CHAPTER 34 Declan
The heavy steel shutters sealing the living room eliminate all ambient moonlight, plunging the house into a flawless, suffocating black.
To a normal man, the darkness is a sensory deprivation tank. It breeds panic. It strips away spatial awareness and forces the brain to invent threats in the shadows.
But I am not a normal man, and this is my house. I know the exact distance from the kitchen island to the hallway. I know the precise thickness of the stone fireplace where Maeve is currently crouching. I know the structural tolerance of the reinforced glass behind the steel shutters.
The dark room instantly transforms into a crisp, monochromatic green landscape.
I step silently toward the narrow, half-inch horizontal slit in the steel shutter covering the side window. I angle the barrel of the rifle, peering through the gap onto the wooden deck outside.
Four thermal signatures are moving across the wood. They are clustered tight, stacking up directly in front of the primary glass doors. They are moving with disciplined, tactical precision, their weapons raised. One of them steps forward, pulling a heavy, rectangular package from his chest rig.
Breaching charges.
They intend to blow the steel shutter off its tracks and flood the living room.
I do not give them the opportunity to set the detonator.
I align the green crosshairs of the optic directly over the center mass of the man holding the explosive. I exhale, letting the air leave my lungs completely, and squeeze the trigger.
The suppressed rifle spits a sharp, mechanical crack .
The 5.56mm armor-piercing round punches cleanly through the narrow slit in the steel shutter, shatters the reinforced glass behind it, and hits the operative square in the chest.
He drops instantly, the heavy breaching charge slipping from his hands and hitting the wooden deck with a dull thud.
The remaining three men scatter immediately, shouting in panicked Spanish. They expected a dark, empty house. They expected to blow the doors and execute whoever was cowering inside. They did not expect precise, suppressed fire coming from an invisible angle.
They open fire blindly.
A hail of automatic gunfire tears into the front of the house.
The heavy caliber rounds slam against the steel shutters with a deafening, relentless hammering sound.
Sparks shower the deck outside. A few rounds manage to find the narrow slits, punching through the glass and biting into the drywall and slate floor of the living room.
I drop to a crouch, moving laterally away from the window.
"Maeve," I call out, my voice low and sharp, cutting through the deafening noise of the gunfire.
"I'm down!" her voice echoes from behind the massive stone hearth. It is tight with fear, but it doesn't waver. She is holding her position.
The gunfire outside stops abruptly. They are reloading.
"They are shifting flanks," I state, tracking their thermal signatures as they move away from the fatal funnel of the front door. "Two moving toward the kitchen entrance. One holding the perimeter."
I leave the living room, moving silently down the short corridor that connects to the kitchen.
The kitchen door is solid wood, reinforced with a steel core, but it does not have the drop-down shutters. It is the weakest point in the architectural defense.
I press my back against the wall beside the refrigerator, lowering the rifle. In close quarters, the long barrel is a liability. It provides an enemy with a lever to manipulate my center of gravity. I let the M4 hang by its tactical sling and draw the heavy combat knife from my chest webbing.
I wait.
The lock on the kitchen door clicks. A faint scratching sound follows as a lock-pick is inserted into the deadbolt. They are trying to be quiet. They are trying to slip in through the side while the man on the deck keeps my attention focused on the front.
The deadbolt disengages with a heavy clack .
The wooden door swings open inward.
A beam of harsh white light from a weapon-mounted flashlight cuts through the darkness of the kitchen, sweeping across the marble island and the stainless steel appliances.
The first operative steps over the threshold, his rifle raised, his eyes tracking the beam of light.
He doesn't look at the dark corner beside the refrigerator.
I step out of the shadows, moving inside the arc of his weapon.
I grab the hot barrel of his rifle with my left hand, shoving it violently upward toward the ceiling.
The movement tears the scarred tissue in my shoulder instantly.
A blinding, white-hot flash of agony rips through my bicep, but I lock my jaw, refusing to release the grip.
The operative gasps, his finger pulling the trigger reflexively. A burst of automatic fire shreds the ceiling plaster, raining white dust down on both of us.
Before he can correct his stance, I drive the combat knife upward, sinking the serrated blade deep into the soft, unprotected gap beneath his jaw.
