Chapter 24
Black Knights Inc.
Fisher carried Eliza’s duffel down the stairs even as the thought of turning her over into federal protection made him want to chew nails.
“Hold there,” Agent O’Toole instructed once he and Eliza had stepped onto the concrete floor of the shop. “Wait until Agent Douglas pulls in.”
“Copy that.” He nodded as Britt hit the button for the garage door closest to them. The large metal structure peeled back to reveal night had made way for day.
The rising sun hit the skyscrapers to the east, casting long, dark shadows over the Black Knights Inc. compound. And something about the way the rest of the city sparkled with pale pink light while the expanse out front remained dusky and cool gave Fisher a terrible sense of foreboding.
He blamed his paranoia on the fact that he was moments away from waving goodbye to Eliza for…
Who knows how long?
Hours, if he was lucky. But it was more likely to be days or even weeks.
He wouldn’t allow himself to consider the idea that it might turn into months.
The activity of the morning had finally awakened the rest of the Knights. Sam, Hewitt, and Graham leaned over the balcony railing on the second-floor War Room, watching as Agent Douglas nosed the large SUV into the shop.
“Moving her into custody?” Sam called down and Fisher snapped him a salute as an affirmative. “Damn, man.” Sam shook his head. “I hate that.”
The look Fisher shot him said quite clearly, You ain’t the only one.
“Careful,” Graham called down as Agent Douglas continued to inch the big vehicle into the shop. “You break it, you buy it.”
Agent O’Toole went a little green around the gills at the thought of that. And Fisher understood why. Her superiors wouldn’t appreciate the six-figure line item that would show up on her budget report if her partner happened to destroy one of BKI’s custom motorcycles.
Becky and Boss had been working hard to increase inventory on their spec-bikes—the ones Becky designed without any particular buyer in mind. Which meant the row of wheeled art took up more space the usual.
Agent Douglas had to be extra careful not to clip the front wheels on the first bike and he hung out the driver’s side window so he could hear the instructions Britt gave him.
“Okay, Sergeant Rollins,” Agent O’Toole said once her partner had pulled the back bumper past the outer edge of the building. “If you’ll close the garage door, we’ll get Miss Meadows loaded up and get this?—”
Fisher stopped listening because a glint across the way caught his eye.
Had he been out in the desert or ghillie-suited in the woods somewhere, he’d have reacted immediately. But because it was the city, because there was glass everywhere that reflected the morning light, he hesitated.
That was a mistake.
He saw the orange glow of muzzle fire a split second before he heard the deafening crack of the report echoing through the open space separating the compound from the bagel shop.
“Shooter!” he yelled as the bullet lodged itself into the garage door motor with a loud thwack just as Britt hit the button on the brick wall to bring the big, metal door down.
No go.
The shooter’s aim had been true. The motor whined and then exploded in a shower of sparks, leaving the garage gaping wide like a mouth frozen in shock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Fisher’s focus narrowed. And he automatically dropped Eliza’s duffel to reach for the weapon in his waistband.
He’d just wrapped his fingers around the familiar grip when— Crack! Another shot echoed and he felt the air displaced by the bullet as it whizzed by his cheek and pinged into the metal staircase behind him.
He now understood why he’d felt the need to grab his gun and why the instant the garage door had rattled open he’d been stabbed in the gut with impending doom.
After more than a decade and a half of being out in the field, his sixth sense when it came to danger had been honed to a razor’s edge. He cursed himself for having ignored it at the same time he threw himself down on Eliza, covering her head with his hands even as he lifted his chin to recon the area and see if there was more than the one shooter.
He noted three things in quick succession.
One, whichever Connelly brother was on duty had hit the switch to close the gate—and then, no doubt, taken cover beneath the guardhouse’s console panel. The little building was reinforced with steel plating, so as long as the big redhead stayed low, he should be safe. Two, Agent O’Toole had taken cover against the brick wall next to Britt. And three, Agent Douglas had flung himself from the vehicle and had found shelter behind the SUV’s big hood.
