the Interpol police officer coordinated with Iraqi police for the takedown. Christina arrived at the holding pens to finish the deal, but someone had tipped the brothers off, and they knew the police were coming. There was a firefight. Christina was shot.
“Her team abandoned her, for all intents and purposes. They packed up and moved to their extraction point. She made it finally, but too late. The Osinovs knew where to find her. The US team was pinned down. If their pilot hadn’t spooked and run, her teammates would have boarded the plane and left her behind.”
Anger stirred inside him. She could have been killed because of their incompetence. “But you rescued her? Them?”
Trevor grunted an affirmative. “My team happened to be returning from a training mission. When the call came in for help, we responded. We pulled her team from the hot zone and got them to safety.”
“How do you know all this? You handled the extraction, that’s all.”
“Because my team was involved, the Special Air Service launched an investigation, in partnership with your CIA.” He lowered his binoculars and gave Gabe his full attention. “Someone betrayed them. We cleared everyone on her team except the Interpol officer, and that only because Interpol wouldn’t cooperate with us. Instead, they launched their own investigation.”
“And . . . ?” The rumors swept through the SpecOps community in the Middle East. Christina had been branded incompetent and untrustworthy.
Trevor sighed. “The story, the part that anyone knew about, had already circulated. Her reputation was in tatters. Jay Spicer and I both suspect, but cannot prove, that the Interpol officer tipped off the Osinovs. We couldn’t unearth anything to incriminate him; his reputation is stellar. He’s a highly decorated police officer. There was nothing we could do.”
Gabe growled. “Except let an innocent woman take the fall.”
Trevor’s mouth ticked apologetically. “Jay took her with him to Azakistan, to give her as much cover as he could. He’s a fair man.”
“And you got involved with her?” He had to force the words out.
Trevor looked him straight in the eye. “No. We’ve never been more than friends. Those were just more ugly rumors. You, on the other hand, are in love with her. Does she feel the same?”
Gabe shifted his weigh, uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to discussing his emotions with anyone. “I, uh, I don’t know.”
He contemplated that question during the interminable wait for Jansens to arrive. He would woo her properly. They would date, and she would fall in love with him. How they would manage it with him at Fort Bragg and her in Washington, D.C., he didn’t know. But he had to try.
But only if they saved her now.
His phone vibrated. He read the text message. “Finally! It’s Jansens. I’m going up to the gas station to meet him.” He hated to leave even for an instance. What if the men up and left while he was gone?
“I’ll go,” Trevor said, clearly understanding. “I’ll bring him back here, along with some food.”
“Not hungry. Water would be good, though.”
While he waited, and waited, and waited, he could not stop his mind from conjuring awful images of what Osinov might be doing to Christina at this very moment. Standing by had never been so painful. Every instinct he had said to rush headlong into the farming outbuilding, shoot everyone who wasn’t Christina, and bring her out. Trevor was right, though. It was suicide.
As he continued to monitor through the binoculars, he noted that the roving guards steered clear of the outbuilding, and the stationary guards stood well away from it. Did that mean Christina and Osinov weren’t there? Was it squeamishness? Sound didn’t carry from this distance. He swallowed his frustration. Osinov knew what he was doing when he selected this place.
An eternity later, he drew back to where the cars were parked, striding up to Trevor’s rental almost before they could get out.
“Jansens. Thanks for coming.”
The police officer nodded once, sharply. “I owe you this help,” he said. “If not for me, you would have known about this second group sooner.”
Gabe had to be fair. “And maybe without you, Christina might have been killed right then and there.”
The cop grunted. “No matter. Now we fix it, ja?”
Gabe nodded grimly. “Yeah.”
Chapter Thirty
GABE WAITED WHILE his new teammate worked his way into position. They had a plan, such as it was. No one could come up with a better idea given the scenario, and the clock was ticking. Between the three of them, they had one sniper rifle, three shotguns, and plenty of ammunition. Trevor had a Browning Hi-Power semiautomatic pistol and a black commando knife. Gabe had his Glock, his boot knives, and a thin length of wire; not the least armed he’d ever been in his life as a SpecOps warrior, but near enough.
“They could be in the house after all,” Trevor said. “No one seems to be paying much attention to the barn.”
Gabe ran a hand down his face and scratched the stubble on his chin. “A feint?” he suggested. “You said Fedyenka’s wily. Is he smart enough for that?”
“Yes.”
“So could be we waste time storming the house, and he has time to get to the SUV and run. With Christina, or after killing her.” His voice failed him, and he had to clear it several times. “No matter what, he’s dead.”
“Yes,” Trevor said again.
