by Alex Ander
Devlin heard a voice she recognized.
“Eyes and ears, Devlin!”
*******
The report of Devlin’s forty-five made its way through the high-pitched squealing in Randall’s ears. A tick later, he watched his would-be killer fold in half over the windowsill. He returned to his search of the dead man’s uniform. Come on. Come on...
Glass broke on his two o’clock.
He slapped at the body’s torso. You have to have one.
The front door flew inward.
The wood panel smacked his right shoulder, as he saw the blur of someone rolling into the house through the broken window to his right. Where the fu—his fingers touched metal—Bingo. He wrenched on the canister and pulled a pin. “Eyes and ears, Devlin!” He rolled the grenade across the floor, turned his head, and closed his eyes.
The room was filled with an intense, bright light and a deafening boom. A half-second later, the two men with night vision goggles screamed. Their NVG’s had increased the visual effects of the stun grenade.
Randall slipped on the dead man’s night vision goggles and surveyed the room. Seeing through the spots in his vision, he found Devlin, straight ahead, slowly getting to her feet while holding her ears. He pivoted right.
Both assaulters stumbled in place, one ripping off his NVG’s, the other clutching his head.
Randall bolted for the man nearer to him.
*******
Regaining her sight, Devlin spotted Randall pummeling an attacker. She looked left and located the one who had entered via the window. Gun up, she advanced and delivered several blows to his head and neck area.
Still blinded, the man sent out a wild roundhouse right.
She ducked under the strike, came up, and drove an elbow into his throat.
Holding his neck with both hands, coughing and choking, he fell to one knee.
Holstering her Colt while grabbing his slung rifle, Devlin slipped behind him, twisted the sling twice, and shoved him to the floor. Pressing her knee between his shoulder blades, she yanked on the nylon sling, as if she were a stagecoach driver stopping a team of horses.
The man’s coughing turned to gurgles while he tried to wriggle free of his captor.
Devlin pulled harder, the sling’s coarse webbing cutting into her fingers.
He gasped. His squirming became feeble swipes across the hardwood flooring. A second later, he stopped moving.
Letting go of the sling, she checked for a pulse on the man, stood, and eyed Randall.
He looked up, glanced at the man at her feet, and came back to her. “Is he dead?” His voice was a few decibels shy of shouting. “Did you kill him?”
Devlin shot a look at her sprawled out assailant before facing her male counterpart who was sitting on his own downed opponent. “No. He’s still alive.”
“What?” Randall rolled a finger near his left ear. “I can’t hear a dang thing.”
“I said,” Devlin increased her volume, “he’ll live.” She stepped over the man she had choked out and extended a hand.
Randall swung his arm around, slapped her forearm, and squeezed.
She clenched his forearm and pulled him to his feet. “Thanks for the heads-up on the flashbang...gave me time to—”
“What?” He turned his right ear toward her.
Chuckling to herself, she leaned closer to him. “The flashbang...thanks for the warning.”
Nodding, he gave her the thumbs-up sign. “My pleasure...partner.”
She smiled.
“And thank you for,” he gestured toward the body half hanging into the house, “you know,” before hitting the side of his head with a palm, hoping the act would speed up the return of his hearing, “saving my life.”
Devlin retrieved her borrowed cell phone, punched numbers, and slid the device between her hair and her cheek. She nodded at Randall, “No problem,” before turning away. “Marshal Thorn. It’s Devlin. We just beat back an attack on the safe house. The deputy director must be the mole. He’s the only one who knew where we were. Send in the S.O.G. team.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 28
Tiny Red Dots
2:06 a.m.
potomac, maryland
Standing in the upstairs hallway outside her bedroom, her back to the wall, the Mossberg 500 shouldered and pointed at the floor, Cruz peeked around the corner and toward the main level.
In the darkness, tiny red dots bounced off objects in the living room.
Her eyes tried to follow the dancing specks. Three of them...maybe four.