Glancing toward the hallway that led to the kitchen, he ran through his options. One, he could stay on the floor in front of the steps, protecting Eliza with his body. The gunman didn’t have a clear shot. The angle was bad and the SUV was in the way. But sometimes a bastard just gets lucky. Or two, he could risk rising to a crouch to drag Eliza into the hallway. They’d be exposed for a few seconds, but then she’d be safe from?—
Before he could spring into action, another shot rang out, fracturing the cool, calmness of the morning. He heard the bullet hit the floor in front of him a second before a chunk of concrete bounced up and sliced into his face.
He felt the sting as his flesh laid open. Felt the hot rush of blood down his cheek. But both things he noticed as an aside when, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
“Stay down, you fool!” Agent O’Toole yelled because Douglas had turkey-peeked his head above the vehicle’s hood to take aim at the gunman.
“Damnit!” Fisher cursed aloud. Agent Douglas was an even bigger idiot than he’d given the guy credit for if he thought his Ruger was powerful enough to hit the assassin perched on the rooftop across the way.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Agent Douglas fired three times in quick succession.
Crack!
The gunman fired once and his aim proved to be as precise as it had been when he’d taken out the garage door motor. Agent Douglas cried out as a hot slug found him. A puff of blood sprayed from his shoulder as the projectile blasted through his back.
It wasn’t like they showed it in the movies. Even the big rounds snipers used weren’t enough to send a body hurtling back through the air. Instead, Douglas simply fell backward, hitting the ground with a grunt before writhing in pain.
“Get Eliza to safety!” Agent O’Toole screamed, urgency lacing her voice as she bent her arm around the edge of the garage opening and began blindly spraying bullets.
It wasn’t much as far as cover-fire went, but it was all Fisher was going to get. With swift, decisive movements, he scrambled to a crouch, grabbed Eliza by the wrist, and hauled her in the direction of the kitchen.
“Keep your head down!” he bellowed as they half-ran/half-stumbled down the short hallway. As soon as they made it to the large pantry with its brick walls and solid oak door, he unceremoniously shoved her inside. “Stay here,” he instructed and impatiently wiped his forearm across his cheek to get rid of the blood he felt dripping from his chin.
Adrenaline had heightened his senses. He clocked the panic in Eliza’s wide, dark eyes. Heard the fear in her voice when she said, “Jesus, Fish! You’re hit!” And smelled the earthy scent coming from the basket of russet potatoes sitting beneath the shelf by the pantry door.
This was his element—the chaos, the danger. Instead of being overwhelmed by it, it focused him.
“I’m not,” he assured her and gave his face another restless swipe so she could see he was sporting a cut and not a hole. “Got nicked by flyin’ concrete and knocked a bit of bark off my face.”
“Thank god!” Her face crumbled with relief as she threw her arms around him and hugged him so tight he struggled to breathe. “When you threw yourself on top of me, all I could think about was Charlie and?—”
She couldn’t finish. Her words caught on a harsh sob.
He allowed himself the space of two heartbeats to enjoy the feel of her in his arms. To savor her warmth and softness and spring rain scent. Then he gently unhooked her arms from around his neck and stepped back. “I have to help the others.”
No more rounds had been exchanged. Which meant the shooter was watching. Waiting.
Tears stood in her eyes, but she nodded her understanding. He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
When he swung back, it was to see her chin quivering. “I won’t be able to live with myself if any of you die trying to protect me.” The tears that’d been standing in her eyes overflowed and spilled down her cheeks before she finished on a whisper. “One is enough.” She immediately shook her head. “One is too much.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So he simply leaned forward to press a quick kiss to her lips. Then he slammed the pantry door in her face and turned to sprint down the hallway.
“Britt!” he yelled after stopping at the corner. Britt had managed to grab Agent Douglas’s ankle. And even though the former Ranger wasn’t as big as some of the other Knights, the sonofabitch was strong. He was able to pull the moaning agent across the concrete floor until there was nothing left behind but a bloody trail. “How bad is it?” He darted across the expanse and took up a position against the brick wall beside Agent O’Toole, his sidearm out and at the ready.