“Gut says they’re in the barn, not the house.”
Trevor nodded.
“Right, then.”
He and Trevor waited in the tree line to the west of the house. The guard near the SUV chain-smoked, lighting a new cigarette from the old before grinding the butt into the gravel. A roving guard wandered down the driveway. Another patrolled in front of them. He walked past, not noticing the two warriors, invisible in the shadows.
Aart had the most difficult position to get to, having to travel nearly a mile through heavy forest, circumnavigating the property until he was north and east of the farmhouse. From his position, he could see both the stationary guard at the northwest corner of the house, and the guard patrolling the tree line running north to south on the west side of the property. It seemed to take forever, but in less than an hour a staticky voice came through the walkie-talkie. “In position,” Aart said. “I have clear line of sight.”
Finally!
“Go,” Gabe said.
He erupted from the trees like a demon from hell, swarming the guard before he had even half turned, garrote in hand. He threw the loop over the guard’s head with his left hand, drawing the wire taut. Closing his right hand around the loop, he slapped his hand against the back of the guard’s neck and straightened his arm, twisting the wire. A knee strike to his lower back and the guard arched back, chin dipping, his own body weight helping to throttle him. The man’s yell died gurgling in his throat. In eight seconds he was unconscious; in thirty-five, windpipe crushed, he was dead.
A sound vaguely like the snap of a pneumatic nail gun reached him.
“Target one down,” Aart said. Another snap. A moment later, “Target two down.”
“Target three down,” Gabe said. He caught the shotgun Trevor tossed him with one hand, and they raced across the grass.
Now came the hard part. The other two guards would not be taken unawares; they were out in the open, and so were Gabe and Trevor. They ran, bent over and zigzagging, trying for the old red tractor.
Their first inkling that they’d been spotted was the ripping ktchak-tchak-tchak of automatic gunfire. Both men dove the last few feet to reach the tractor, putting their backs against the huge tires. Gabe risked a quick peek around the front of the tractor and jerked back. Bullets tinged off the metal where he’d been. Before his target could fire again, Gabe racked the shotgun, popped up and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun belched, deep and powerful, and the slug shot toward his target.
He missed. The man retreated behind the SUV parked in front of the house. The fifth man had hunkered down at the right side of the house. Trevor and Gabe were pinned down.
They needed to get past the house to the barn, but the two remaining guards stood solidly between them and their objective. Running across the open ground would be suicide. Staying here would allow Fedyenka Osinov time to escape, either with or without Christina. Gabe’s stomach knotted.
Trevor glanced at him. “I’ll draw him out.”
He nodded. Trevor lifted himself up and fired three blasts with the shotgun. Even before he’d ducked back down, Gabe peered around the front of the tractor and steadied the sights. The blast caught the man square in the chest. He staggered backward and fell.
A round pinged off the metal so close to his head he felt the heat of it. He pulled back. Too close.
For a moment, it was eerily silent. Then the barn door lurched open. A third body appeared, hiding behind it. A fourth crouched by a window.
The gunman behind the SUV yelled toward the barn in Ukrainian. One of the newcomers answered.
“You’re outnumbered,” the other—a redhead, incongruously enough—shouted. “Throw down your weapons and come out, and I promise you won’t be harmed.”
Trevor snorted a laugh. “Yeah, mate. Keep saying that. We’ll believe it.”
Gabe knew Aart Jansens would be moving to his secondary location. Would it be fast enough? He didn’t think so. It was a stalemate.
He smelled the smoke before he saw the flames start to lick up the sides of the structure. His heart stuttered in his chest. Osinov had set the barn on fire. Was he out of his fucking mind?
He appeared in the opening, a beefy arm wrapped around Christina’s neck, hiding behind her like the candy-ass coward he was. Christina’s face was swollen, her lip split and dried blood on one side of her face. Her hands were bound in front of her with duct tape. She kept her weight on one leg, shifting her bare feet gingerly as Osinov yanked her around. Her T-shirt had been torn almost to the end of the sleeve and again at the hem, and she wore no pants. Rage lit a fire deep inside him.
“Steady on, mate.” Trevor glanced at Gabe, gripping the shotgun firmly. “I have a clear shot to the man by the car.”
The man had stepped forward, as though to help his boss, leaving him in the clear. It would enrage Osinov, but it would even things up a bit. He gave a sharp nod.
The blast spun the man around. He hit his head on the driver’s side mirror as he fell, ripping it from the SUV’s body. Osinov screamed obscenities, pressing his handgun to Christina’s temple. “I’ll fucking kill her! I’ll do it in a heartbeat. Back off!”
