Chapter 19
While I track down the shooter, I can hear Briggs’, my commander’s, voice in my head, “Don’t let them know you’re coming.”
Too late.
“Don’t go alone.”
Also, too late.
“And if you can’t follow the rules, be lucky.”
Maybe.
I hear my footfalls between my old commander’s rules.
I’m running in plain view of the shooter and it goes against everything in me to do it but stopping is not an option.
God, Briggs would cringe, if he saw this.
I assume the shooter is on top of the old country store.
It’s the tallest building on Main Street, so as hide sites go, that would be where I’d set up.
But for a more concealed position, I’d pick the courthouse.
Smaller windows, so it’d be harder to see me.
Problem is, it’s further away on Main Street.
I decide to hit the country store roof first. Work the closest problem first, or as Briggs put it, “Clear the near.”
Whichever location it is, I haven’t heard more gunshots since I got her inside the firehouse.
I hope that means he got bored and left, but I am not that naive.
I can’t let it mean that he’s tracking Stella down right now.
I can’t let myself think he might have already gotten to her.
That can’t be it, because if that’s why he stopped shooting…
If I’m him, I’m probably reloading, then realizing everyone ran inside.
Reloading and running is a lot harder than it looks, so I’m not doing both at the same time.
Which means, if I’m lucky, the shooter is still in place.
I need to be lucky today.
The store is closed for the holiday, so I use the butt of the gun to smash through the glass, then open the door.
I run between the Christmas displays and even though I try not to cause more damage, I crash through there.
There are stairs in the back. I help them set up the lighting on the roof for their monthly concerts.
I keep the light off and run up the steps as fast as I can.
Then I hear something crash behind me, so I freeze to listen harder.
There is someone inside the store.
I open the door at the top of the steps and close it, with me still on the stairs.
I want the shooter behind me to think I’m out the door.
I make my footfalls as silent as possible, while I make my way back down.
My shotgun is on my shoulder, at the ready.
My muscles tense up and I take a quick breath to loosen them.
The shooter bumps a table, then curses in Russian.
Michael emerges at the bottom of the stairwell, handgun drawn. “Jordan?”
“Jesus, Michael, I almost shot you.”
“Bad guy up those stairs?”
“Possibly. What’re you doing here?”
He tips his head, “I’m here to help, dumbass, why else would I be here?”
“Go back and watch Stella.”
“I’m not a babysitter, Jordan. Let’s go.”
“There’s no time to argue!”
“Then don’t argue!”
I huff. “Fine. Follow me.” We run up the stairs and I crack the door. No gunshot. I open it further and still no assault. I stick the muzzle of the gun out of the door, and there’s no response. I quietly tell him, “You can wait in here.”
“You can go to hell,” he quietly responds.
I let myself have a laugh, before I rush out the door. There’s no one else on the roof. “Shit. We should go to the—"
A gunshot echoes. A bullet pings on the rooftop nearby.
I shove him back through the door so he’s out of the line of fire, but he loses his footing and falls down the stairs. “Michael!” I run down the stairs after him.
Michael is folded up at the bottom of the stairs. He curses in Russian, as he tries to get back on his feet. He ends up on one knee and grasping at a table. He groans, “Go, get that bastard!”
“You okay?”
“Da, go!”
I run across the street to the courthouse, and another shot whizzes past me.
A quick glance tells me he’s on the second floor, near the southeast corner.
When I get to the front door, it’s locked.
The door is solid wood. It has no window to break and let myself in.
I have to take the window next to it, then crawl inside.
This office is small, so I’m in the hallway in a jiffy. There’s eighties rock music playing—an old tactic to hide sounds. He’s telling me who he is. Probably someone who has been in the game for a long time. Or was trained by someone who was. Either way, they know what they’re doing.
An expert. Riker has gotten serious about killing Stella.
I take a deep breath and run up the stairs toward the music. It’s so loud that I can hardly think. I keep my shotgun at the ready on my shoulder, while I clear rooms. If I can’t hear him, then he can’t hear me, so I don’t have to worry about being quiet. Finally, I get to the southeast corner.
This time, though, I move slowly to take my surroundings in.
I need as much advantage as I can get. I crack the door open, and I don’t see him.
There’s a rifle set up at the window. The room also contains a chair, a lamp-topped table, and a bookshelf.
