36
Kellen released the safety on her pistol and cautiously approached the cottage Temo shared with Adrian. She climbed the stairs, put her head to the door…
Inside, she heard a burst of sound: men shouting, a girl crying.
She used her pass card and slammed into the room to find four pairs of eyes fixed on her: Adrian; a Hispanic guy with dyed blond hair who was writhing on the floor, holding his bleeding thigh; Temo himself, hard-eyed and furious, pointing his pistol at the door…and a preteen Hispanic girl who had to be Temo’s sister.
Whatever Kellen had expected, this wasn’t it.
Without hesitation, Temo lowered his pistol. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing?”
“My sister… I brought her back here to live with me. My mother went to prison for drug use, and this bastard was planning to sell Regina to work the streets.”
“I’m her stepfather!” Mr. Dyed Hair shouted.
Temo pointed his pistol at him. “Chulo! Pimp! You never married my mother. You’ve got no rights to my sister as a parent or guardian.”
“No!” Regina screamed. “Don’t make me go back with him!”
Temo paced toward the guy on the floor. “If I killed you and dumped you off the cliff, no one here would know or care.”
The tense situation explained so much about Temo and Adrian and their recent suspicious activities—but this had nothing to do with smuggling and murder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Kellen asked.
Temo struggled for words. He gestured. He looked hopeless and defiant. “I can’t work all the time, take care of the resort like I promised. Regina’s eleven. She’s been abused and neglected. And…she’s eleven.”
He gave her age twice, as if it should tell Kellen everything—and in a way, it did.
He said, “She needs me. I have to be here for her.”
“Temo, I understand. Annie will understand.” Kellen was incredulous. “I told you I’d talk to her. Why would you think keeping your sister here would be a problem?”
“Mitch said—”
“That lousy bastard.” Mitch had misled Temo—and Kellen. Sucker and lousy, distrustful friend that she was, she had fallen for it. Mitch hadn’t been around long enough to be the Librarian, but he certainly could be one of the assistants. Had he been involved in the fight the night before? He showed no obvious signs of damage, but that meant nothing. He was a good fighter and an excellent survivor. Maybe all his injuries were hidden beneath his clothes.
“I told you so, Temo,” Adrian said. “I told you Mitch was full of shit.”
“Thank you, Adrian, for the testimonial.” She holstered her pistol. “Guys, don’t worry—we’ll deal about Regina.” She looked at Regina. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”
The girl trembled and nodded.
“As for him—” Kellen gestured at Mr. Dyed Hair and his bloody leg “—I don’t care if you shoot him and drop him off the cliff. But clean up the mess afterward.”
The pimp gave a howl of objection.
Like she cared. “Guys, when you can, I need help at the resort.”
“We’ll be there as soon as we handle him.” Temo waved his gun at the pimp. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
Adrian focused on Kellen. “What kind of problems are we talking, Captain?”
She said, “Be prepared for ambush, deadly force, sabotage. Trust no one.”
“Captain, you might put a cap on.” Adrian removed his and tossed it to her.
She pulled it on, nodded at Temo’s sister, whirled and ran for her ATV.
Behind her, someone slammed the door closed.
She liked to think they were going to kill the pimp. Probably not, but a guy who preyed on desperate women and little girls would be no loss to the world.
And talk about no loss to the world… Mitch Nyugen and his boss, the Librarian, Nils Brooks. From the start, she had been suspicious of Nils: his art degree, his CIA connections, the re-formation of the MFAA. Yet she’d done her research, knowing full well he could have the capacity to change internet reality.
Nils Brooks was the leader who had organized the destruction of world archaeology sites for profit. Wealthy collectors paid him to destroy history and sell it to them. He made money. He killed his people to assure their cooperation. He cut off their hands. She had believed that Nils Brooks had been hurt helping Mr. Gilfilen. What a joke. He’d been hurt attacking Mr. Gilfilen. Nils Brooks was the Librarian.
