It took some effort to stop clenching her teeth. She needed to think, no matter how frustrated and scared she was. “I don’t think so,” she told the sink. “They’re not following our playbook. Maybe DEA or ICE? Whoever they are, I don’t know what they’re waiting for.”
“Dark?”
“Maybe. They’ve got to know it’s just me and Paul and the kids. All I’ve got is my sidearm and an extra magazine.”
“That, they don’t know. You could’ve picked up an assault rifle or RPG along the way. It’s not hard anymore.”
Paul stepped to the door, leaned down to peer through the peephole. “If they want dark, they won’t have to wait long.” He straightened, looked back to Juan. “What do we do?”
Nora felt the weight of Juan’s gaze and risked facing him without trying to broil him telepathically. This wasn’t his fault. She tried to take all the heat out of her voice. “You should go while you still can.”
He shook his head. “They’ll spot me. Besides, you people are worth a lot of money to me.” Juan turned to Paul. “Pack your stuff. If we get a chance to go, we’ll have to move fast.”
The pinpoints of light in the plywood covering the window had changed from red-purple to black. If Juan was right, they were out of time. Nora finally turned so she could easily see both men. She said a silent prayer—for all the good it would do—then stepped close to Paul. “Take the kids into the back bathroom and lock the door,” she whispered in his ear. “Stay in the bathtub. Don’t get up or leave no matter what you hear.”
Paul stiffened and drew back. “And you’re going to stay out here and get yourself shot?”
Don’t do this, please, not now… “I don’t plan to get shot.”
“Does anybody?” He gripped her arm and pulled her to the back of the living room, beyond Juan’s earshot. “I’ll put the kids back there, but I’m staying out here to back you up.”
“No! You’re safer in the back.” Nora throttled back the harshness that had crept into her voice. “I don’t know what’s coming through that door next. One of us has to survive to get the kids out–”
“We both need to survive. They need you as much as they need me. And I need you.” He grabbed her other arm, shook her. “You don’t know what’s out there? Fine. You need all the help you can get. Give me a gun. I did okay at the range.”
“That’s different!” Nora broke free. “Paper targets don’t shoot back! Do you realize how much training I’ve had to kill people? Juan’s had that training too. You—”
“What if one of them gets past you? What do I do, snap him with a beach towel?”
Nora closed her eyes and sighed. She didn’t want to admit it, but he had a point. She called out, “Mr. Juan? Do you carry a backup weapon?”
“I did tonight.” A moment later, he appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. “Why?”
“It’s for Paul.”
Juan frowned at him. “You don’t have your own?”
Paul let out the first note of a laugh. “With what I do, it’s too much of a hassle to carry one. The only places left with gun control are Capitol Hill and around the Mall in D.C.” He swept a hand toward Nora. “She’s the one with all the guns.”
Juan held Nora’s gaze and asked a question with his eyes. Do you want this? She hesitated, then nodded. Juan pulled a Walther PPK from behind his back. “Come on over here in the light, Paul…”
She held back, watching the men handle the pistol in the lantern’s glare, Juan pointing out the safety and showing Paul a two-point firing stance. She hoped Paul wouldn’t try to be a hero and get himself killed. Sometimes he’d try things, like skydiving or deep-sea fishing, that were totally out of character. He claimed it was because he wanted an adventure. She feared it was to prove to her—and to himself—that he was still a man.
He didn’t need to. To her, he was the best man in the world. Someday she’d find a way to tell him so he’d believe it.
Juan clapped Paul on the shoulder, finally finishing his lesson. Paul shook his hand. When Juan disappeared into the garage, Nora drifted to her husband’s side and took his free hand in both of hers. This was all so wrong—being trapped, being targets, turning such a gentle, loving man as Paul into a combatant, bringing down this threat on their heads. She could hardly look in his eyes. “Please be careful. Stay in the bathroom. Don’t go looking for trouble.”
Paul gave her a dark look. “You don’t think I can do this, do you?”
