Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
EVERS
Istepped back into the room and looked around.
A bed, a dresser, and an armchair. I set a hand on either side of the dresser and threw my weight into it, raising it onto two legs and pivoting it away from the wall.
It was a heavy son of a bitch. Solid wood, none of that pressboard modern bullshit that was so popular these days. Perfect.
I lowered it gently enough to mask the sound of the furniture moving.
Going to the other side, I repeated the pivot, quietly walking the dresser from the wall to the door.
Once I had it in position, I leaned into the heavy piece of furniture, raising it on its side and tipping it over a foot in front of the door.
It landed with a crash loud enough to guarantee an investigation. With the dresser almost blocking the door, they'd be able to get into the room, but they'd be forced to enter one at a time. It didn't entirely even the odds, but it would help.
Shouts were followed by feet pounding up the stairs. I couldn't tell if it was two or three, but it was definitely more than one. I crouched behind the dresser, using its bulk as a shield.
It wasn't as well-built as the chair at Rycroft, but it was close. The multiple layers of thick wood were far better protection than the hollow core door and drywall.
Tsepov's goons were a little smarter than I gave them credit for. The pounding feet came to a stop in front of the door, and four precise bullet holes appeared above my head.
Good thing I hadn't been standing there waiting.
Also, good to know they didn't mind killing me. That changed things. I'd been prepared to do what I had to do to get out of the house, but my conscience eased knowing that my adversaries hadn't given a second thought to taking my life.
I stayed where I was, crouched behind the dresser, and waited. The door slammed open, crashing into the dresser and bouncing back. From the outraged yell, I could only assume it had smacked Goon #1 in the face.
He was about to have much bigger problems than a bruised nose. Goon #2 laughed, and the thud of a fist on flesh told me Goon #1 hadn't appreciated being the butt of a joke.
Good. The more annoyed they were with each other, the less they'd focus on me. One of them decided to try again. The muzzle of a gun showed around the edge of the door as a cautious hand pushed it open. Leading with his gun, Goon #1, red nose giving him away, pushed his head through the gap.
The tall dresser made for good cover. From his angle, all Goon #1 could see was the empty bed and open window. His eyes locked on the curtains fluttering in the breeze, he said something in Russian to his companions.
A set of footsteps moved down the hall, probably to check the backyard beneath the open second-story window.
The seemingly-empty room and open window relaxed Goon #1 as he pushed the door against the dresser and squeezed through the tight opening. He should have paid more attention. Should have been more alert.
He didn't see me until his body had cleared the door. He wasn't ready for me to explode from a crouch, shoving the heavy dresser into the door, wedging it shut and leaving him trapped with me.
Goon #1 still had multiple weapons to my zero, but I was betting I could make up the difference. Startled and struggling to catch up, Goon #1 fired wildly, hitting the far wall, the ceiling, the carpet.
He'd missed me, but he wouldn't for much longer. I was too big a target, and he was only feet away. I was on him before he could get his bearings, knocking him to the ground and jamming a knee in his throat. Closing one hand around his wrist, I wrenched the gun from his fingers.
Bones cracked, my knee crushing his larynx, and still he fought, twisting wildly under my weight. I was tall and strong, but this guy had at least 75 pounds on me. I couldn't hold him like this for long.
Pressing the muzzle of the gun to his forehead,I pulled the trigger twice. Beneath me, his body went limp. I didn't have time to think about what I'd done. Later.
I knew from experience Goon #1 would be back. He'd haunt my dreams and my waking nightmares, his soul lingering, whispering in my ear, reminding me that I'd chosen to take his life.
I'd deal with that later. First, I had to finish the mission. Goon #1 wouldn't be the only casualty.
I hoped I wouldn't be on the list along with him.
I searched for the rest of his weapons. I'd been right, a revolver at his ankle and a semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. His ankle holster was secured by Velcro and easily transferred from his leg to mine. His 9mm I set aside while I completed my search.
I wasn't surprised by the guns, but I was impressed by how many knives he'd managed to hide on his person. A butterfly knife. A switchblade. And a fucking hunting knife in a leather sheath. What did he think, he was going to run into a mountain lion in a suburban McMansion?
I took the butterfly knife and the switchblade but left the hunting knife. No cell phone. Two guns, three knives, and no phone? It said a lot about Goon #1's priorities.
