Lash (Club Sin #7)

17. The Assault

the assault

Lash

S olomon and I walk casually down the middle of the narrow dirt road for the first mile or so, chatting easily in low tones—the kind of idle chatter meant to pass the time on a march that soldiers have engaged in since humans first began forming armies.

It's a damned hot day, the air close and thick and humid, the sky heavily laden with dark, angry gray storm clouds that rumble and flash but hold their rain. The dirt under our feet is fine and dust-like, accepting our prints silently.

About halfway into the second mile, Solomon holds up a fist, calling a halt, and crouches, frowning. "So far there's only been one set of tire tracks, which I can only assume are recent, right? I mean, it rains here just about every day, which is gonna wash away older tracks." He indicates an array of boot prints. "Looks like four guys come this way, stop, and turn around."

"We are, what, a mile, a mile and a half from the estate?" I ask.

He nods, glancing at his phone. "About that, yeah."

"Then we had better get off the road," I say. "This is a recon mission, so we cannot afford to risk encountering them."

"Agreed," Solomon says. "You wanna stick together, or separate?"

"I think it will be more effective if we split up. We will cover more ground that way."

"Alright, then, I'll go right, you go left. Meet back here in thirty?"

"Excellent," I say.

I slip into the dense undergrowth, wishing I had a machete even though I know using it to clear a path would only alert any scouts or perimeter guards of my presence. No, I just have to do it the hard way. Ducking and twisting under low-hanging branches, stepping and climbing over fallen trees and tangles of branches, I make very slow progress. The undergrowth is amazingly dense, forcing me to go around dense clumps of flora. More than once, I duck under a fat, drooping leaf and dislodge a trapped palmful of water, which douses my head and runs down my back, making my shirt stick to my body.

Thunder grumbles threateningly, and lighting prowls across the sky restlessly; the scent of petrichor is thick in the air, and I know the deluge is imminent.

Only a handful of minutes later, the rain comes. It's just a noise at first, a tick-tap-hiss of plump raindrops on the canopy above, slow and desultory, just a few bold drops exploring the path past the foliage to the thirsty roots beneath the soil. And then a few more drops find the way down to plop onto my skull and dance upon my back and shoulders. And then, between one step and another, the sky unleashes a wet hell of rain so torrential it’s a silver curtain encasing the whole world. Within seconds, I'm soaked to the bone, and the sound of the rain is nearly a roar.

Which is how I almost ruin the whole plan—I can't hear them as I approach them, and so I almost stumble directly into the laps of a pair of scouts angling my way toward the road. I only see them when they're a few feet away, and the only thing that saves me is the fact that they're too busy trying to get their rain slickers on to notice me.

I throw myself to the ground and roll into the lee of a fallen tree and then shimmy further under it. The earth is pungent, the wet, rotting bark even more so, a sweet, thick smell. Something small and hard wriggles under my palm, and something else tickles over my scalp. I shudder as the insect—which I can only hope is not something venomous—crawls down my neck and, thankfully, over my shirt rather than beneath it.

The sentries get their slickers situated, grumbling in Spanish about bullshit perimeter assignments.

They continue past my hiding place on their way to the road—I assume they're making a wide circuit around the estate, looking for…well, exactly what's happening.

"Contact," I whisper into the mic. "Two tangos heading your way through the jungle."

"Copy," Solomon whispers back. "Do not engage."

"Roger," I answer back.

Once they're out of sight, I wait another minute or two, and then crawl out of my hiding spot; if possible, I'm even more soaked after laying under the log like that. Funny how you think you're as wet as you can get, and then somehow you get even wetter.

Moving slowly and pausing to listen, now, I continue my path through the jungle, and encounter no one else. Ahead, I start to see evidence of the forest thinning, and I slow my pace even more, eventually finding a spot where I can see the clearing ahead. The forest thins and then stops, becoming a hillside covered in low, dense growth of creeping vines and dense shrubs and ferns.