As she drove toward the resort, she called the security center.
The connection crackled and failed.
She didn’t believe this was a natural outage. Not tonight. Rain fell, but this wasn’t a big storm; this wasn’t numbing cold, blasting wind or sleet. This was far too convenient. Someone had sabotaged the resort’s communications network. The CB radio in Annie’s office would work to call in outside help—but she didn’t have time to wait.
As she drove, she planned her rescue of Carson Lennex. She needed help. She needed someone at her back, so she veered for the maintenance garage. She used her pass card to open the door and stuck her head in. Lights were on, but dim. So the electricity was out and everything was running on generator. One of the resort’s working pickup trucks, a Ford F-250 crew cab, sat over the hydraulic lift, waiting to be raised and its oil changed. From the back of the shop, she heard the clink of tools. “Birdie!” she called. “Grab your pistol and your Kevlar vest. I need your help!”
No answer.
She frowned and stepped inside. “Birdie?”
Someone gave a muffled scream. A warning.
Kellen dived to the floor, aiming for the pickup, skidding along the concrete.
A bullet slammed into the door where she’d been standing. She’d walked into an ambush.
She low-crawled to the pickup and took cover under it.
Silence.
Where was Birdie? That was her scream, Kellen knew.
Who was shooting?
Who was capable of disabling the communications network?
The same guy who had fixed the last outage. Mitch. Mitch was working for the Librarian.
She unsnapped her side holster, click-released the safety on her pistol, slid it back in place.
What had he done to Birdie? She was hurt, maybe dying. She needed help, and only Kellen could get it for her.
“Mitch, this is stupid.” Kellen spoke calmly, persuasively, while with all her stealth, she slid along the floor, keeping well under the protection of the vehicle, moving from her current position to one closer to the back of the shop, trying to figure out a strategy. A tool chest stood there, great for defensive positioning. Lots of metal, lots of tools inside. On wheels, but nobody ever moved a filled tool chest easily. “This can’t end well for you.”
From the back wall, she heard Mitch’s soft laugh. “No, Captain, it can’t end well for you. I’ve got orders to eliminate you. You know too much. You see too much.” Reflectively, he added, “I did say you would be a problem.”
He walked forward, his boots smacking the concrete and echoing around the steel-frame structure. She knew without looking he had his firearm out, grasped in both hands, pointed at the pickup. She also knew where he was headed—for the hydraulic lift controls. All he had to do was raise that vehicle and she would be revealed. The man was a warrior, trained by the US Army; a Kevlar vest wasn’t going to save her.
But she was a warrior, too, trained by the same fighting force, and she wouldn’t die here with so much undone, so much of her past life to reveal and so much of her future to live. Beneath her, metal plates covered the old, no-longer-in-use grease pit. Painstakingly, she dragged one aside, careful to make only the barest of noises.
He heard, of course. She’d meant him to. “Climbing in there’s not going to save you.” He sounded so smugly superior. “What are you thinking, Captain?”
She was thinking that for one vital second after he activated the lift and started lifting the vehicle, he’d be looking down at the pit instead of up at the truck. She reached up into the body of the pickup and slid her right elbow around the drive train. She braced both feet on the rear axel and pulled herself up flat against the undercarriage.
He found the controls.
With a high metallic moan, the lift started up, slowly, dragging power from the generator.
Two feet.
With her left hand, she fumbled for her pistol. She was a good shot—with her right hand. But the pickup faced into the garage and the controls were on the right wall. No choice.
Four feet.
She would do what she had to do. Shoot with her left hand. Make each shot count. She held herself up against the vehicle and perfectly still. She saw Mitch’s feet, legs, waist. He walked toward the grease pit, his pistol and his gaze pointed down. Like her, he would be wearing a Kevlar vest. So—his belly and his head: her targets. She swung her weight onto her right elbow. Aimed at his abdomen.
Six feet.
Her motion caught his attention. He looked up, realized he’d been suckered, lifted his pistol.
