Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Unless Nick did something, the mobsters were still in time to steal the nukes and disappear. They might have a solid chance. There would be a massive manhunt, but they knew the terrain and would have safe houses. There was an outside chance that they could get away with it.
That would not happen. Nick had an arsenal at his disposal, including grenades.
But he also had Parker to protect. He’d never gone into battle with any thought other than winning.
Winning was essential but so was protecting Parker.
It felt like he was at war with himself, because many of the tactics he could use could endanger her.
He had to take it second by second.
They’re here! He texted Jacob, knowing he would convey it immediately to the troops coming. They hadn’t even had time to set up separate direct comms, the only way to reach the military was through Jacob.
The answer came back almost immediately. Almost there.
Okay. All he had to do was survive and make sure Parker survived too. If he had to, he’d direct attention to himself across the chamber, signal to Jacob that Parker was here.
There was noise up top, the gangsters conferring.
He wished Parker were here so she could interpret for him, but they were just figuring out how to get in and get the nukes out.
Not easy. The crack in the casing was barely big enough for a person to get through.
The Davy Crocketts were wide, heavy, unwieldy.
So were the man portables. The military would be coming with equipment, but the mobsters had clearly been told to get here fast and would only have shooting weapons.
They could aim their machine guns all they wanted at the concrete.
They weren’t getting the nukes out easily, and when the military arrived, they weren’t getting the nukes out at all.
But shit happens, nobody knew that better than Nick. And whatever happened, those weapons would never fall into hands other than the US military. Just wasn’t going to happen.
A young man stuck his head into the opening. Dark-haired, handsome, lithe. Somehow, he wriggled his way down, feet first, hands holding on to the concrete. It was a long way to fall, and he was studying how to do it when Nick took him out.
Two shots, center mass. The young man fell in a boneless heap to the ground twelve feet below.
Nick could hear the murmur of voices, a little shocked. This wasn’t going to be as easy as they thought, and they knew there was a timeline. And that someone armed was down with the weapons.
Damn right, Nick thought. He had an almost endless arsenal and hand grenades. He would be sitting pretty if it weren’t for Parker, across the cavernous area, vulnerable.
He was sitting behind a big metal chest, in shadow, against the curved concrete wall. Invisible, unless they had night vision. The man who’d volunteered to go first hadn’t had night vision, just a Beretta AR 70/90 on a sling.
And then, to his horror, an assault rifle appeared, the hand holding it above the line of concrete, so he couldn’t shoot the hand. The hand was holding another Beretta AR, only it had a drum. A drum that could hold 100 bullets.
His blood froze. He was behind a steel container. Parker was behind a tarp. Nick was up and running before he could think and had flung himself over Parker when the gangster started shooting. He sprayed the area continuously, the sound of bullets pinging loud in the enclosed space.
Nick spread himself, covering as much of Parker as he could, hands over her head.
Something punched him hard in the back. The sound of gunfire stopped, casings still clinking to the ground.
Nick lifted himself up, arms trembling. It was harder than expected. For some reason, he couldn’t hold himself up.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice weak.
Parker turned a terrified face to him. She looked at the ground, which was turning red, then at him. “I’m okay but you’ve been shot!”
He’d been shot? What the fuck?
And then all the pain in the world rushed in to sandbag him. It had been masked by adrenaline but now he felt it.
He clenched his teeth against the groan.
Parker’s eyes widened and he looked up. One of the mobsters, slim, lithe and athletic, dangled by one hand then dropped to the dirt, standing up immediately.
He walked around, and Nick saw the exact moment he was spotted.
The man was young, elegantly dressed, with a good haircut. Handsome, with empty eyes.
The mobster started walking toward them, bringing up the assault rifle to his shoulder.
There wasn’t anything Nick could do. He’d dropped his weapon to be able to get to Parker faster and he was glad he did.
The bullet that had gotten him would have gotten Parker.
But now he couldn’t defend her. He was weak, bleeding, weaponless.
The man seemed to be almost enjoying himself as he sauntered toward them. It would be like shooting ducks in a barrel. Nick was wounded and he was unarmed. Clearly Chic Mobster hadn’t seen Parker and Nick was desperate to keep it that way.