As an FBI agent, Cruz had been involved in numerous raids. More recently, as a member of a covert counter-terror team, she had been a part of clandestine breaches in foreign countries. Whether at home or abroad, the technique was usually the same; gain access to the structure, fan out, and overwhelm the occupants. Surprise and speed were paramount.
The red pinpoints ceased moving for a second before they separated. One of the spots rose above the others.
Squeezing the Mossberg’s pistol grip, Cruz pulled the butt of the weapon into her shoulder, turned toward the stairs, and raised the 500’s muzzle. Since the intruders moved with precision inside the blackened house, she knew they were using night vision goggles. They would see her before she could see them. Aiming for the top of the staircase, she slid her index finger into the trigger guard, leaned forward, and released half of the air in her lungs. As she prepped her body for the weapon’s recoil, she narrowed her eyes. Dear Lord, make me more accurate and faster than him. Innocent lives depend—
The small ruby circle moved across the upstairs wall to her left and raced toward her position.
*******
Having stood at the bottom of the basement stairs with his Glock 22 pointed at the kitchen door, waiting for an assault that never came, Ashford crept up the stairs and into the kitchen. Skittering to the archway that divided the kitchen and the living room, he noticed red lights reflecting off a wall mirror in the latter part of the house. His mind showed him Hardy and Cruz’s positions. We have these guys in the crossfire.
The makeshift plan called for each person to wait as long as possible before engaging, giving everyone a chance to get off a clean shot; thus, dropping all invaders at once and eliminating return fire.
Ashford leaned right and lifted the Glock. Coming to the forty-five-degree mark, he inhaled and closed his left eye.
A loud blast bounced off hard surfaces and filled the home.
He threw out the pistol, acquired a flash sight picture on the nearest darkened form, and pressed the trigger.
*******
Hearing Cruz’s shotgun go off, Hardy opened the main-floor bathroom door, his Walther PPQM2 in one hand. The ambient light from the window behind him illuminated a man wearing black tactical gear, the same equipment he had used on many secret missions, including the MP5 aimed at Hardy’s chest.
Having also heard the twelve-gauge boom, the man-in-black had his head turned toward the noise. His peripheral vision obscured by night-vision goggles, he never saw his fate coming.
Leaping forward and pushing the rifle’s forend to the right with his left hand, Nine-ball in the, Hardy brought his nine-millimeter Walther to the man’s right ear, side pocket, and squeezed the trigger.
The attacker’s head flopped over, and his knees buckled before his body folded in half, backwards.
Advancing toward the living room, Hardy dragged a palm down his face, glanced at the scarlet smear, and dried the hand on his pants.
*******
Feeling the Mossberg’s recoil in her shoulder, Cruz racked the shotgun while her torso listed forward again. As the barrel settled, she lined up the next shot.
To the backdrop of repeated thumping, coming from a sound-suppressed, automatic rifle one level down, the wooden handrail on her right exploded, sending splinters into the air.
She spun away from the barrage and landed face down on the carpeting.
Holes appeared on the wallboard above her head.
Cruz crawled down the hall and rolled onto her back. Her eyes grew big at the sight of the still-moving red light at the top of the stairs. I know I hit him. She watched the shadowy form stagger toward her, his sighting device aimed at her chest.
He groaned while the dot skipped around on her torso.
Flat on her back, staring down the length of her body at the approaching, soon-to-be killer, Cruz shot a glance at the Mossberg—the long gun’s muzzle was pointed away from the threat. Lord Jesus, like an old-time gunslinger, have mercy on me, slapping at the Glock 19M on her hip, she drew and thrust out the weapon, a sinner. Her finger slapped the trigger.
Multiple fireballs emerged from the Glock’s barrel. Flashes of light silhouetted a man in black tactical clothing, his body jigging. After the fourth bullet hit him, he clutched his throat and collapsed. His head and helmet bounced off Cruz’s right boot.