The hill slants sharply down into a deep ravine, which creates a remarkably effective natural barrier. While I could hit the other side of the hill with an easy underhanded toss of a stone, the sides are so sheer crossing it seems nearly impossible—I'd be almost climbing a nearly vertical face through dense undergrowth. The other side is a steep-sided plateau a few hundred feet high, an island-like miniature mountain in the middle of the jungle.

I watch for a while—on top of the plateau is the estate itself, a sprawling, single-story hacienda-style mansion, whitewashed adobe, and red terracotta roof tiles. I see figures pacing the perimeter of the plateau; after ten minutes of watching, I count eight men in pairs at regular intervals. As advertised, there is only one approach to the hacienda from the east.

I leave my spot and move east, well inside the tree line, moving slowly and cautiously, listening every few steps. Another patrol approaches me from the east, heading west; they're running concentric perimeter patrols. Again I have to wriggle my way underneath a hollow created by a fallen tree, curled up in the depression where the root ball ripped out of the earth. More creepy crawlies across my skin and over my head, including a massive, venomous centipede. I have no choice but to risk detection by throwing it off of me; getting bitten by something venomous would be catastrophic right now.

I fling the gigantic, palm-length centipede away from me into the underbrush; the rustle-thump of it hitting the ground catches the attention of the patrol; being hidden a few feet below ground level and shrouded by the dirt-clumped tendrils of the roots, I cannot see them, but I hear them whispering to each other in Spanish. I hear their steps approach my hiding spot. I hold my breath and close my eyes, not daring to so much as blink for fear that they'll see the whites of my eyes. I hear them shuffling their feet in the dirt, muttering about it just being a forest creature, and then they move away. I continue to hold my pent-up breath with my eyes closed until the sound of their passage is gone, and then I slowly release the pressure in my burning lungs.

Easing myself upright, I climb out of the hole and crouch on the edge, watching and listening. When I'm satisfied the patrol has moved on, I key my mic. "A second patrol closer to the estate, moving east to west."

"Outer patrol and inner patrol?" Solomon says.

"Affirmative."

"Copy." A pause. "I count four patrols of two men each in the estate itself."

"Confirmed—that's my count, as well," I say.

"Let's head back," Solomon commands.

"Negative," I respond. "Need a closer look at the approach."

"Copy."

So I steal back toward the road and halt in a crouch when it's within view—I wait and watch for a few minutes and then make my way parallel to the road within the trees. The approach to the estate is not good news.

It's a short bridge—the plateau the estate sits upon is actually an island, so to speak. I'd assumed there was a natural land bridge where the ravine was broken up by an intersecting ridge or something, but no.

The bridge is only thirty or so feet long, but it creates a natural choke point. Guards are posted on either end, and on the estate side of it is a fenced-off holding pen with a heavy-duty gate manned by more guards.

This is not good.

I creep back into the trees and make my way to the meeting point, where I find Solomon.

"So?" he asks. "What's the approach like?"

"Not good, Sol," I answer. "Not good at all."

I give him a thorough description of what I'd seen—the bridge, the holding pen, and the eight armed guards, two posted at either end, two in the middle, and two at the gate on the far side of the pen.

When I'm done with my report, Solomon lets out a growling sigh. "Fuck."

"Yes, indeed," I answer. "This is going to be very difficult and very hazardous. When we encountered no patrols and so few guards at Mercado's home, we should have known something was amiss."

Sol nods, scrubbing his face. "Yeah, we were a tad…confident.”

I snort. "I believe you mean to say arrogant."

"Yeah, maybe," he says. "But I feel like that's not without reason. We are all the best of the best, Nico. We can do this."

I wipe rain out the rain out of my eyes. "I agree. We just need a solid plan."

"Let's get back to the others and come up with one, then." Solomon claps me on the shoulder. "C'mon, brother."

We double-time it back to the others and report our findings. For a few moments after our report, everyone is silent, thinking.

"And that's not counting however many guys he may have inside," Kane muses. "A fuck-load of tangos."

"So then, is this just a straight-up frontal assault?" Rev asks. "I mean, the ravine, the bridge, the pen…fuck. This is gnarly. Mercado is nobody’s fool."