“Through and through,” Britt gritted from between clenched teeth. He was down on his knees, applying pressure to Douglas’s shoulder. “But he’s bleeding like a stuck pig. He needs an ambulance.”
“Sam!” Fisher’s voice was firm and commanding as he called up to the second floor. “You still up there?”
“He’s already gone to get his rifle!” Hewitt called down. “We’ve got eyes on the shooter from here. Lone gunman. Roof of bagel shop.”
“I have to call in backup,” O’Toole whispered, her cheeks flushed with adrenaline.
“If I know Sam,” Fisher told her, “it’ll be too late by the time they get here. You’d be better served callin’ in the paramedics to help your partner.”
Her cell phone was in her hand, but she blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Sam was a Marine Raider.”
“I know. I read his file,” she said impatiently. “I read all your files.”
“Did ya read the part where Sam has the most confirmed kills of any Marine sniper ever to walk the hallowed halls of Camp Pendelton? Once he’s on the roof, the shooter is as good as dead. We just need to hang on until then.”
His cut no longer openly wept. Blood now crusted on his face when he glanced down at Britt and Agent Douglas and grimaced.
The agent had been wearing a bulletproof vest. But the round had hit him beside the strap on his shoulder and had left behind a gaping hole.
Bzzzz. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket at the same time he heard O’Toole calling for an ambulance. Sam’s number showed on his screen and he quickly thumbed on the device.
“You in position?” he asked without preamble.
“Affirmative.” Sam’s voice had taken on the calm, concise tone that told Fisher Sam had slowed his breathing and his heartrate and was in sniper-mode. “But the sonofabitch isn’t on the roof anymore. I can’t see— Wait.”
Fisher did exactly that as O’Toole gave harried instructions to the 9-1-1 operator and Britt hissed at Agent Douglas to, “Stop moving, you dumb shit. You’re just making yourself bleed faster.”
“He’s one block west and moving fast.” Sam’s voice came through the phone. “Do I take the shot?”
Fisher wanted to give the affirmative. That rat bastard had come here, to their home, to kill Eliza. But this wasn’t a battlefield. The culprit was no longer actively shooting at them. And Sam wasn’t a cop with a license to kill.
There were laws when it came to this sort of thing.
“Hold,” he instructed as he turned to O’Toole. “The shooter is on the run. Sam has him in his sights but can’t take a shot unless you give him the green light.”
O’Toole didn’t hesitate. “Do it. I’ll take any heat that comes his way.”
Fisher had liked her before, liked her smart, no-nonsense way of handling things. But now he respected her on top of liking her.
“End him, Sam,” he relayed into the phone. “Take the shot.”
Boom!
The familiar roar of Sam’s sniper rifle sounded from above and Fisher held his breath waiting on confirmation of the kill.
It never came. Instead he heard shuffling as Sam picked his cell phone back up and relayed, “Missed. He bent down just as I pulled the trigger. He jumped into a white sedan. He’s two blocks west and continuing west quickly. I don’t dare take another shot. Too many buildings in the way and he’s moving too fast.”
“Fuck!” Fisher shoved his weapon back into his waistband and gave O’Toole the bad news. “Negative contact with the shooter. He’s in a car and headed west.” He walked over and punched the button on the wall that would roll up the second garage door. “I’m going after him.”
“Wait! What?” O’Toole shouted but Fisher was already running toward Mardi Gras.
The purple, green, and gold chopper had been painted to remind him of his favorite time of the year when his mother had made king cake and his little town had thrown parades where all the citizens decked themselves out in shiny beads. But he felt no affinity for the machine now, other than it was what he needed to catch the sonofabitch who’d dared come for Eliza.
This ends now,he thought grimly as he hit the button that had Mardi Gras’s engine rumbling to deep-throated life.