Crossfire Creek Siege (Hard Justice, Crossfire Creek #8)

Prologue

Gage Kellan’s top priorities were to rescue the hostages and to kick some asses that seriously needed kicking. For that to happen though, he had to stay alive.

And at the moment, staying alive was a downright iffy prospect.

Of course, the irony of that was that this wasn’t a combat field. Not some remote extraction op either. This was a place meant for training. Meant to be safe.

But it sure as hell wasn’t safe right now.

The air in the hangar hung thick with gun oil and the sweet, cloying scent of frosting. Yeah, not the usual smell in a life-or-death situation. But there it was. Pink frosting, complete with red and blue battery lights that blinked from the half-melted birthday candles below.

Those candles were tiny pulsing beacons over a cake that would never get cut. The frosting had started to sag in the heat, pooling around plastic figurines that now looked as if they were drowning in sugar.

Gage lay belly-flat along a steel ceiling beam thirty feet above the concrete floor, his upper body screaming from the effort. His shoulder was already wrecked from his last military mission six months ago, and every inch he crawled now ground fire through the muscles.

The particular beam he was balanced on was barely more than a foot wide, slick with condensation and industrial grime. One slip and he’d plummet straight into the kill zone below.

He tried to steady his breathing, tried not to think about how he hadn’t trained for this, not a live siege, not with sixteen teenagers in danger and no backup in sight.

The radio on his belt had gone dead just as the siege had started.

Whatever jamming tech these bastards were using, it was above military grade.

Probably something experimental that had worked like a charm.

“Easy,” he whispered, more to himself than to the woman behind him.

He could hear Rena Calloway’s sharp inhale, then the deliberate, quiet exhale she used no doubt when the memories started clawing at her.

He didn’t have to look back at her to know her hands were trembling, or that this darkness, the cold metal and the smell of burning insulation were dragging her back into that cockpit fire.

The one that killed her Weapons Systems Officer.

The one she still woke up screaming from.

Oh, yeah. This was a pisser for her all right, but like him, he knew her priorities were right. Save the kids. Kick some ass. And then figure out why the hell this ambush had happened.

Below them, there was movement. One of the bad guys, a thick-necked thug in full recon armor, swept through the glow of the emergency lights, rifle raised, scanning the shadows.

The thug’s gear looked custom, something out of a damn video game. Ballistic plates covered every vital area. Night vision mounted on his helmet. The rifle was an HK417 with a suppressor the size of a beer can.

Gage’s Glock suddenly felt insultingly small, like bringing a weenie weapon to an artillery shitshow.

He shifted, barely breathing, lining up his shot, calculating the angle that might get a round past the armor plate. The beam groaned softly under his weight. And he froze.

The gunman stopped. Tilted his head. Listening.

Gage’s finger hovered over the trigger. His pulse hammered in his ears. Sweat stung his eyes. The beam creaked again, metal flexing with microscopic movement, and the sound carried in the cavernous space like a whisper in a cathedral.

Then, from across the hangar, a shrill cry split the silence. A girl’s voice, quick and terrified. One of the kids. Someone had moved, or panicked, or tried to run.

The gunman’s head snapped up toward the rafters. Toward them.

“Shit,” Gage hissed.

The asshole pivoted toward the sound, weapon rising.

His boots crunched on broken glass from the skylight.

Rena reached for Gage, her fingers digging into his calf, whispering something he couldn’t hear over the sudden crack of gunfire.

The suppressor did nothing to mask the impact sounds.

Bullets chewed through the metal partition, punching fist-sized holes, sparks flying.

Someone else screamed. Then another voice joined in, younger, raw with terror. Hell, things were falling apart fast.

Two more gunmen materialized from the loading bay entrance, their rifles already up and firing. Muzzle flashes strobed the darkness. The sound was deafening, a continuous roar that turned the hangar into an echo chamber of death.

One of the kids broke cover, sprinting for the side exit. He didn’t make it far. He went down hard, sliding face-first into a tool cart that toppled with a metallic crash. Gage prayed he’d stay put. The cart wasn’t much cover, but it was far better than being out in the open.

The beam beneath Gage trembled with the vibrations.

His shoulder gave out. He slipped, catching himself with his good arm, boots scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal.

The Glock slipped from his waistband, and he watched it tumble, spinning end over end through the darkness.

It landed with a clatter directly below the lead gunman.

The man looked up.

Their eyes met across thirty feet of empty air.

And the rifle barrel swung toward Gage.