“It’s not that. It’s…if they get to you, it means Juan and I can’t help you. And you’ll have to…to do things you’ve never done before, to protect the kids. I need to know you’ll be there to do that. Promise?”
After a moment, he nodded, then drew her into his arms. She held on as tight as she could, savoring every sensation, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time. “Pray for us,” she whispered. “I think Allah listens to you better than He does to me.”
Paul squeezed her harder. “He listens to both of us. I ask Him nicely, though.”
Nora caught the lump in her throat before it could choke her. She reached up and gave Paul the best, deepest kiss she could, in case it was their last. “I love you so much,” she whispered when they finally broke apart to breathe. “I wish I told you that more.”
“I love you, too.” He started to say something, stopped, then slowly stroked her hair. They stood there for a long moment that both lasted forever and went by in a blink. Then Paul scooped up the lantern and disappeared down the hall, leaving Nora alone in the dark.
When Juan returned to the kitchen, Nora was perched on the counter next to the sink, the window open, her face flat against the rough plywood. He asked, “What are you doing?”
Trying not to think. “I drilled a hole in the wood with my Leatherman. I needed something to do.” She pointed. “Take the peephole in the door. Is the garage secure?”
“Yeah, both doors are locked and barred.”
They squinted through their tiny portals to the outside world without speaking. Nora could see a narrow slice of the front yard and the street, both empty and silent in the pale wash of the waxing moon. She wished these people would make their move soon so she didn’t have to keep obsessing over what would happen once they did.
Then she saw it. Movement. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then pressed her other eye against the hole. She focused so hard, it hurt.
There it was again.
“Did you see that?” Nora whispered. “Edge of the garage. Someone’s out there.”
35
The glut of combat-experienced veterans and ex-military contractors has democratized the private security contractor (PSC) market…American soldiers-for-hire are now more common than their Russian counterparts were a generation ago…Says Ruslic, “These days, anyone who can buy a Jaguar for cash can rent a tactical team for a couple days.”
— “These Guns for Hire,” Forbes.com
WEDNESDAY, 12 MAY
Luis dashed to the back door and pressed his eye to the hole in the plywood next to the latch. A shadow dropped over the backyard fence, then disappeared to his left. A few seconds later, a second and third shadow followed the first. Luis stage-whispered, “Three hostiles heading for the side door.”
“At least two out front.”
Luis twisted to see why Nora sounded so close. A Nora-shape crouched under the kitchen pass-through, dark-dark gray against the wall’s light-dark gray. Luis closed the patio door and took up a position across the entry from her. He drew his pistol, held it with both hands between his knees. His heart hammered his breastbone, and sweat drenched his shirt’s back and armpits. It’d been years since he’d done an entry, and he’d been on the other side of the door then, with a vest and helmet on. The people inside those dusty little houses had felt the way he did right now.
“Think you can shoot federal agents?” Luis whispered.
“I’ll shoot anything hunting my family,” Nora said. Her voice sounded raspy a
nd tight. “Can you?” He didn’t have an answer. “How many rounds?”
“Thirteen. You?”
“Fifteen loaded, fifteen spare.” She stopped for some indistinct scratching at the front door. “If they follow the playbook, they’ll blow the door, then toss in a flash-bang.”
Nora fished a white paper towel off the pass-through, tore off half and tossed the wadded-up remainder to Luis. He stuffed his ears with paper even though it wouldn’t do much good against 170 decibels. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway, pushing her into the bedroom to the right. He ducked into the bathroom to his left.
Twin fooms like M80 firecrackers in a metal trash can hammered through the house. The front door smashed open, and something crashed on the kitchen floor. Moments later, Luis heard the dental-drill whine of a small motor. He peeked out just in time to see a helicopter the size of a pigeon zip down the entry hall. A recon drone. He ducked back into the bathroom, closed but didn’t latch the door, and pressed himself against the wall behind the door.
Boots on tile. “Freeze! Hands up! Don’t move!”