"No, he is not," I say. "I do not think that simply attacking the bridge is going to work. There are too many of them in a defensible position. They can just drop back to the estate and pick us off as we attempt to cross the bridge. We need to distract them. I think our plan last time was effective. Pick off the perimeter patrol as a distraction."

"Is scaling the ravine totally out of the question?" Chance asks. "I mean, I know I fuckin' can't—I'm too goddamn big to sneak up the side of anything. But Lash, you and Scarlett are sneaky and agile. You could go up the back and do some silent elimination to even the numbers a bit and then create a distraction while we hit the front."

I look at Scarlett, but she just shrugs. "I didn't see the ravine, Nico did. If he says it's scalable, I'm down to give it a shot."

I consider what I saw, sighing. "It is…possible. It will be a physically demanding climb—it is steep, with dense undergrowth. To climb it without being seen or heard…" I wince, shaking my head. "It can be done. But it is not without great risk, and will be quite difficult."

Scarlett just shrugs again. "Hey, I'm not scared of hard. Maybe you guys can take potshots at them just to draw their attention away from us."

"And then," Rev adds, “while you two are sneaking around doing murders and creating a diversion, the rest of us take the bridge."

Chance eyes his best friend. "Doing murders?"

Rev chuckles, shrugging. "Heard it on some video Myka watched. Thought it sounded funny."

Scarlett snickers. "I like it. C'mon, Nico. Let's you and me go do some murders." She holds out her fist to me, and I tap mine against it.

"Everyone on board?" Sol asks.

Tatiana raises her hand. "Um. What about me?" She scans the faces of the group. "I don't want to stay here, but I am not like you. I do not have your training or your experience. If I go with you, I am afraid I will be a liability. You cannot afford the distraction of having to babysit me."

Solomon frowns at her. "You aren't wrong. It's not a good idea for you to stay here by yourself, I agree. But you're not trained in assaults like this. I'm not worried about babysitting you, per se, more than just that I don't want to see you get hurt or killed." He holds up a finger. "Wait, hold on."

He goes to the back of the vehicle, rummages in the gear bags, and comes up with a sniper rifle. "We're looking at pretty short distances here, and despite the rain, there's not much wind. Would you feel comfortable using this from the tree line?"

Tatiana takes the rifle from him and ejects the magazine, checks the bolt action, replaces the magazine, points it away and peers through the scope, and then angles the barrel down with a nod. "Yes," she says. "I can do that."

I smile at her encouragingly. "I will help you find a good spot."

She gives me a small but determined smile and a nod. “That would be good. Thank you."

Sol claps his hands. "Alright. Scarlett, Nico, Tati, you'll need a head start. Get going while the rest of us gear up."

Solomon gives Tatiana a small box of ammunition and a couple of spare magazines; Scarlett and I check our loadouts, and then the three of us move into the forest and head for the estate.

We find a spot to hide while the patrols pass us by, and then continue. Tatiana, after the second patrol passes out of earshot, frowns at me. "What about them? Won't they hear my shots and come looking for me?"

Scarlett and I exchange looks, and then I nod. "Yes, you are right. Scarlett and I will eliminate them."

I scout the tree line around the path, looking for a good angle on the gate and bridge where she will be well hidden. After several minutes of hunting, I find a thick tree with a four-way fork where each trunk is fat and sturdy. I climb up and test it out, checking the sightline and positioning. Satisfied, I bring Tatiana to it. I crouch on the ground in the position she'll need to assume in the tree, showing her how to support the barrel on her forearm braced over her knees.

"As Sol said, there's little wind and the distance is only a couple hundred yards, so you will not need to worry about windage or drop calculations. Just put the crosshairs on your target and squeeze the trigger. You have range training, so I know you can do this."

She nods, her expression a fierce frown. "I always liked rifles more than handguns or assault rifles. I can do this, Nico. I will make you proud."