The crackle and roar of the fire nearly drowned out his voice. Behind him, flame and smoke twisted up the sides of the barn and across the top of the doorway. A thunderous scraping and impact sounded from inside. Something large had fallen in.
The redhead and the big brute exchanged worried looks. The brute tried easing out the door, laying down a spray of gunfire to clear his way. His machine gun clicked back and stopped. Uttering a feral growl, he threw the empty weapon to the ground, running on thick legs toward the SUV. Trevor’s shot took him full in the face. He jerked backward and crashed to the ground.
“I’ll throw her in,” screamed Osinov. He yanked Christina around and shoved her closer to the fire. “I’ll burn her. She’ll die screaming. Is that what you want?”
Shit. Shit. He gestured sharply, twisting his head toward Trevor. “No more.”
“Copy that.” Trevor lowered his shotgun.
“I’m taking her to the car. You fire another round, and I shoot her in the head.” Osinov pulled Christina back in front of him, pushing her ahead of him, supporting her weight as her leg collapsed under her.
“Gabe,” she called. “Shoot this motherfucker.”
His gun barrel ground into her temple. “She’ll die first. I swear I’ll blow her brains all over the ground.” He took one step, then another. The redhead followed him out, ducking away from the barn just as a portion of the roof collapsed. Black smoke and ash billowed around them.
Gabe watched for the slightest opportunity, his entire body tense, but he couldn’t think of a single plan that didn’t result in Christina’s death. Despairing, he allowed Osinov to drag her to the SUV. The man climbed in first through the passenger door, then half lifted, half dragged her in. Not bothering to shut the door, he gunned the engine, slewing in every direction on the gravel before the tires gained traction. Gabe leaped to his feet, racing at top speed after the SUV, barely raising a hand to shield himself from the spray of gravel.
The unmistakable bang and rolling echo of a sniper rifle and the shattering of the driver’s side glass came simultaneously. Jansens was close. A second shot blew out a rear tire. The SUV slid sideways and crunched sickeningly into an ash tree. Gabe forced himself faster.
A body rammed him from the side. He rolled to his feet, already crouched defensively as he spun to face the redhead. Who drew eight inches of steel from a sheath at his hip, spinning it in his hand until the blade rested along his forearm. Gabe yanked one of his knives from his boot and mirrored the motion.
Throwing knives weren’t ideal for a knife fight, but it was shit better than nothing. His at least had leather-wrapped handles.
“You must be the piece of shit Interpol traitor.”
The man grinned, his hands moving slowly back and forth as he studied Gabe. “Shay Boyle, at your service.
Howya?”
Gabe cast a look toward the SUV. No one moved. Trevor shouted something at him, lost as Boyle lunged at him. Gabe spun aside, bringing both hands up to slam against his arm at shoulder and wrist. He slid his left palm into Boyle’s armpit and shot his right hand with the knife toward the man’s gut.
Boyle brought both arms down, trapping the blade with his elbows, and countered with a backhanded slash. Gabe leaped back, but immediately closed again, arcing the knife up and over, aiming for Boyle’s neck. Boyle ducked away and turned. Gabe let his momentum carry him past, then whirled just in time to block Boyle as the blade darted up.
The fight was brutal, the men and knives whirling faster and faster as each tried to bury his blade into the others’ flesh. Carbon clashed with steel. Boyle’s next cut caught Gabe near the eye. Blood dripped down his face, partially obscuring his vision. He stumbled back.
Boyle pressed his advantage with an overhead thrust to the neck. Gabe barely moved away in time, throwing an arm up to block the attack. He felt the deep bite of steel into his forearm. Boyle punched him several times in the ribs; short, vicious jabs. He grunted, forcing himself not to fold over.
He dropped his left hand, knowing the next thrust would come up and in. Checking the knife, he closed his hand over Boyle’s wrist and managing a shallow slash across his chest. Boyle clamped on to him, pulling him into a clinch and head-butting him.
Dazed, Gabe dropped his body weight, trying to throw his opponent off balance. Boyle rode him down, trying to take him to the ground. Instead, he stepped back with one leg, digging his thumbs into Boyle’s hipbones to gain some room, then brought his knee up sharply into the man’s groin. Then again, and a third time, hard enough to lift the man off his feet.
Instead of collapsing, Boyle hooked a leg behind Gabe’s and pushed. Gabe hit the gravel with Boyle on top of him. His blade clattered to the rocks next to his head. Gabe grabbed the man’s wrist, locking his arm out to prevent the blade from piercing his neck. Muscles corded in both men’s arms as they fought for control.
