37. Galahad
Galahad
Richter’s body was too close to Grace’s.
A gunshot at this range looked easy on paper, but that didn’t account for what a round did when it met bone—it skipped, it tumbled, and it exited where the angles said it shouldn’t.
Richter’s face was too close to Grace’s for me to shoot, and I couldn’t risk alerting him to my presence, or he’d pull the knife on her again.
My training warred with my heart and visions of green eyes swirling in my brain. But I had to focus. She needed the operator right now, not the man who’d spilled every secret to her last night. I could be that man the next time I was in her sunshine, not here. Not now.
Despite dancing on her tiptoes and hitting Richter multiple times, she slid the bottle out of its storage space without him noticing.
But I noticed. She’d seen me. I had to believe she’d seen me, and she was doing all of the same math I was. She was going to give me an opening. She wouldn’t have the strength to do serious enough damage to save herself, but it would stun him. I had to close the gap before he could react.
I holstered my pistol silently. My stun gun was a safer option, as was the pepper spray or the baton.
But my first goal would be to separate him from her to keep her safe, which required hand-to-hand.
I inched forward, taking controlled steps, waiting for her to move.
I was no more than twenty feet away, and it would be a straight dash through the wine cellar door to tackle him.
“You’re my ticket out of here,” he hissed into Grace’s face. “We’re going now.”
Grace swung.
And I erupted forward.
The bottle smashed into the side of Richter’s head, and he loosened his grip on her windpipe precisely when I drove my shoulder under his ribs and launched the two of us onto the floor. We hit the stone hard, knocking into chairs as we fell.
He was a fixer, not an operator. But he obviously had grappling training, because he bucked me off him and rolled out of my grip before I could get a lock on his neck.
My fist found his sternum, twice, driving the air out of him.
But then his knee was up between us and my balance was wrong. I pushed off and got to my feet.
He was up nearly as fast.
The space between the long table and the wall racks on all sides was tight. No room to circle. Close quarters, where technique and aggression mattered more than reach.
“Garrett, be careful!” squealed Grace from somewhere behind me.
“Get upstairs, Grace!”
Richter didn’t back down, didn’t beg for mercy like his boss. No, his next strike came fast—a straight right aimed at my jaw. I dodged it, caught his arm, and drove my fist into his ribs. He absorbed it and countered with a knee to my thigh, deadening the muscle.
I got my forearm across his throat and shoved him into the racks.
Richter broke free with a headbutt that sent blood trickling into my left eye. I blinked through it and threw a combination. Two to his body, then one that connected with his jaw and snapped his head sideways.
He came back fast. An overhand right I blocked but felt through my entire arm. A hook to my ribs under the plates probably broke something. Richter fought like a man who’d learned in places where rules didn’t exist—no posturing, no wasted motion, only damage.
“You’ve got this, Garrett!” shouted Grace, who was still in the room instead of going upstairs. Just as stubborn as she’d been since the day I met her.
“Arthur and the team’s upstairs. Go!” I drove forward, forcing Richter back, further from Grace.
Took a hit to the jaw that rattled my teeth, but it got me inside his guard.
I locked my arms around him and slammed him backward into a section of stone wall that wasn’t covered in wine bottles or shelving.
His head cracked against it, his legs buckled, and he went down hard. His head slammed into the floor with such force he stopped moving.
Fuck.
All around him, red liquid spread across the floor. Shards of broken glass.
I sucked in a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear the memory. My father. Red blood spread across our kitchen floor. Shards of his tequila bottle.
“Garrett?” came a voice from somewhere far away.
My mother’s eyes found me. Green eyes, dark hair, and blood. Pain. Terror. Screaming.
“Garrett?” It was Grace. She needed me.
But Richter wasn’t moving. I’d killed men before, plenty of them, but that had been war. This was… this was about some goddamn egg. Was it that different? That’s what Task Force Legacy had been about. About stopping men from killing for gold. I couldn’t ever escape that, could I?
Get it the fuck together.
I dropped to one knee and checked his pulse.
It was strong.
Thank fuck.
He was out, not dead.
The red was wine. There was less blood here than there had been in our kitchen, and the man on the floor wasn’t anyone I’d loved. I shoved the memories down where the rest of my life lived and made my hands move.
I pulled Richter’s Glock out of its holster, ejected the magazine, and cleared the chamber. I shoved the mag and his folding knife into one of my vest pouches and secured him with zip ties out of the pouch on my plate carrier. I didn’t bother dragging him clear of the glass.
My rib complained when I stood; it would hurt like hell once the adrenaline faded. My leg wanted to buckle, but I made it hold. Blood was running freely into my right eye, and I wiped it with the back of my hand.
Deep breath, Garrett.
I turned.
That was apparently all the permission Grace needed, because she pushed off the wall and ran into me faster than I would have expected.
I got my arm around her waist, caught her against my chest, and just kissed her, no matter how much my jaw hurt.
For one blissful moment, the operation, the estate, and the man on the floor behind me ceased to exist. My whole world was her mouth, her hands, and the solid, living weight of her.
I had her. I’d gotten to her before anything happened.
She pressed against my ribs, and I couldn’t hide the grimace. She sprang back. “Oh my god, I’m sorry! Are you okay?”
“Me? Fuck that. How are you?”
“Fine.” She heaved a deep breath, her hands still on my arms. “Pretty freaked out, to be honest, but mostly fine. You’re hurt, though?”
“I’m okay, but we need to get out of here.” I was bleeding from above my eye, my ribs were on fire, but I had her. I keyed my mic. “Richter’s down. I have the package. How’s everyone else?”
“All guards plus Kessler are down and restrained.” Arthur’s voice in my ear was the steady kind, which meant the rest of the house was as quiet as it sounded.
“Dr. Caulfield was in the collection room with Werner Kessler.” Grace moved toward the doorway with me, her hand gripping my vest from the back. “I don’t think he was just front-running. I think he was on Kessler’s payroll.”
I keyed my mic again. “Arthur, has anyone seen Caulfield?”
“You don’t have him?” Grace asked.
Chatter filled my headset, none of it the words I needed to hear. My gut had told me Caulfield was wrong from the day we met him. I’d let the jeweler theory override it, then I’d let the slimy, not dangerous conclusion override it. Both times I’d trusted the cleaner story instead of my instinct.
“Arthur.” I tucked Grace behind me as we made our way up the stone stairs. “If Caulfield hasn’t run by now, assume he’s armed. He had time to find something while we were clearing the house.”
Grace kept a hand on my back as I cleared the corner. “The egg is in the collection room. We’re getting it before we leave, right?”
“If that’s what you want.” I told the team, “We’re heading for the collection room to get the egg, then we leave.”
“Copy that,” came several responses.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She didn’t need to thank me. I’d have given her the moon if she’d asked for it. But if all I had right now was one tiny egg, I’d do that first.