Goon #2 pounded on the door, ineffectually twisting the handle as if that would move the dresser out of the way. There were voices in the hall. I couldn't hide forever.
The bullets from the handgun had made it through the door but not the dresser. Their assault rifles would shred the thick wood and me along with it. Listening hard, I decided there were three of them, two directly behind the door and one in the hall to the right of the door.
Still using the dresser as cover, I fired through the wall, a foot to the right of the doorframe. One bullet hit a stud and veered off course. The second hit its target.
Two endless seconds after I fired, a thump sounded in the hall, the floor shaking from the impact. Goon #4 down, two goons left, and I was running out of time.
At this point, the dresser was more hindrance than help. Staying low, I braced my feet and shoved as hard as I could, pushing the dresser away from the door. Reaching up, I turned the handle.
The door swung open a few inches. Goon #2 took the bait. Leading the same way as Goon #1, the muzzle of his gun pushed through the opening first.
Didn't these guys realize how clearly that telegraphed their position?
Apparently not.
I raised the gun I'd stolen and fired twice. Goon #2 dropped to the floor, blocking the doorway as a shout of outrage echoed down the hall. Only Goon #3 was left in the hall. For now.
We had no idea how many men Tsepov had in the house. Anything I could do to thin the ranks would only increase my chances of escape and make it easier for the FBI to take Tsepov.
I expected Goon #3 to follow his compatriot through the door, but he was either smarter or had a better sense of self-preservation. Footsteps thudded on the carpet as he fled down the hall to the stairs.
I was running out of time, and I was trapped. I needed to signal Cooper. Goon #2's bulk was wedged between the door and the frame. I crouched over him, searching for his phone, keeping my eyes off his face.
My first shot had gone through his cheekbone, splintering teeth and tearing flesh. The second hit his neck. Barely two minutes had passed since he'd fallen, and his shirt was stained red, the carpet beneath his body soggy with blood.
Ignoring the mess, I checked his pockets, finally hitting pay-dirt on the inside of his suit coat. Wiping the blood from his thumb, I used it to unlock the screen and sent Cooper a quick text.
In bedroom on second floor. Three down.
Tsepov's location unknown. I'm armed. Going hunting.
As I'd hoped, Cooper responded almost immediately.
In position.
On our way.
Stay safe.
Stay safe.
If Cooper thought I was going to sit in this room and wait for them to come to the rescue, he was nuts.
I wasn't looking to be the hero. I was more than happy for the FBI to come charging in, weapons drawn, and arrest the bad guy.
I was a sitting duck up here, and they had assault rifles. Waiting for rescue was a death sentence. Compared to Tsepov's arsenal, two guns and a few knives weren't much.
Leaning over Goon #2, I looked past Goon #4's body, splayed outside the door, to see an empty hallway. It wouldn't be empty for long. Time to go exploring.
Heading for the stairs, I was working out a strategy to deal with the staircase and the unknown layout of the first level when instinct drew my eyes up.
I almost didn't see it in time. A six-inch black cylinder flew down the hall, flipping end over end, headed right for me. My body moved before my brain fully processed the danger.
I dove through the nearest door, throwing myself away from the hall as the flash-bang grenade exploded. Even in another room, the searing light left me temporarily blinded, my ears ringing.
I'd trained with stun grenades before. Back then I could have shaken off the effects a little faster. As it was, I wobbled when I rose to my feet, black dots wavering in my vision.
There would be goons with guns on the way. I wished I had a flash-bang of my own to toss down the stairs and clear my entry. A flash-bang, an assault rifle, anything better than the nine-millimeter in my hand.
If I'd been in the hall when that grenade had hit…
I glanced through the open door to see Goon #4's body on fire. Flames ate at his clothes, rising to lick at the walls.
A flash bang is no party if you're in the same room. If it hits you? The light and the sound are the least of your problems. Not that Goon #4 had problems anymore.
I was out of choices and there was no point in strategy. I couldn't play the odds and hide up here until Cooper and the FBI made their way into the house. Not with Goon #4's body turning the second floor into a bonfire.
Even if I managed to put out the flames, I was vulnerable as long as they knew exactly where I was.
Easing past the burning body, I decided I'd take my chances downstairs.