“Nowhere to hide,” I realize just before I’m bashed on the back of my head.
I fall forward onto my hands and knees, dizzy from the impact.
My shotgun slides across the floor. I get to my feet and find myself face to face with the shooter.
The black balaclava hides the face, but the stealthy black clothes do nothing to hide her figure.
I’m off my game for a second. I didn’t expect a woman.
She takes advantage of my surprise to kick me square in the chest. It knocks me back and I fall again, this time hitting my head on the floor. My bell is rung, and I wonder if I’ll get a chance to tell Stella I almost died because of sexism.
I spring onto my feet from my back and take a stance, prepared for her next attack.
She steps up, so I swing for the middle of her.
But she’s fast, and she dodges the punch, then swings into one of her own.
She connects with my solar plexus and I cough from the impact.
When I’m doubled over, I charge into her.
I don’t think she was expecting me to tackle her from that position, because she’s off her feet in an instant.
She lands flat on her back and loses the wind in her lungs.
The shooter is coughing and gasping, as she tries to get back on her feet.
I step onto her neck. The shooter tries to push me off and fails.
Then, she pulls a knife out from somewhere.
A glint of light flashes off her knife. She stabs me in the calf.
The woman in black pulls it out fast to stab again, but I drop my knees onto her arms, straddling her face. “Drop the knife, now!”
The shooter can’t move her arms and when she realizes she’s stuck. She drops the knife. I grab it, then pull the balaclava off of her head. She’s pretty, but for the scar up the left side of her face. Black hair, brown eyes. “Where is Riker?”
“Who is Riker?” She asks blankly. The shooter has no discernible accent.
“Don’t play games with me. I’m not playing them with you. Tell me where Riker is. NOW!”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she glares up into my eyes.
“Then who’s paying you?”
“A Swiss bank account.”
I poke the tip of the knife at her right cheek, but I don’t press it in. I just hope she can’t tell I’m bluffing. I shout, “Where is he? Stop lying!”
“I’m not lying!” She tries to wriggle away, and the tip jabs into the skin at her cheekbone. A small river of bright blood runs toward her ear.
My gut revolts at the sight of it, but she merely huffs, as though it’s nothing to her. “Torture me all you like. I still don’t know who’s paying me.”
“That was your mistake, wasn’t it?” I kneel over her, with the knife held high. I hope she falls for this, too. “I could give you a scar to match the other side, if you like. Just tell me where Riker is!”
She bucks upward, tossing me off of her. I roll head over, spin around, and punch her hard in the side of the knee. I hear the snap, and she cries out. She goes down again. Her body hits the wall. She slides down it and into a messy heap.
I grab my shotgun and aim it at her head. “Where is he?”
“You know something? I took this job as a favor to a friend. That’s the last favor I ever do.” She sighs. She seems resolute, or like her luck has run out.
The shooter has no idea how lucky she is. “What friend did you do the favor for?”
“You don’t know him by name. But you do know him by what you and your dogs did to him.”
“So, you know the assholes who broke into Stella’s house. Which means you know their boss.” I press the muzzle against her forehead. “Where the fuck is Riker?”
She smiles. “He might be anywhere by now.”
“He’s here? In Floyd?”
She changes the topic, “You know, shooting her brother was just for fun.”
My blood runs cold. “What?”
She stares into my eyes and says, “Alex was just a distraction.”
“Distraction?” My mind races. “A distraction for who?”
“I would have shot anyone to get Stella trapped. The fact it was her brother,” she chuckles, “that’s just icing on the cake.”
“You’re a twisted bitch,” a Russian accented voice says behind me.
I don’t turn around. “Michael?”
“Yeah, man,” he says, as he limps into view on my right. His gun is aimed at the shooter.
“You got this?” I ask.
“Go get Stella. I’ll handle her.”
“Swap me guns. Yours is better for small spaces.” We trade, and I see the pain in his eyes when he moves. He’s busted up bad, and I don’t want her to get the drop on him. I rip the cord from the lamp, then tie the woman to the table. “If she moves, shoot her. If she blinks too much, shoot her.”
Michael’s eyes are glued to the shooter. “Not a problem.”
He says it with such an icy tone that I wonder what he did in Russia before he came to the U.S. No time to ask, though. I run through the courthouse and out the window, hoping I’m not too late.