The drone-sound buzzed down the hallway beyond the bathroom door. Then came the clank of something metal against a close-by wall. The sky ripped apart and slammed the bathroom door against the toes of Luis’ boots. His ears filled with static. But he still had his balance and most of his night vision, which might just keep him alive.
Luis wiped his hands on his pants legs, readied his pistol. The mirror had disappeared from over the sink long ago, so no one would see him behind the door from outside. Whoever came in would focus on the room’s open area first. That split-second before they checked the other side would be his window to act.
At least five guys—make it six, no one works in odd numbers—on the entry team. Two for each room off the hall. Luis flashed back to the ‘Stan. Stack close outside the doorway. Number One pivots away from the hinges, Two pivots toward the hinges, each clears his half of the room.
A shush of boot soles on carpet outside. The red splash of a laser sight glittered off the tub surround’s tile. A second swept over the tub apron and the toilet next to it.
Luis drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders against the wall.
He kicked the door hard, then put four rounds through it at waist level when it thumped into the men behind it. Full-auto fire smashed tiles from the shower wall and blew away the rest of Luis’ hearing. He felt rather than saw or heard a body fall on the floor.
A red thread of laser light glinting off dust and drywall flakes swung his way. Luis crouched an instant before a burst screamed over his head, the muzzle flash erasing his night vision but showing him where the gunman was. He shot twice at the spot where the white-orange flame had been moments before. The laser light tumbled to the floor, then blinked off.
One down. The guy’s partner was out there, maybe wounded, maybe just waiting for a clear shot.
Automatic fire sawed through the door, spraying Luis with splinters and chunks of hollow-core sandwich. The door’s remains swung against his knee. There’s the partner. Flashes of gunfire across the hall lit the holes in the door, backed by a thrumming bass line several miles away.
Luis slithered toward the tub, keeping his belly tight against the tile. The smell of blood cut through the dust and gunpowder stink. He reached out to probe the floor to his right. His hand hit something metal: the dead gunman’s weapon, the barrel still hot. Now he could see the nearby greenish, glowing outline of tactical goggles on the man’s face. He stuck out his hand and tried to pull off the goggles. The strap snagged on the man’s helmet.
Something heavy and solid scraped his leg.
He was nearly in the shower when the flash-bang went off. He’d closed his eyes and wrapped his arms over his head, but the inside of his eyelids still turned neon white, and the kick of an enormous horse bounced him off the wrecked shower wall into a heap in the tub. He fumbled his pistol out from under himself, flipped over just in time to make out the red laser knifing toward him through the pink-and-yellow blobs drifting past his eyes.
Find the laser’s origin. Aim. Empty the magazine.
He didn’t die.
Thirty seconds that lasted an hour passed. The blobs faded to black. Luis poked his head above the tub’s rim; no one tried to blow it off. He holstered his empty pistol, crawled out onto a minefield of busted tile and drywall. He reached the first gunman, freed the goggles from his helmet, and slipped them on.
The room turned contrasty green and black. The gunman next to him glowed bright green in the infrared view, the blood from his neck wound showing a softer green around him on the floor. The second guy sprawled face-down next to the shredded vanity, a spreading green pool under him. Both men wore dark utility pants, long-sleeved tee shirts, combat boots, body armor, gear harnesses, helmets without covers. No patches or insignia from any of the usual agencies. The weapon Luis had touched before the grenade went off was a Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun, all black, folding stock, used all over the world. These guys could be anyone, from anywhere.
Luis peeked out into the doorway to the bedroom where Nora was. A bright pair of legs stretched along the floor inside. Boots; not Nora. No muzzle flashes. What happened to her?
After stripping the equipment off the second body, Luis strapped on the man’s vest and utility belt and slotted a fresh magazine into the UMP. He struggled to his feet, wavered a moment as he unkinked his arms and legs. Nearly every part of him throbbed.