He goes completely rigid, the rifle slipping from his hands. I twist the blade and pull it free, letting his body drop heavily to the linoleum floor.
The second operative is standing on the porch just outside the door. He sees his partner fall and raises his weapon, shouting a warning.
I don't have time to raise the M4. I don't have the leverage to throw the knife.
I lunge forward, grabbing the heavy wooden door, and slam it shut with my right hand just as the man opens fire.
The heavy caliber rounds punch through the wood, splintering the door frame. One of the bullets grazes the heavy ceramic plate of my tactical vest, the kinetic impact knocking the breath out of my lungs and throwing me backward.
I hit the edge of the marble island hard, my lower back absorbing the collision. I slide to the floor, gasping for air, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
The man outside kicks the splintered door. It shudders, the broken hinges groaning under the force.
He is going to breach.
I force myself up onto one knee, my left arm hanging uselessly at my side, the blood pouring freely from my torn shoulder, soaking the black fabric of my shirt. I draw the Glock 19 from my thigh holster with my right hand.
The wooden door bursts open, hanging by a single, twisted hinge.
The operative steps into the doorway, his rifle leveled at my chest.
I raise the handgun and fire twice.
The first round shatters the tactical flashlight mounted on his weapon, plunging the kitchen back into absolute darkness. The second round hits him perfectly between the eyes.
He falls backward onto the porch, dead before he hits the wood.
The house falls silent again.
I stay on one knee, my chest heaving, listening to the drip of my own blood hitting the floor. Three men down. One left on the front deck.
A sudden, violent explosion rocks the entire foundation of the house.
It isn't a breaching charge on a door. It is a massive, concussive blast that shakes the slate tiles and shatters the remaining glass behind the steel shutters in the living room.
I push myself off the floor, stumbling slightly as a wave of dizziness hits me.
"Maeve!" I shout, abandoning noise discipline entirely.
I run out of the kitchen, sprinting down the hallway toward the living room.
The front of the house is a disaster. The lone operative on the deck didn't use a breaching charge on the door. He used a heavy thermite explosive on the structural anchor of the steel shutter itself.
The massive steel plate has buckled inward, torn half off its tracks. Moonlight and thick, acrid gray smoke are pouring into the living room through the gaping hole.
The operative is stepping through the ruined window frame. He is wearing heavy armor, a gas mask covering his face, and he is holding a tactical shotgun.
He isn't looking at the hallway. He is looking directly at the stone fireplace in the center of the room.
He sees the edge of Maeve’s gray t-shirt where she is crouched behind the stone.
"Hey!" I roar, raising the Glock.
The man ignores me. He knows I am too far away to guarantee a kill shot through the heavy armor before he can pull the trigger. He raises the shotgun, aiming it at the edge of the fireplace, preparing to fire a spread of buckshot that will tear through the drywall and hit her.
My heart stops. The cold, clinical machine inside my head completely dies, replaced by a pure, blinding terror that I have never felt in my entire existence.
I am not going to make it in time.
I pull the trigger, firing wildly as I sprint across the room, but the rounds spark harmlessly against the heavy ceramic plates on his back.
The operative racks the shotgun.
Before he can fire, a figure steps out from behind the stone fireplace.
Maeve doesn't cower. She doesn't scream.
She steps directly into the moonlight, her bare feet planted firmly on the dust-covered floor. She is holding the heavy Glock I gave her with both hands. Her arms are shaking, her face is pale with absolute terror, but her eyes are open.
She points the weapon directly at the center of the man’s chest and pulls the trigger.
The loud, sharp crack of the handgun echoes in the ruined room.
She doesn't stop. She pulls the trigger again. And again.
Three rounds.
The first two hit the heavy ceramic plate on his chest, staggering him backward, throwing his aim off. The shotgun blasts a hole into the vaulted wooden ceiling, showering the room in splinters.
The third round hits the operative in the unprotected gap of his throat, right below the edge of the gas mask.
Blood sprays across the broken glass. The man drops the shotgun, his hands flying up to his neck, and collapses onto the ruined deck outside.
He twitches once, and then goes completely still.
The silence that follows is heavier than the gunfire.