Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7) by Andrew Peterson
Reacting quickly, the smaller male agent bolted toward their vehicles.
The other agent rushed over to the woman’s side. El Lobo fired three more shots and saw the sand explode with each arrival. Crap. Clean misses.
You’re brave, I’ll grant you that, but I’ll bet you need a change of underwear.
The agent hauled the woman up from the ground and began an all-out sprint for the trees.
He sent more bullets at the two of them, then eased the rifle left, aiming at the smaller agent, who was already weaving back and forth as he ran. His shots missed, and he couldn’t tell if they were left or right of the target. The distance was also increasing, so he had to hold a little higher to make the correction.
El Lobo was an excellent shooter, but he didn’t have world-class skill, and the wind had begun to gust unpredictably. It would be a whole lot easier if the man carrying the park ranger had run due north, rather than laterally toward the west. He wondered if that had been intentional or just dumb luck.
At this distance, shooting at a laterally moving object meant you had to shoot out in front of it—at a spot it hadn’t yet reached. He knew it took the bullet about 1.3 seconds to travel nine hundred meters. El Lobo thought his target was moving about three meters per second. That meant he had to lead the running man by four meters or so. The bullet and flesh would then converge on the same location. In the purest sense of the physics, the Border Patrol agent would quite literally run into the bullet’s path.
He moved the crosshairs to a spot in front of the agent and gently squeezed the trigger. After the kick, he was able to reacquire the target in time to see the sand explode. He’d missed again. Good thing Quattro couldn’t see this, but he didn’t beat himself up for missing. The primary mission had already been accomplished.
Screw it, he thought, and began pulling the trigger as fast as he could.
Hank Grangeland found himself in a shooting gallery. The cadence of the arriving slugs increased by a factor of four. The sand began detonating all around him as miniature sonic booms pounded his ears in a relentless barrage. He knew the shooter was unloading his magazine in an attempt to score a lucky hit, and right now, Hank didn’t like his odds. The effect wasn’t merely distracting; every time the sand burst upward in front of him, he had to narrow his eyes, making it harder to see the ground. This stuff wasn’t Hawaiian beach sand. Every arriving bullet blasted fine powder, pebbles, rocks, and grit into the air. He was at serious risk of falling. If that happened, he might never get back up. He tried to find a positive side to this madness. Because it was so damned dry out here, the resulting dust surrounding him worked in his favor, partially obscuring him from the sniper.
“How you doing, TR?” he said between heaving breaths.
“I’m okay. Keep . . . going.”
“Almost there.”
With no choice, he kept running. The trees were still fifty yards away, but each stride put him a yard and a half closer. Thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-one. The countdown to cover. He hoped to run out of steps before the shooter ran out of bullets. The distant booms of the discharges mixed with the arriving cracks created an unnerving drum beat. Crack. Boom. Crack. Boom. Over and over, bullets pulverized the earth around him. Sooner or later, one of those miniature artillery shells was going to find him.
He heard it then—the roar of an engine. Looking left, he caught a glimpse of a white flash in the trees just before Tucker came barreling toward him in their patrol vehicle. He’d never seen a prettier sight. Way to go, Tuck!
“Stand by, G-Man, I’m coming to you! Divert right toward the trees! Divert to the right!”
He could hear his partner on the radio clipped to his waist, but he couldn’t press the transmit button to respond. He saw what Tuck had in mind but knew they’d never have enough time to load TR into the SUV without making themselves stationary targets. Add to that, if Tuck stopped, the Tahoe would likely get stuck in the loose sand.
The burning in Grangeland’s legs from hauling TR across uneven and soft ground began to take its toll. Together, they had to weigh over three hundred pounds.
He got a break when the explosions of sand switched over to the SUV, which was now angling toward a spot about twenty yards out in front of him.
In an incredibly brave move, Tuck had drawn the sniper’s fire.
He watched in horror as the Tahoe’s windshield took an impact, but it kept pitching and bouncing along.
“I’m okay!” Tuck yelled. “Be ready to hand her to me!”
I’m ready, he thought. More than ready.
Just ahead, the Tahoe flew over the slope of a shallow gully, then rammed the opposite side of the bank, a perfect spot to offer them a visual screen for the rest of their retreat into the trees.
The passenger side ended up toward the shooter, but Grangeland knew the supersonic bullets would cleave through the Tahoe’s sheet metal doors and panels easily. He saw Tuck scramble out with the M4 slung across his chest.
“Stay down!” Grangeland yelled. There was no sense in Tuck making himself a target. The crack-boom cadence of the sniper’s fire slowed. The shooter was walking his shots onto the SUV now that he had a stationary target.
In ten more steps, Grangeland would reach Tuck’s position.
Tucker came up, bench-rested his M4 on the hood, and began pounding away at the sniper’s position. The odds were next to nothing he’d score a hit, but it might make the shooter hesitate.
It didn’t.
Two more supersonic cracks made Grangeland flinch, but he’d made it to the Tahoe.
No explanation was needed. They both knew what to do.
Tuck slung the rifle back over his shoulder, took TR into his arms, and began running in a straight line for the trees. A brief pause in the shooting meant the sniper was probably changing magazines.