I cradle her face in my hands. "I already am, my love. You are brave and resilient. And if for any reason someone in the estate spots you and starts shooting at you, get down and find a new spot. Even on the ground, lying down. In fact, it may be a good idea to change locations every few shots, anyway. Keep your earpiece in. If someone says overwatch, that's you. Aim for center mass, not the head. Reload before you run out.”

She lets out a sharp breath with a firm nod. "I understand."

I kiss her. "It is okay to be afraid. But you will be fine." I pull back. “You have a pistol and spare mags?"

She nods. “Yes."

"Good. Keep your head on a swivel. We will take out the patrols before we go down the ravine, but do not assume you will be alone out here. Make sure you see who you are shooting at before you shoot, if anyone approaches you—it could be one of us." I let out a breath. "Okay. You can do this. I love you."

She swallows hard, eyes watering. She closes her eyes tight, breathes deeply a few times, and then opens them, the tears unshed and glistening on her eyelashes. "I can do this,” she repeats. “I love you, Nico." She pushes me backward. "Go. No more advice. Just go before I lose my nerve."

Scarlett watches her scramble up the tree and unsling the rifle from her shoulder, assuming the position I showed her, settling in.

Tatiana sees us watching and shoos us away with a flap of her hand. "You two have a role to play. Go. I will be fine."

With one last look over my shoulder, I force myself to walk away from her yet again, knowing I have no choice but to trust that she can take care of herself.

Scarlett bumps me with her shoulder. "You snagged a good one, my friend."

"She continues to amaze me," I say.

"I suppose it helps that she grew up with the father she did. Someone else may not do as well as she has," Scarlett says. "She's smart, brave, and learns fast."

I just nod. "Let's get this over with. I am tired of this jungle."

Scarlett snorts. "Buddy, you have no fucking idea. I already hiked halfway across the goddamn Amazon looking for Sol, rescuing him, and then escaping with his ass. And now here I fucking am, a- fucking -gain, in the goddamn jungle. I swear to god, if I never see this place again, as beautiful as it is, it'll be too soon."

"We are nearly there," I assure her. "Let's find these patrols and take them out."

We find the outer ring patrol easily—they're at the road, smoking cigarettes under the shelter of a tree, looking pissed off and miserable. Scarlett and I drop them with a single round to the forehead each and then pull their bodies into the brush.

The inner patrol requires more searching, however, and we stumble upon them, quite literally, by accident. They see us first and one actually manages to get his AK-47 up to bear, but I'm faster, and he drops. Scarlett takes out her man a split second later, and since we're already well off-path, we leave them where they lay. I take a radio and earpiece from one.

I key our comms. “Overwatch in place, outer patrols eliminated. Beginning our descent."

"Copy," Solomon says. "When you begin your ascent, we'll get their attention."

It is extremely slow going, sneaking down the ravine’s face. It's steep, and the undergrowth is wickedly dense. Branches catch on our clothes and weapons, scratching our faces and hands. After what feels like an eternity, we reach the bottom, panting, sweaty, and covered in scratches. We take a moment to catch our breath and then approach the ascent.

We stand side by side, peering up.

Scarlett wipes her forehead. "Fuck that, man. Down was hard enough. We have to go up that ?”

It does look much higher and steeper from here.

She rolls her shoulders and exhales. "Alright, well, nothing for it but to get after it."

We're at the rear of the property, with the lights a dim yellow glow far above us. The sound of a radio crackling reaches us, and then a voice, too faint and muffled to make out—I hear it on my radio, though.

"They're trying to contact the patrols," I say into the mic. "We're beginning our ascent."

"Copy that," Solomon says. "Wait for us to start shooting and then start up."

"Roger," I answer.

"Overwatch, pick a target and when you hear us start shooting, take your shot, and then fire at will," Solomon says over the radio.

"Okay," Tatiana answers. "Um, roger. Should I say roger or copy?"

Solomon’s voice is amused. “It doesn’t matter as long as you acknowledge somehow. We just use the terms we’re familiar with.”

"Okay," She says, and leaves it at that.

A few seconds later, I hear a three-round burst and a faint cry of pain. That first burst sets off a barrage as the crew unleashes hell from across the ravine. The return fire is immediate and heavy, with overlapping silences as our side finds new positions to make it seem like there are more of us than there are.