She aimed her pistol at the headgear. The rounded metal never budged.
Forty-caliber reports came from the first floor.
Cruz clambered backwards and took cover behind the wall.
*******
Aw fu...the unexpected roar from Cruz’s shotgun had thrown off Ashford’s aim, allowing his target to empty a magazine at Cruz’s position. In a low crouch, a two-hand hold on his Glock, he hurried into the living room, firing rapid, controlled volleys. The projectiles from the former FBI agent’s second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth shot connected with his mark.
Convulsing, the third assailant twisted toward his opponent.
Ashford leveled the Glock at the man’s NVGs. He curled his right forefinger, and the handgun’s trigger traveled backward.
The 180-grain, hollow-point bullet shattered the optics, expanding as the mushrooming metal disintegrated the man’s eyeball and left a bigger mess at the back of the skull. The would-be murderer dropped instantly.
Ashford met Hardy at the base of the stairs.
Hardy lifted a crimson-stained finger. “I got one.”
Ashford gestured toward the crumpled mass on the carpeting. “This one makes two.”
Both men shifted their gaze to the top of the staircase, toward a prone corpse’s tactical boots. “Cruz,” they shouted in unison.
“I’m okay. Target is neutralized. What’s your status?”
Ashford focused his attention on the body near his feet. “Copy that...”
Hardy ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
“...all clear...three hostiles down.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 29
So Dang Good
3:47 a.m.
potomac, maryland
Randall navigated Marshal Thorn’s vehicle through an intersection, spun the steering wheel back to straight, and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. The sedan’s engine revving, the car gained speed in the deserted residential neighborhood.
Seated beside him, Devlin raised a cell phone to her ear. “Tell me he’s in custody, Marissa.”
“I wish I could, Jessica.”
Devlin shut her eyes.
“I just got word from the point man of the arresting team. Crane wasn’t at his house when they broke down the door. I’m thinking he ran when his people didn’t check in on time.”
“What took them so long to breach?” Devlin spied her watch. “It’s been more than ninety minutes since I told you about the safe house attack.”
“We had trouble convincing the judge to issue an arrest warrant for a deputy director. He wasn’t sure of the evidence and spent forty-five minutes deliberating before giving us the green light.”
“Son-of-a,” Devlin balled her hand and pounded on the console that separated her from the driver, the heavy thud drowning out her last word.
Glimpsing her, Randall made a right turn. “What’s going on?”
She faced him. “We were too late. Crane’s on the run.”
Gripping the wheel tighter, he shook his head.
Thorn: “He won’t be on the run for long, Jessica. All of law enforcement is looking for him. We’ll find him.”
Devlin wagged her finger at the glove box. “He’s crafty, Marissa. And he has connections. If he gets into the air...or out of the country...”
“He won’t. I promise you. We’ll hunt him down like the animal that he is.”
Chewing on her lower lip, Devlin looked out her window. She had called Ashford an hour ago. He had told her about the shootout at Cruz’s house. Cassie was in that house. She could have been killed. An image of the man responsible for the assault, Crane, popped into her brain. That traitor...that monster could have killed my—
“You need to...” Thorn’s voice disappeared for a second, “...your family right now.”
Devlin eyed the mobile’s screen and put the device back to her face.
“Your daughter...” the phone cut out, “...see her mother.”
“I’m getting another call. Let me know the second you hear something.” She tapped the phone. “How’s my baby girl doing, Curt?”
“I just got Cassie to close her eyes. She’s sleeping peacefully. How far away are you?”
Devlin glanced at the surrounding houses. “We’re already in Cruz’s neighborhood. We should be—wait...I see the police cars. We’re here.”
“I’m on my way downstairs.”
Randall stopped the car alongside a curb.
Devlin scrambled out before he could kill the engine. She bolted by the emergency vehicles and ducked under yellow crime scene tape.
