“When Whitcombe walks in here, wait, I’ll give the signal,” said Ray, “Then have your men move in from another room and surround him. Ambush. I count eight men. There’s probably two in the other rooms, at least.”
She nodded, flashed a hand for her men to follow Hammer’s order. Three seconds later, Whitcombe, stepped carefully into the room. He held Hammer’s own Smith and Wesson Model 629 to Ray’s head.
Ray held up both hands. “You’re too late, Frank.”
“Too late for what? To prevent World War III?”
“No,” said Hammer, “to get the codes and to find the weapons you misplaced. Too late to sell them on to someone else who will use them to attack America. You played me.”
Hammer turned around and faced Whitcome, his eyes glared into the fat man’s tiny pupils. “You call yourself a patriot. You think all of your connections in government, military, and politics, afford you complete immunity? Well, you made a mistake.”
“And what’s that?” said Whitcombe with a jolly laugh as he smiled cockily down the barrel of the Smith and Wesson. “You’ve got your hands up, Ray. I’ve got a gun to your head, and the only other people in this room, the kid and that woman, won’t live to see another day.”
“That’s precisely the mistake you made,” said Hammer, “pointing that thing at me.”
Hammer’s hand waved a fraction, almost a tremor, the kind he hadn’t felt all day. Maybe he’d been sober for long enough now that he didn’t need the alcohol that usually filled him. Maybe it was adrenaline.
Men piled out of the room where they’d hidden.
They surrounded Whitcombe.
M16s and AK47s leveled at his body—covered his excessive paunch, his broad shoulders.
Whitcombe’s smirk turned into a frown.
Hammer could smell fear from the patches of sweat that suddenly appeared under Whitcombe’s arms.
“Drop it, Frank,” said Hammer.
Whitcombe made to drop the revolver.
At the last moment, he tugged the trigger.
A bullet shot out, ricocheted off the floor and careened into the cuff of one of the men in black ski masks holding assault rifles.
The man grunted and fell forward. His fingers tensed from the pain, and pulled the AK47 trigger taut.
A smattering of bullets smashed into the floor around Whitcombe and ricocheted up into the wall. They missed Ray by a whisker.
Whitcombe turned to run.
But Ray was on him.
He jumped onto Whitcombe’s back and pulled him down in one swift motion. A lion tearing an antelope apart. Hammer pulled Whitcombe’s arms up behind his back.
“Cable ties,” he grunted, and someone handed him a slip of black plastic.
He stretched the plastic around Whitcombe’s fat wrists, and then pulled another few around, tight, and ziplocked.
Ray turned to the woman.
“That network you’ve got, they’re capable of hiding nuclear weapons, right? So, they’re capable of looking after a sensitive prisoner and making sure he has no access to his allies in the US, in any military institution?”
She nodded, a swift curt nod, and she wrapped her arms around her son and pulled him in tight.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The kid shot Ray a withering, embarrassed look, but he nestled into his mother’s arms.
“I’ll never forgive you, you know,” Adam said to his mother, and Ray smiled, knowing full well the kid had already forgiven his mom.
“He might need some torturing,” said Ray, referring to Whitcombe, “Sleep deprivation, the kind of stuff that doesn’t scar the body, but only the mind.”
The woman nodded again, curtly. “We’re above all that,” she said, and Ray raised one eyebrow, and the corners of her mouth came up, “but we’ll see what we can do.”
“Get him out of my sight,” said Ray.
“By the way,” he said, turning to the woman with the auburn hair, “have you ever met a woman with black onyx eyes and dark brown hair who goes by the name of Jacinta?”
The woman with the auburn hair shook her head.
“Should I have?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ray sat in the waiting room of the hospital, his press card at the ready.
“The doctor will be out shortly,” the nurse assured him three hours ago. So when the doctor finally came and sat down beside Ray, he knew to expect the worst.
“How is she?” he asked.
The doctor tilted his head to the side and turned to Ray.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hammer, but I haven’t the faintest idea who you’re talking about.”
Ray said her name again, “Jacinta? Tall woman. Lithe. Perfect smile. Looks like an angel crossed with a soldier. Bullet went right through her?”
But, the doctor just shook his head. “We’ve treated no one like that here. In fact, there’s been no one in with the GSWs you talked about when you called, no reports from emergency, either. I checked with all of my colleagues.”
Ray toyed the .38 Special casing in his pocket and stood up, shook the doctor’s hand, thanked him for his time.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help,” said the doctor.
Hammer grinned. “You’ve been a great help.”
Ray knew exactly where she was. And he knew he’d never see her again.
And her name probably wasn’t Jacinta.
And the Pentagon would never admit she existed.
Ray smiled to himself.
She was okay. That was all that mattered.
THE END
The story continues in The Fight: Ray Hammer Book #4 Keep reading for an excerpt.
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If you liked this book, why not try…
RAY HAMMER
Die A Little (Free Short Story)
The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly
The Deal: Would You Kill for an Ace?
The Strike: Can You Instagram a Nuclear Explosion?
The Fight: One Shot. One Dead Man. $300 Million.
The Stain: What is the True Value of Art?
The Flame: Smoke. Mirrors. Lights Out. (Jan 2021)
JACK MAKSIM
Ruby: There Will Be Revenge
Heart: You’re Dead to Me Now
King: Beware the Man Inside
DAWN HOPE
Dead: A Double Agent Espionage Thriller (coming soon)
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Strike (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 3) Page 9
