Chapter 41
Wyatt killed the alarm with a swipe of his tablet.
Movement. Camera six.
Movement at the eastern treeline. He switched to thermal. Two signatures—close together. A second later, they split. One broke left but the other held.
The northwest perimeter lit up with a third and fourth signature.
Camera six blipped, then cut to static.
A second later, camera five went dark.
The rest followed.
These weren’t amateurs stumbling through the dark. These were professionals.
His teeth met under pressure. So was he.
His pulse slowed. The rest of him, everything that wasn’t the next five minutes, slid behind a door and locked itself down.
The weapon they’d made of him stepped forward. But this time, he chose the target.
He swung to face Jen and gripped her elbow.
“Bathroom. Now.”
He hustled her into the upstairs bathroom, through the transformed house, steel shutters locked in place.
“Wyatt—”
He took the Glock 43 from her, checked it, then pressed it back into her hands and positioned her grip. “Safety off,” he said, showing her cleanly. “Two hands. Always two hands.”
She nodded. “Okay—”
“Don’t hesitate.” His grip tightened on her wrists before he forced it to loosen. Jen was strong.
Her chin trembled, but she didn’t cry.
“Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“Okay.” She sniffed, tilting her chin up. “I’m the Chief Engineer, right?”
“You are.” He stepped back and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged with a click from the other side.
His breathing was the only sound left—too loud.
Too human.
He pressed his palm to the door, fingers spread. His head dropped until his forehead almost touched the frame.
One second.
Just for her.
One breath.
He pushed off the door and killed the lighting.
Akilov had made a mistake coming for Jen.
Wyatt moved through the dark house like his own bloodstream. He could walk his house blindfolded. He’d built the place with one eye on comfort and one on contingency, never quite believing the war had ended.
The Glock 19 was steady in his grip. He eased down to the ground floor, sweeping the living room first. Moonlight leaked in from a small gap in the shutters. The room was silent. Clear.
He searched the utility, dining room and his office.
Nothing.
The house held.
Too quiet. They’d breached the perimeter but hadn’t entered. Unless they already had and were waiting.
He reached the kitchen, opened the door slow, leading with the muzzle. Cleared left, cleared right. The only sound was the hum of the fridge and his own pulse.
Wyatt slipped into the room, skin prickling. A sliver of moonlight cut across the tiles.
The back door was destroyed, blown clean where the deadbolts engaged.
His attention locked on the breach point.
A half-second of transition.
Air broke behind the island.
Something hard connected with his wrist—nerve fire ripped up his arm and the Glock flew from his grip, skidding across the floor.
His attacker was big, thick through the chest. He drove Wyatt back into the fridge. The handle speared his kidney, and white light burst behind his eyes.
Wyatt looped an arm around the other man’s neck and wrenched him down, smashing his face into the counter. Once. Twice. Cartilage ruptured. The man roared and threw an elbow that caught Wyatt’s temple. For a half-second the world tilted.
Wyatt grabbed the nearest thing—the cast-iron skillet—and swung it into the thickset man’s jaw with everything he had. The skillet smashed into bone with a sickening crack.
He toppled, cheek caved in, and didn’t get up.
One down.
Wyatt dove for his weapon. A second man charged.
Wyatt skidded to his knees, fingers closing around the gun as he pivoted to bring it up.
The second attacker, leaner, lunged at the same instant. His boot slammed down mid-draw, crushing Wyatt’s right hand against the floor. Bone cracked. Pain detonated—his shooting hand gone.
Wyatt twisted, lunged for the knife in his boot with his good hand and stabbed the man’s calf.
The leaner man yelled, jerking away from him, blood spurting from the cut in the fabric. Wyatt rolled, pushed to his feet, broken hand clutched to his chest.
The man spun, his face warped, lips pulled back from his teeth. His gun hand came up.
Wyatt grabbed a bottle of olive oil with his left hand and lobbed it hard.
The bottle shattered against the man’s face, glass and oil exploding outward. He screamed, hands flying to his eyes as blood ran through the slick.
Wyatt closed the distance and tackled him. They hit the floor hard.
He took the man’s back in one violent shift, latching his right arm under his chin, forearm slick with blood. Then locked his legs around the man’s hips and pulled.
His broken hand failed when he tried to cinch the hold tighter. Fingers wouldn’t close, bones grinding where they shouldn’t.
The man bucked and clawed at him, breath coming in a choking wheeze. Wyatt tightened anyway and counted.
Five.
Six.
Pain flared white. He breathed through it.
Seven.
The hands scrabbling at his arm weakened.
Fell.
Wyatt released him and shoved the body away. He didn’t look at the damage. He didn’t have time. Neither of them was Akilov.
He pushed up to one knee.
Movement.
He caught it in the dark reflection of the microwave door.
A shape in the hallway. Moving away. Deeper into the house.
Already past him.
A door slammed. Upstairs.
Where he’d left her.
His broken hand was a white-hot wire running from knuckle to wrist. He tucked it to his chest, forcing his fingers to flex.
They moved. Not well or without cost. But they moved.
He retrieved the Glock from the floor, switching his grip. Left hand primary now. Broken right braced beneath the trigger guard. The hold was ugly but functional. He’d trained for worse. He’d fought through worse.
Two men down. Neither was Akilov.
One man. One weapon. And they’d known it. They’d counted on him choosing the fight.
He was already running.