He risked a peek toward the end of the silent hallway. The bright dome of a warm head poked out of the master bedroom. Luis threw himself backward just as a flurry of bullets ripped gashes in the bathroom’s doorjamb, splintering the door’s hinge edge, spraying him with wood shards.
The kids are down there. Paul’s down there.
A muzzle flash bloomed white across from Luis, aimed toward the end of the hall. A stream of white-hot shell casings pinged off the bedroom’s wall. She’s alive. The intensity of his relief surprised Luis.
The firefight boomed back and forth just outside as Luis searched the first gunman he’d killed. He grabbed a stun grenade from the man’s utility belt, pulled the pin, then sidearmed the grenade toward the end of the hall. A couple endless seconds passed. Then a flash, a scream of noise, and a howl of pain.
He was out the door and rumbling toward the master bedroom within seconds. Footfalls sounded behind and to his right; he hoped they were Nora’s. As he approached the open door, he saw a glowing man-shape pop into view inside, aiming at him. Luis let off a short burst, slammed himself flat against the wall just shy of the door. A swarm of bullets followed a laser beam inches from his nose, tearing at the wall opposite him. The air filled with swirling bits of drywall. Old dust filled Luis’ throat, triggering a coughing fit.
Four down. At least one left, holed up in a strong position. How many more on the entry team? Where were they? Reinforcements outside?
Welcome back to the ‘Stan.
More beams lighting the haze. More shots, more sharp splinters off the jamb, more flying drywall. A hand gripped his left shoulder; Luis glanced back to glimpse Nora, ready to make this entry. As usual, he’d be Number One through the door. One drew fire first.
I’m too old for this shit, he reminded himself. I have a wife, a son. I can’t die here.
The doorjamb exploded in his face. By reflex, he pivoted away and shoved Nora back. That may have been what saved her when the wall dissolved around him.
Nora cried “Juan!” when he bounced off the wall and crumpled at her feet. He can’t die yet! She crouched, stabbed her fingers into his throat. A pulse; still alive, praise Allah. Three flat, glowing circles of white-hot bullets ran diagonally across the chest of his body armor. The IR vision hid the details of the confused textures on his left shoulder, just outside the vest.
A noise. The distinctive crunch of a boot kicking a hollow-core door.
The bathroom. Paul! The kids!
Nora elbow-crawle
d through a jumble of gypsum board and ruined lumber to what was left of the master bedroom’s doorway. She peeked through a ragged hole. Two bright returns against the wall to the left of the door, one aiming at the bedroom’s entrance, the other with his leg coiled to kick in the bathroom door.
The leg pistoned out. The room filled with the crack of wood ripping in half.
No no no…
Nora shoved herself forward into the doorway, her body armor slick on the carpet. She rolled on her side, swung the laser designator onto the gunman aiming at her.
…no no no…
He shifted his aim, but not fast enough. Nora loosed a burst into his face. Glowing chunks flew against the wall as his body staggered backward, then collapsed. The other man disappeared inside the bathroom.
…NO NO NO…
She pushed herself off the floor, launched through the bedroom door. Ten feet never seemed so far. Screams. Yelling. Automatic weapons fire.
…NO NO NO NOT MY FAMILY NO…
A body fell heavily.
It sounded like the end of her world.
36
WEDNESDAY, 12 MAY
Nora slipped into the bedroom, the UMP’s stock tight against her shoulder. The kids shrieked in the bathroom, but she had to stifle the urge to sprint to them. She had to find the sixth hostile.
She scuffed her feet through the still-glowing shell casings littering the carpet until she could see into the bathroom. Two radiating pairs of legs stretched across the floor. The face-down pair wore boots: the sixth hostile. The face-up pair wore thick-soled work shoes. Paul.
No no no NO NO…
She let her weapon swing free on its sling, yanked her penlight from her pocket. The tiny light was enough to let the goggles’ night-vision setting work, showing her more detail than she wanted. The kids huddled in the tub’s far corner, clinging to each other, crying. Blood on Paul’s face and shirt. Blood on the walls and floor. Shattered tile, bullet holes.
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