CRACK! Tatiana's rifle speaks, a loud, sharp report layering over the chatter of the automatics.

"Overwatch, call out your kills," Solomon commands. "Just say confirmed kill or something like that."

"Okay," she murmurs into the radio. CRACK! "Confirmed kill. My first was a kill also."

"Two for two," Scarlett remarks to me. “Not bad."

"Ascending," I say into the radio. "I hope she remembers to change locations." The last part was just to Scarlett.

We begin our grueling climb. The grade is only a few degrees off vertical, so we have to pull ourselves up by branches and bushes, some of which come loose as we pull, necessitating a scramble to keep from toppling backward.

CRACK ! "Three," Tatiana says.

More automatic fire. Chatter crackles from our comms as the team coordinates movement. Panicked chatter swarms the enemy comms—they have no idea how many there are, and the chatter is mostly concerned with trying to locate the sniper.

"You are doing excellent work, overwatch,” I say. "They are afraid of you."

"I've got four tangos making a break for the bridge,” Rev says. "Overwatch, take them out, and fast." I worry that they’re expecting too much from Tatiana.

I can just barely see the far side of the bridge from my location, and I pause to watch. I see four figures sprinting, stopping, and sprinting down the length of the bridge.

CRACK!…CRACK!…CRACK!…CRACK!

"Four confirmed,” Tatiana says.

The four figures are now slumped on the bridge in a line.

"Damn, girl," Chance says. “That was some stellar fuckin' shooting.”

"I suppose I should be grateful my father insisted I shoot every week," she answers. "I never in a million years thought I would be doing this."

Scarlett and I are only halfway up. She taps me. "We gotta move. Eventually, someone is gonna get across that bridge."

"You are correct," I answer. "We must double time it."

Up is much, much harder than down. My lungs burn and my legs ache, and my hands and forearms sting with a crisscross of scratches. There is nothing else to do, however, but keep going. The whole plan relies on us, so we must simply grit through it.

It is an agonizingly brutal climb to the top. We reach it at long last, and slump, huffing and puffing, in the brush just below the rim, waiting for the patrol to pass before emerging so we aren't surprised by them.

Once they pass us, we slip out onto the short, rain-slick grass behind them. With a glance at each other, we count to three and then put slugs through the back of their heads and then topple them down the ravine—the bodies flip and bounce and roll with a series of loud crashes.

Which no one notices over the gunfire.

We jog forward and encounter another pair approaching us—they see us and immediately open fire. We both go prone the second we see them raising their AK-47s; their rounds go high and ours do not.

"They scaled the side!" someone shouts on the enemy comms. “Rear of the property." The speaker calls out half a dozen names and tells them to handle it.

"It's working," Solomon reports. "Half a dozen tangos just peeled off and headed your way."

"I have reloaded and I am moving locations," Tatiana says.

"Copy," Solomon says. "Be quick. We're going to assault soon and we'll need you. Keep your scope on us and watch for anyone approaching from behind or on our flank. Use the clock—do you know it?"

"Yes. Twelve o'clock is front, six is rear. So I would say bad guy on your four o'clock or something like this, no?"

"Use the word tango," Sol says. "Otherwise, yes."

“Tango? Like the dance?"

"Correct."

"Roger."

Scarlett and I sprint for the hacienda's wall, following it forward toward the entrance. A large air conditioning condenser hums noisily. We take cover behind it, and I peek around the side—three male figures jog this way, carrying assault rifles.

We wait until they're nearly on top of us before we send bursts in tandem over the top of the condenser. They're thrown backward by the impacts, momentum making them topple and roll awkwardly. The chatter on the enemy comms has ceased abruptly, which means they've likely switched to a new channel. I ignore that as we continue toward the main entrance of the house. We reach the front corner and halt, I peek around the side and assess.

The gate is no longer manned, and the bridge is littered with bodies. Tatiana’s rifle cracks again, and again. An assault rifle on this side chatters.