Grangeland couldn’t leave yet. He opened the passenger door, climbed into the back seat, and reached for the medical bag in the rear luggage area.
Shit! A bullet smashed through the closed passenger door, flew through the interior, and impacted the sand where Grangeland had been only seconds ago. He sensed the slug miss his extended leg by mere inches.
With the medical bag in hand, he wasted no time and took off in Tuck’s wake. His partner had already made the tree line and disappeared.
The man can flat-out run, Grangeland thought.
Shit!
Something smacked the side of his butt at the same instant he heard a whiplike crack. His mind registered it as a bullet wound and something else. He could keep going! Which was what he did—with renewed urgency. He’d never live this down and could already hear the teasing—shot in the ass.
Screw the teasing. Keep your damned legs moving.
The sand detonated several more times, but finally he made the tree line.
And saw no sign of Tuck.
“Tuck!” he yelled.
“Over here.”
Grangeland thrashed his way through the head-high shrubs and bushes, but still didn’t see his partner.
“Tuck.”
“Over here.”
He hobbled to the left, in the direction of Tuck’s voice. A few additional cracks tore through the trees, but none of the impacts came close.
In a small clearing, he found Tuck kneeling over TR’s supine form.
She managed a smile. “You Border Patrol guys are downright nuts.”
“I don’t know about you, Tuck, but I think she just paid us a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” she said, then pointed at his wet pant leg. “Did you get shot?”
Tuck looked up with a shocked expression. “G-Man?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Fuck nothing. Let me see it.”
Grangeland turned, unbuckled his holster belt, and pulled his trousers down.
Tuck grinned. “Looks like the bullet went in and out. Something you’re used to.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“Well, Forrest Gump, you?
“Life is like a box of chocolates,” TR said in her best imitation.
“Cute, you guys. But need I remind you we’re not out of danger yet? It’s a good thing you park rangers are wearing vests these days.”
“No kidding,” she said, wincing. “I hated the change in policy, but I’m strongly reconsidering that sentiment.”
Grangeland grimaced at a sudden wave of stinging pain. “I gotta say, Tuck, that took balls driving out there like that.”
“You’d have done the same thing for me.”
“I absolutely would’ve. Now if you’re done admiring TR’s attributes, I could use a field dressing on my backside.”
Tuck had TR’s vest off and her shirt open. “What’s the hurry?” he asked.
TR gave him a look and buttoned her shirt. “I feel like I got hit by a baseball bat.”
He winked. “The bullet nailed your vest at an angle. Good thing. You’re all busted up, but you’ll live.”
“You sure know how to make a girl feel good.”
“Tell that to my wife.”
The distant booms started anew, but the supersonic cracks weren’t close.
“Stay with TR,” said Grangeland.
“Tell me you aren’t going back out there,” Tuck said.
“Don’t worry. I’m not planning on getting shot again.” He took the M4 and began limping through the trees. He didn’t want eyes on the shooter, but he did want a visual of their Tahoe.
The thuds and cracks continued and other sounds too, the clatter of bullets passing through glass and sheet metal.
The son of a bitch was peppering their vehicle. He found a bush and watched the destruction unfold. Shot after shot hammered the Tahoe. It pissed him off. What an asshole, drilling their vehicle purely for sport. He was tempted to find a spot to return fire but knew it would be a waste of perfectly good ammo—which they might still need.
Enjoy it while you can, El Lobo. Your luck won’t last forever.
CHAPTER 17
The call Nathan took a few minutes ago seemed surreal. Someone had tried to murder Vince’s wife and children at the UTC mall? One of his kids was shot, the other MIA? Charlene in emergency surgery?
What the hell’s going on?
He was about to leave his house for Sharp Hospital—where they’d taken Charlene—when his cell rang again. Now wasn’t the time to ignore it, especially after seeing Holly’s name.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Better than the Beaumonts,” he said, unsure what she meant. Before leaving Denise Tabor’s house, he’d texted Holly a complete update on what had happened. “Vincent’s wife is close to death. She was shot six times. He still doesn’t know—”
“Nathan . . . I’m sorry for interrupting, but I don’t know how to say this . . . There’s been another shooting. It’s all over the news networks. I wanted to talk to you before you saw it on TV.”
“Saw what?”
“It’s about your dad.”
He felt a sudden rush of blood in his temples. “Did something happen to him?”
Holly hesitated, and he knew the news wasn’t good. He decided to spare her from saying it.
“Is he dead?”
“I’m so sorry, Nathan, but it’s worse than that.”
What’s worse than that? he wondered. Oh, please, no . . . Jin and Lauren were in DC visiting his father.
“He was having lunch at Mabel’s Diner with Jin and Lauren when multiple gunmen shot the place up—”
“Are they dead?” He couldn’t believe how that question sounded. He felt his skin tighten.
“Lauren was shot twice, but she’s going to be okay. The owner of the diner told Metro PD your sister pursued someone into the alley, presumably one of the gunmen.”
“Unarmed?” Nathan asked.