Kellen shot. Missed. Damn that left hand!
Seven feet.
At its full extension, the lift ground to a halt.
She was exposed, hanging above him like a piñata.
He aimed.
She shot again. Blew a hole in his thigh.
His shot went wide. He screamed in agony, crumpled to his knee.
She shot, hit his chest.
The impact caught him square on the Kevlar vest, knocking him onto his back. In one smooth motion, he rolled and flipped, raised furious red-rimmed eyes to her, supported his gun hand with his other hand and aimed.
She prepared to drop, knowing she could never outrun a bullet shot by a master marksman.
From above, something large and square slammed down on his head, knocking him flat. Knocking him unconscious.
What? A cardboard box. He’d been hit by a cardboard box. Car manuals spilled out, dozens of them, thick, heavy, leather and paper and weight.
From the loft above, Birdie said, “Take that, you bastard.” Her voice was no more than a croak.
Kellen stashed her pistol, supported herself with both hands and swung her feet down. She landed flat-footed and ready to fight.
Mitch was unmoving, a pool of blood beneath his thigh.
With her pistol in her right hand and her left hand supporting her aim, she approached him.
None of her guys should ever be underestimated.
Still in that hoarse voice, Birdie said, “The box was full of old car manuals. Probably weighed forty pounds. He’s not getting up.”
With her foot, Kellen pushed the box off Mitch’s back.
His neck was crooked sideways.
Kellen felt for his carotid artery.
No pulse.
“You broke his neck.” Kellen looked up at Birdie.
“Good for me.” Birdie used the handrail to lower herself to the loft’s metal mesh floor. “Because he damned near killed me.”
A drop of blood splatted on the floor beside Kellen.
The right side of Birdie’s face was split open, bruised and shiny like a ripe eggplant.
Kellen holstered her pistol, grabbed the first aid kit off the wall and ran up the stairs. She knelt beside Birdie. “What did he do?”
“Came in all friendly. I turned my back. He smacked me on the side of the head with a tire iron.” Birdie’s cheek was swelling so fast one eye was shut and she spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Dragged me up here while I was half-conscious. I fought. He gagged me, tied me up. He knew you’d be coming for help, but you got here too soon, before he thoroughly secured me. Thank God. He went after you and I screamed through the gag. I spent too much time getting myself free. I’m sorry, Captain. Dropping that box on him was the best I could do.”
Kellen supported Birdie and helped her recline, inch by inch. “You killed him. What else do you want to do to him?”
“Torture. Hot needles under his fingernails.” Birdie closed her one eye. “Did you call 911?”
“I can’t. Mitch cut us off from the world.” Kellen pressed a gauze pad to Birdie’s head to staunch the bleeding and used a roll of gauze to hold it in place.
Birdie’s eye opened. “Then I will attempt to survive this night. Wrap me warm. Put a pillow under my head.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Kellen snapped, but she wasn’t really snapping at Birdie. She was trying to explain…
“You’ve got to leave me. You’ve got to go finish this.” Birdie took a breath. “Blanket. Pillow. Go.”
Kellen had never abandoned a fallen comrade before. Not on any tour of any place in the world. But she had to leave Birdie. She stripped the blankets off Birdie’s cot and gently wrapped her, rolled her so she was cocooned in warmth. She lifted Birdie’s head and deftly slid the pillow beneath her. She pressed a kiss on the least-swollen side of Birdie’s head and whispered, “Stay alive. I’ll be back. Stay alive.”
“I’ll try.” But Birdie’s voice was less than a wheeze, and she didn’t move.
Kellen ran down the stairs, stopped by Mitch and touched his cheek. He was already cooling. It had been the fast, brutal passing that he deserved. But damn. He’d been her comrade in battle. She died a little inside to know he was gone.
Then, ruthlessly practical, she reloaded her pistol, placed it in her holster. As backup, she found his firearm, reloaded it and stored it in her boot.
She had no way to call for help, no time to find Max for help. She was alone.