Jake’s voice, calm and steady, answers back. “The airfield is ten minutes out. Do your best to hold them off while we commandeer transport.”
“Jake, buddy, I don’t think we have ten minutes.”
19
Anders
As I race to the SUV, I’m flanked by Omar and Ronan, who have the keys. Ronan tilts his head again. “Humvee just turned in from the highway.”
We get into Omar’s Land Rover and gun it to my parents’ house, then sprint inside.
My mother walks into the living room and pats my shoulder. “Looks like you might need a little balm for your lips there…”
Her voice trails off when she reads our seriousness.
“What’s wrong, Anders?” she asks, noticing for the first time our newest guest.
“We’ve got incoming.”
Dad and Samuel appear behind her wearing matching aprons. “What’s the ETA?” Dad asks.
“About thirty seconds,” Omar says as we herd the three of them into the media room, pausing only to let dad grab his rifle and bullets from the gun case.
“DB and the others aren’t far behind, but you need to stay in here and take shelter while we hold them back.”
I can feel my mom reading my face and wish for a second that I had Omar’s ability to remove emotions from my expression. Locking them in the room, the three of us look outside. The Humvee is nearly at the line of trees that surround the house.
Omar pulls me in close. “You and Ronan stay in the cover of the trees; I’ll take the roof and lay down cover fire so you two can take out any who get close.”
I don’t want to let him go, but he’s in charge on this op, and he’s right—we need some kind of tactical advantage. “You got it, hoss. And, uh, don’t get dead up there, okay?”
We hold each other’s eyes for a second and then race off in opposite directions. Ronan and I hustle to the back of the house while Omar goes up through the attic to the roof.
Ronan and I stay in the shadow of the tall pines, racing around to the front. The Humvee skids to a halt on my mother’s rose bushes, and a fucking clown car of assholes—seven guys in black tactical gear—pile into the yard where my father taught me to handle a soccer ball.
We find our positions seconds later, and I tuck into my rifle, taking out the tires, ensuring that this is a one-way trip for these fuckwits. Omar lays down cover fire, allowing Ronan to pick off the first shithead, splitting their focus between the roof and the trees. The big downside is that these assholes shoot back, and we don’t have an endless supply of bullets.
Worse, four are coming for us, and two are able to make it onto the porch, where Omar’s options are a lot more limited.
I take out one of the operatives at the front door, just as Ronan runs out of ammo and grabs the knife and collapsible baton I’d shoved into his tactical vest. He goes hand to hand with a monster of a guy but makes quick work of him by targeting his brachial artery. Smart and a little sneaky. I like it.
Ronan couldn’t avoid the arterial spray but manages to clear his eyes in time to shout out a warning to me. I spin to put a bullet in whoever is behind me, but the chamber clicks empty.
I rip my blade from my vest as I duck behind a tree, bullets screaming through the air, several biting at the bark right by my head. I wait for a pause in the shooting and spin around, throwing the blade with deadly aim.
The guy’s eyes are still tracking when I stand over him, sneering as I quickly rip the rifle from his grip and slowly remove the serrated knife from his throat, watching him as the life drains from his body, like air being let out of a tire. I check the rifle. Empty.
I don’t have time to fully enjoy his death because even though we’ve avoided major injury, Ronan and I are literally bringing knives to a gunfight, and there are still three live bodies advancing on us. We’d given Omar the bulk of the ammo, and he’s making good use of it.
My knife bites through another jugular, barely missing a bullet while taking a haymaker to the side of my head. I fall to my knees, but Ronan circles back on the asshole breaking into my family’s front door, slicing through tendons and arteries like he might know a thing or two about human anatomy.
Damn, for a Clark Kent–Shawn Mendes hybrid, he has chops.
I pull myself up, slightly dizzy, but okay enough to back up the last asshole with a slicing motion, getting him to the edge of the tree line so Omar can take him out.
Not like that guy was using his amygdala anyway.
Omar’s voice settles in my ear. “That was my last bullet, but I think we’ve got them. Ronan, check out Anders. He took a helluva hit.”