“No, she managed to get the Secret Service agent’s weapon and fight back after he was killed. She killed three attackers inside the diner, wounded a fourth in the rear alley, and now she’s MIA.”
“MIA?” He knew what MIA meant—missing in action—but he had a hard time believing Jin would’ve left Lauren behind. There had to be more to this, a lot more.
“By the time MPD arrived, there was no sign of Jin.”
He consciously realized his mind couldn’t yet process the death of his father. “What do the gunmen look like? White, Asian, Middle Eastern?”
Holly didn’t hesitate with her answer. “Middle Eastern.”
“Then it’s possible—hang on, Holly. Harv’s calling. I’m going to conference him in . . .”
Feeling detached from his body, Nathan merged the call. His father dead? Shot by gunmen in public? Lauren wounded? His sister MIA? Vince’s family attacked? It was too much. Nothing seemed real right now. He felt like he’d awoken in a strange place where nothing looked familiar. He needed answers and fully intended to get them.
“Nathan, it’s about your dad—”
“I heard, Harv. Holly’s on the line.”
“Hi, Harvey,” she said.
“Hey, Holly. It’s already on every news network. I just wanted to make sure Nathan didn’t see it on TV first. How’re you doing, partner?”
“I’ve had better mornings. Holly, can you tell Harv what you just told me?” He listened while she summarized what they knew.
“We’ve asked the ATF to help with the ballistics and shell-casing analysis. We might get a hit from a different crime scene and have a lead to follow. None of the gunmen had IDs, so we’re using our facial recognition program to scour the databases. We’re also looking at AFIS and INTERPOL to see if we come up with any fingerprint or DNA matches.”
Harv said, “Knowing the ID of the shooters will go a long way in determining if Stone was the primary target and why.”
“We’re pretty sure Jin wasn’t the target of the attack, but until we can confirm that one hundred percent, it’s all speculation. Right now, we’re trying to find a link between San Diego and DC. No matter who the targets were or the motivation behind the attacks, they’re definitely acts of terrorism. I’m sorry, Nathan, but that’s all we have at this point. We’ve got DC locked down.”
“How long ago did this happen?” he asked.
“About twenty minutes.”
Pacing the kitchen, he turned on the TV and muted the sound. From the image on the screen, it looked like every police cruiser, fire engine, and ambulance in DC had shown up. The aerial camera zoomed in on a sidewalk and showed a glimpse of a victim on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance.
“So there’s nothing on my sister at all?”
“No. I figured you and Harvey would want to come out here right away, so I chartered a jet. I’ll text you the flight information and pick you up at Reagan’s jet center when you arrive. Count on around eleven p.m.”
No one spoke for a few seconds.
“Does Nathan’s mom know?” asked Harv.
“Yes. As soon as I found out, I sent a pair of agents to her house just to be safe. She’s being escorted to the hospital.”
“Thanks for doing that, Holly. I’ll call her right after we hang up.”
“Is Lauren really all right?” Harv asked.
“I’m waiting on a call back from the ER for more details, but yes, she’s expected to make a full recovery. We don’t have an exact number, but the diner was full of people when the gunmen opened fire. They used AKs. It’s bad. Lots of people are dead, and many more are wounded.”
He closed his eyes.
“I don’t need to say this, but I will. Every federal, state, and local law enforcement agency is all over this, from the DOJ to the IC right down to the volunteer police patrols. Everyone’s going to chip in.”
“Please tell us anything else you know at this point.” His voice sounded distant, almost as if someone else were speaking.
“The eyewitness reports are confusing, but it appears your father wrapped himself around Lauren and saved her life by taking the brunt of the gunfir
“Best guess—was Nathan’s family purposely targeted or were they simply at the wrong place at the wrong time during a terrorist attack?” Harv asked.
“We think the odds are extremely low it was a random terror attack and not an assassination. Because of Jin’s background, we can’t rule her out as the primary target. But we have no reason to believe the gunmen knew who Jin Marchand is, including that she’s Stone’s daughter.”
Harv asked, “Do you think the attack out here is somehow connected?”
“It’s definitely possible. We just can’t say yes with certainty yet. You should see it around here. It’s literally a mad scramble right now.”
Harv and Holly faded into background noise.
Nathan felt disconnected, as if floating above his body.
The first wave of fury hit him so hard, it summoned something dark within his soul. Something? You know damned well what’s down there. The Other. Craving vengeance, it emerged from its slumber and oozed forward like a cat, its eyes singularly focused on the latch of its cage, hoping to find it unlocked. The Other grabbed the bars with both hands and yanked. Hard. The clank of steel on steel was a horrid reminder of what stood between sanity and madness.
Not now. Not without my permission.
He’d spent years learning to keep the vile thing in its cage.
Not an easy task. If he didn’t stop this malignant surge of rage . . .
Shit. Shit!
The hatred driving such a cowardly attack on his family paled in comparison to the wrath he planned to unleash on his father’s murderers. He desperately wanted to get off the phone and destroy something with a baseball bat. He now wished he’d broken every bone in Fred Flintstone’s miserable body. Swing a meat cleaver at me? It would’ve—