"I am taking fire. Moving," Tatiana says.

I peek out and see the flash of muzzle burst. I put three rounds a few inches behind the burst and hear a soft grunt.

"Approaching the bridge," Solomon announces. "Overwatch, do you have eyes on us?"

"Not…yet," she puffs. "One…moment."

Several figures rush out of the entrance of the hacienda, kneel at the gate of the pen, and open fire. Our side returns fire, but everyone's rounds go high or wide.

"In…position," Tatiana says, out of breath still. "I see you."

"We're taking fire," Solomon says.

"I have them," Tatiana answers.

Scarlett and I trade glances, and then roll out from behind the cover of the corner, opening fire. The figures twitch and spin and lurch as our rounds hit them, and then the rifle cracks and another one falls backward. We retreat back behind the corner. A minute or so later, there's the crump of explosives as the bridge gate is blown open.

The rain has let up, finally, leaving the air a bit cooler and noticeably less humid, with a soft breeze blowing. It is fully night now, the last of the daylight having bled beneath the horizon. I peek out and see our crew jogging across the blacktop that leads from the bridge in a straight line to the courtyard of the hacienda.

I hear the crackle-chatter of an assault rifle behind me and something hot snaps past my ear. I spin and drop to a knee, jerking Scarlett down with me. The other three tangos must have circled the structure looking for us; only the fact that the shooter had poor aim saved my life. Bullets buzz and snap and whine, and we crabwalk behind the AC unit—thunks and dings echo as rounds hit the unit. One punches through and I hear a crunching grind as the unit shuts down.

They have us pinned down, working in trained concert to keep suppressive fire directed at us. "Overwatch, do you see us? Behind the A-C unit."

"No, I do not have an angle from where I am."

"Okay," I answer. "Stay where you are, then.”

I have one grenade clipped to my vest. I meant to grab more but forgot—a foolish thing to forget in a situation like this. But, one is enough for now. I pull the pin, peek around the side to judge the distance, and then hook-toss the grenade.

While it is in the air, they pour more fire at us, and a round punches through the A/C unit and hits me in the vest. Its momentum is slowed enough that it only feels like being kicked by a horse rather than punched by a god. My chest will be a mess of bruising, later.

I'm thrown backward to my back, left gasping and blinking at the cloud-dark sky, hearing gunfire and voices in my ear.

Crump-BOOOM !

The grenade detonates with an earth-shaking roar, and the gunfire goes silent.

Scarlett's face swims into view above me. "You good, bro?"

I grab her hand, let her haul me up to my feet, and then bend over to suck in oxygen, nodding. "Took one to the vest. I am okay."

After another moment or two to catch my breath, I reload and follow Scarlett around the corner. We're just in time to join the rest of the team at the gate as Kane places the breaching chargers on the gate. The explosion shakes the ground, and the gate flies apart with an ear-piercing shriek of protesting metal. Solomon is first through, and we form up on him.

The courtyard is wide and blacktopped, and empty of cars. All is peculiarly silent.

"Not saying this has been easy," Kane mutters, "But this feels too easy yet a-fuckin’-gain. Something's up."

I sweep the roofline but see nothing. Ahead, the main doors into the hacienda stand closed. Solomon approaches, standing to one side. Chance approaches, rears back, and kicks it open, ducking out of the way the second the door splinters open.

Just in time—gunfire blatters concussively, and we all throw ourselves to the side as rounds chainsaw across the ground and bite into the doorway and shatter glass.

Rev lobs a flashbang inside, and we all turn away and plug our ears—the detonation leaves our ears ringing and white lights dancing in our vision. Kane fills the doorway and his rifle barks in a series of three-round bursts.

He gestures at me and at the doorway, indicating I should precede him through.

Scarlett grabs my shoulder and follows me through the doorway; several bodies lay writhing on the floor, bleeding from legs and shoulders onto the elaborate blue, white, and yellow Spanish-style tile of the foyer. Inside is cool and airy, the walls more white-washed adobe, with nooks built into the walls housing vases and other decorative knickknacks.

