Chapter 24 #2
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence, broken only by radio checks from our support team and the steady hum of the engine.
By the time we reach the staging area—a grove of eucalyptus trees half a mile from the target—the sky has lightened enough to reveal the property clearly through binoculars.
I survey the farmhouse one final time, noting the guard positions and confirming everything appears exactly as described in our intelligence reports. “Perimeter guards are exactly where they should be, rotating clockwise every twenty minutes, and currently on the north side.”
One of my men adjusts his scope as I ask, “What about interior movement?”
He answers a second later. “Minimal. A kitchen light came on five minutes ago. It’s probably someone making coffee or breakfast. The bedroom lights are still off.”
We wait until the guards complete their rotation, then move swiftly across the open ground toward the house. Everything proceeds exactly according to plan, with the guards neutralized silently, entry points secured, and the team in position for synchronized breach.
I whisper into my comm. “On my mark. Three, two, one?—”
An instant later, the front door explodes inward under the force of the battering ram, and we flood into the house with practiced precision. Instead of finding a sleeping household caught off guard, we discover empty rooms and the lingering scent of recently extinguished cigarettes.
The call comes from the back team. “Clear.”
It echoes from upstairs. “Clear.”
I move through the main living area, noting details that clearly indicate recent occupation.
There are coffee cups in the sink, still warm to the touch.
Newspapers from yesterday are scattered across the coffee table.
In the bedroom, women’s clothing is draped over a chair, blonde hair lingers on the pillow, and makeup is scattered across the dresser.
They were here recently, but now they’re gone.
Maksim’s voice comes through the comm, tight with anger. “It’s a setup.”
I’m about to protest they might have just slipped away right before we arrived through some means of obtaining advanced warning, but I hear the first gunshot.
The bullet punches through the kitchen window and embeds itself in the wall six inches from my head.
I drop to the floor and roll toward cover as automatic weapons fire erupts from multiple positions outside the house.
Someone shouts over the gunfire, “Marksmen in the tree line. At least four shooters.”
Another voice calls out desperately, “Back exit is compromised. They’ve got the rear covered too.”
I press myself against the kitchen island and assess our situation with the cold calculation that’s kept me alive through dozens of similar encounters.
We’re pinned down in an unfamiliar structure, outnumbered by shooters who had time to prepare positions, and our planned escape routes are blocked, but we’re not helpless.
I key my comm. “Smoke grenades. Create a screen and move to the vehicles. Suppressive fire on my mark.”
The next few minutes blur together in the familiar chaos of combat.
Smoke fills the house, automatic weapons chatter back and forth, and we move in coordinated bounds toward the vehicles.
I’m halfway to the car when something hot and violent punches into my left side, spinning me around and dropping me to one knee.
Blood soaks through my shirt as I press my hand against the wound, but I can still move, still think, and still fight. Maksim appears beside me, hauling me upright and half-carrying me toward the car.
He shouts over the gunfire. “How bad?”
I manage to respond despite each breath sending fire through my ribs. “I’ll live.”
He gets me into the passenger seat, and we accelerate away from the property with bullets sparking off the armor plating. I watch the farmhouse disappear in the rearview mirror behind clouds of smoke and the dark shapes of pursuing vehicles.
Maksim glances at the blood spreading across my shirt. “Hospital?”
I struggle to apply pressure to the wound while fumbling for my phone. “No. The clinic on Maple Street. Dr. Lewis keeps irregular hours, but he’ll patch me up without questions.”
The world tilts and blurs around the edges as blood loss begins to affect my concentration. I need to call Sabrina, let her know I’m all right, and explain why I’ll be late getting home. My fingers feel thick and clumsy as I try to compose a text message.
Running late. Don’t worry. Everything fine. Love you.
I stare at the words on the screen, trying to decide if they convey the right message. Too casual? Not reassuring enough? Should I mention I’ll explain everything when I get home?
The phone slips from my numb fingers as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision.
The last thing I hear is Maksim calling my name, his voice sharp with concern that feels like it’s coming from very far away before everything goes black, and I’m falling into a place where there’s no pain, no blood, and no awareness of the promises I’ve broken or the woman who’s about to wake up to find me gone.