Outside was a commotion. The sound of a helicopter, men shouting orders, a gunshot or two. It didn’t seem to faze Chic Mobster. Maybe he thought it was his people, but Nick knew what it was. Dylan’s chopper and the arrival of US troops. Here to guard the weapons until NEST came.
It was over. The nukes were safe. The good guys had won. He wouldn’t win, though. Nobody could make it inside before the gangster shot him more full of holes than he was already. But with some luck, Parker might make it out alive.
As he continued sauntering toward them, Nick said, very low, “He hasn’t seen you. Don’t move. Stay under me after he finishes shooting.”
Hoping the bullets didn’t go through him and hit her.
Oh God.
Fuckhead slowly brought the gun up to his shoulder, clearly enjoying himself. Shooting an already wounded, unarmed man was fuckhead heaven. Nick was dying anyway. He was losing a lot of blood, and his head was feeling woozy. The edges of his vision were turning black.
Nick braced, because bracing against a bullet traveling two thousand feet per second did so much good. Fuckhead got a good grip on his rifle and put his trigger finger on the trigger, smiling widely.
Shitheads lived for moments like these. Where they could inflict pain and suffering with no consequences.
The noise level outside was increasing, shouts and loud engine noises, but fuckhead wasn’t even noticing. He aimed down the barrel and Nick said his goodbyes to life and…
The fucker’s head exploded while big chunks were blown out of his chest.
He fell where he stood, deader than dirt.
Parker still had a death grip on her gun. Pistol. Whatever it was called. She had to consciously relax her fingers, one by one.
She’d just shot a man. Twice. Something she’d have said was impossible, but there he was, bleeding in the dust, unmoving. And the most astonishing thing of all was that she wasn’t sorry. Not one bit.
Until the day she died, she’d never forget the expression on his face, evil and gloating. About to shoot the finest man she’d ever known.
She was hidden beneath Nick, who’d run faster than she’d ever seen anyone move to throw himself over her, to shield her, but she had a narrow view encompassing the gangster slowly walking toward Nick, clearly enjoying every second of planning the death of someone defenseless.
Already wounded and unarmed. The guy didn’t know she was there, and Nick was prepared to sacrifice his life to make sure the man didn’t know she was there.
She was hidden. But…she had a gun. Nick was not going to be killed by a cruel baby gangster in an Armani suit and with a trendy haircut. Not if she could help it.
He was so close, she couldn’t miss. She was hidden in shadows and partially shielded by the tarp. He lifted the rifle to his shoulders, readying himself to kill Nick.
Over her dead body.
Fast, because if she didn’t move fast, they were lost, she lifted the pistol, which was black and wasn’t reflecting light. She could tell the gunman didn’t see it. He was fully focused on Nick.
She flipped the safety—red is dead—lined the sights up with his chest, just like Nick had taught her, and pulled the trigger twice. And cheered to herself when she saw two big holes open up in his chest.
And then—his head exploded! She hadn’t done that. What—?
“Parker!” a voice shouted. An American voice, deep and commanding like Nick’s. “Parker Donovan! I’m Dylan Gardner, Nick’s friend. Don’t shoot me.”
She hadn’t even noticed someone peeking out from the big crack, carrying a gun.
Nick’s friend! With a sob she crawled out from under Nick, as a tall, broad-shouldered man lowered himself from the ceiling with one hand, holding an assault rifle in the other. He dropped lightly to the floor. Parker ran to him, crying, and grabbed his arm.
“He’s hurt! Oh God, Nick’s been shot!”
He held her by the shoulders, looking her up and down. She was covered in blood. “Are you hurt? Have you been shot too?”
“No!” She gave a huge sob. “It’s Nick’s blood. We have to get him to a hospital immediately!”
Dylan rushed past her to Nick, hunkered down beside him. He ripped Nick’s shirt and carefully examined the wound in his back, then lifted him so he could see Nick’s chest.
His face was drawn and sober. He looked over his shoulder at her and she could read his expression as if he said the words aloud. It’s bad.
“Didn’t punch through,” he said, lifting away a backpack she hadn’t noticed. And bless him, the backpack had medical supplies. He pulled out things she didn’t recognize and placed them on the tarp. “Hey big guy.” He slapped Nick’s face lightly. “Open up those big baby blues. This is going to hurt.”
Nick looked barely conscious, but he nodded. “Dylan,” he murmured.