The foyer opens to a wide, high-ceilinged hallway extending left and right, arches marching in both directions. Directly opposite the foyer on the far side of the arched hallway is an open-air courtyard with a blossoming orange tree heavy with fruit, the tree surrounded by elegant wrought iron benches; small, low-to-the-ground lights bathe the tree in a soft amber glow. To the left, the hallway leads to the library; to the right, the kitchen and den.

"Must be in the basement," Saxon says.

"Find the basement, then,” Solomon orders.

We split up into pairs and clear the house—other than the small contingent left to die in the foyer, there's no sign of anyone else.

“Found it!" Silas calls out over the comms. "Kitchen."

We all converge on the door, which is locked.

Chance chose the Benelli shotgun I claimed, and he uses it to blast open the door. Gunfire echoes and slugs splinter through the lintel and doorframe and chew at the ceiling. A round hits Chance in the chest and knocks him backward, and that backward stumble saves his life as another buzzes through the air where he was.

He drops to a knee, hand on his chest, gasping.

Saxon, Silas, and Rev all fill the doorway, pouring fire down the stairs.

“Well, fuck," Saxon growls. “He ducked into my round and took it to the fuckin' head, the dumbfuck."

"I think that was mine," Silas argues.

Solomon whacks them both. "Shut the fuck up, both of you. He’s dead. Let's move on. We gotta find Inez and get the fuck out of here." He rests a hand on Chance's massive back. “You good, man?"

Chance nods, straightening to stretch his torso, wincing. "Good. Let's go. Fuck these fuckers."

The stairwell abandons the Spanish Hacienda style in favor of modern, utilitarian plain white drywall and simple wall sconces.

Down we go, Saxon in the lead, now, with Silas on his left and Sol on his right in a tight triangle formation. The stairs go down to a landing, where the shooter now slumps over himself, drooling blood from a hole in his forehead into his lap. Blood is splattered on the wall, sprinkled with pink chunks. At the landing, the stairs turn left and descend again, reaching a squeaky, black-and-white checkered epoxy floor and drop-tile ceilings with LED lights. A bar runs the length of the basement on the right side, with the usual assortment of basement features—a pool table, couches, and a gigantic flat-screen TV.

A door on the left is closed—Rev stands beside it, and Chance kicks it open. A bathroom, empty. Another door leads to a wine cellar—a brick barrel vault ceiling with built-in wooden racks containing hundreds of bottles of wine. Solomon grabs one and appraises it with a critical eye. "Expensive."

Saxon snorts, rolling his eyes. "You think a man who spends thousands of dollars a year just in rubber bands for his cash is gonna have cheap-ass fuckin' wine? C'mon, bro."

"Shut the fuck up, ass-wipe," Solomon says without looking at his brother. "We're missing something."

We search the basement again, but there are no other doors. Scarlett and I do another search of the main floor again, this one more thorough, but it turns up nothing except expensive taste.

"There is something happening in the forest," Tatiana says across the comms. "It sounds like a helicopter."

"From the forest ?" Sol asks.

"Yes, from the forest. To the behind of the house."

"I found a secret door," Silas says over comms. "In the wine cellar."

There's a lot of shouting from the basement, none of it over comms—Scarlett and I run downstairs, caroming off walls in our haste.

We stumble into the wine cellar, where a section of the brick wall pivots away to reveal a small chamber lit by a single naked bulb.

Suspended by chains from the ceiling is Inez.

Her face is a bloody mess, she's naked, bruised, and limp. Her toes brush the concrete floor as she sways and twists slightly.

We're all huddled just inside the chamber, silent.

Rev is the first to move toward her, his hand shaking as he presses his index and middle fingers to her pulse point at her throat.

One eye snaps open, blazing black, and she levers upright, bare, bloody legs wrapping around Rev's throat—the move is faster than a cobra's strike.

"It's—me—" Rev gurgles, patting her thigh. "Inez—Inez! It's me."

Her swollen eye blinks, seems to clear, and then she abruptly releases him. "Took you long enough." Her voice is a hoarse, gurgling, lisping rasp.