Chapter Sixty-One
The Anderson Family Home
Portland, Maine
Mia Hernandez was pissed off. Nothing had gone according to plan.
She was certain Nelson was still alive. Maybe he was already bleeding out, but maybe not.
She knew her shot hadn’t been lethal. Richard Anderson had gone down, too, but whether he was dead or just waiting to shoot again, she didn’t know.
At least he’d stopped firing at her. For now.
I have to retake the initiative.
But that was easier said than done because Henry was off comms. She’d heard unsuppressed gunfire coming from inside the house. That meant it wasn’t Henry who’d fired those shots. Still, none of it changed the mission. She had to push forward, no matter the cost.
That’s what Operations wanted, right?
But what about the Fisherman? Would he want her to go in alone?
Stop questioning everything. Move, Mia! Move!
Time wasn’t on her side. The neighbors would have heard the shots too. Police were surely already on their way. Her ears were ringing like crazy because of the shots fired by Anderson, so it was possible she simply couldn’t hear the sirens.
I’ve got to end this. Fast.
She rose to her feet, ignoring the throb in her shoulder, and ran toward the stairs. She started up, climbing the steps one by one, her arms extended in front of her, her pistol steady in her hands. Halfway up, her sixth sense flared, screaming at her to retreat. She ignored it.
Then she saw movement in front of her, but because she was still midway up the stairs, she only saw Liesel Bergmann’s upper half as she hurled herself across the deck. Mia fired three times in quick succession, and the glass of the patio doors shattered. But Bergmann had already vanished from view.
Shit. She’s going for the weapon. Move!
Mia took another step, then a volley of gunfire erupted above her. Mia had nowhere to go, so she did the only thing she could. She ducked and flattened herself against the steps, but the shots weren’t aimed at her, and the rounds passed harmlessly over her head.
They’re meant to keep me pinned down.
The shooting stopped. And then silence.
Either Bergmann’s magazine had run dry or her business on the deck—retrieving a weapon, or a body—was done.
She raised herself slightly until she was in a crouch, her breath coming in long, deliberate draws to ensure her brain was fully oxygenated.
Only her eyes and the barrel of her suppressed pistol crept above the lip of the deck.
She wasn’t about to give Bergmann a clean shot in case she was waiting for her.
Richard Anderson was still there. He was flat on his back, his eyes closed. Unmoving. But Bergmann and Nelson were gone. She tried to raise Henry on the comms again, but she got no answer. Either Henry had lost his earbud . . . or he was dead.
And that possibility settled like ice in her lungs. Not because she cared about him, but because assaulting a house on her own without the element of surprise was pure suicide.
Fuck Mpassi. Fuck Henry. I’m out of here. The Fisherman will understand, and he’s the only one I really care about.
Before she started down the steps, though, she brought her pistol in line with Richard Anderson’s head. He was going to be her consolation prize. She was about to put a security round through his left eye when she saw it.
A glint of metal in his right hand. A small silver revolver with a concealed hammer.
Her brain registered the gun as a Smith & Wesson 640, a five-shot snub-nosed revolver. Before she could do anything else, let alone finish the trigger pull she had started, a burst of light exploded in front of her.
A crushing, hammering force punched through her teeth, driving her backward and down the stairs.