Thrusting out palms, police officers confronted her. “Ma’am, this is an active—”
“U.S.,” never breaking her stride, she held up her badge, “Deputy Marshal.”
They stepped aside.
She leaped onto the porch and barged through the front door.
Spread throughout the home’s interior, more officers, along with forensic personnel and crime scene investigators, turned away from their duties and stared at the newcomer.
“Jess.” Ashford rushed down the stairs and jumped over the man he had killed.
Devlin launched herself at him.
He wrapped arms around her waist and lifted her off the floor.
She curled legs around his midsection and interlocked her ankles.
He squeezed.
She hugged him with all her strength.
The two exchanged a deep, long kiss before their lips parted.
Touching her forehead to his, Devlin cradled her husband’s cheeks in her hands. “It is so,” she kissed him again and ran her fingers over his face, her eyes taking in his every contour, “so dang good to see you, Curt.”
Supporting her butt with cupped hands, Ashford returned her kisses. “And I missed the hell out of you, Jessica.”
She unhooked her legs.
He set her on the floor.
The two embraced each other for another minute before their bodies separated a few inches. His hands on her shoulders, her arms around his waist, the couple regarded each other.
Ashford dipped his head for a smooch. “I love you.”
Devlin went to tiptoes for another peck. “I love you, too.” She glanced toward the staircase and came back to him, her eyebrows forming a straight line.
He took her by the hand and led her in the direction her mind had already taken her.
*******
fifteen minutes later
4:06 a.m.
Kneeling beside her daughter’s bed, Devlin gently stroked Cassandra’s hair while interjecting soft kisses and wiping tears from her own cheeks. She stared at her offspring, her mind conjuring violent images to go with Ashford’s tale of the gun battle that had occurred. Devlin shut her eyes and laid her head on the blanket. A moment later, her body shuddering, she grabbed short bursts of air every few seconds.
Ashford took a knee beside his wife and touched her trembling shoulders.
Her shak
ing intensified.
He rubbed her back. “Everything’s fine, Jess.” His voice was low, calm. “We made it through. We’re safe now.”
Devlin lifted her head and sniffed. She dried her eyes and brushed a single strand of hair away from Cassandra’s face, “I love you, babe,” before kissing the little girl’s temple and rising to her feet.
Ashford kept a hand on his mate while she brought bedcovers to her daughter’s chin and gently pecked the tiny one’s forehead.
After watching the girl sleep for another minute, Devlin closed her eyes and touched her forehead, heart, left and right shoulder, making the sign of the cross. The knot in her stomach seemed to unravel a bit, as she recalled the prayer she used to say every night—until two years ago—while tucking in Cassandra. Watch, dear Lord, with those who wake or watch or weep tonight, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Amen. Devlin made the sign of the cross, bent over, lightly cupped the top of her child’s head, and kissed Cassandra’s cheek. “Sleep well.”
Ambling toward her father, Devlin wiped her face and rubbed fingers on her pants. She hugged him, “I love you, Dad,” and kissed his cheek.
“I love you, too, dear.” He patted her lower back. “It’s good to have you home again.”
She let go of him and cleared the last layer of wetness from her eyes. “It’s good to be home.” She started to pivot away from him, but stopped. “Dad,” she observed her sleeping daughter, “what time’s Mass on Sunday?”
Knowing she had not stepped foot inside a church since her late husband’s funeral, he cocked his head at her. “Nine and eleven.”
She slowly bobbed her head at Cassandra, thinking of the prayer she had said in Mexico: Just look after my little girl. I promise I’ll... She had not finished the plea for help, but she planned to follow through on her intentions, nonetheless, starting now. “Do you think you can save me three front row seats for the show?”
The priest elevated one corner of his mouth. “No worries there, sweetheart. Unlike rock concerts, those seats are the last ones taken.”
Snickering to herself, Devlin turned around and spotted Hardy and Cruz in the hallway.
