“So here’s the layout,” Cat’s sketching the room for us. “The double doors to the patio might be good, but you’ll need to take out the two men patrolling outside. Masters is sitting in a wingback chair by the doors, there’s three men guarding the guy with the paperwork at the dining room table. "Most importantly…” she makes a long slash to indicate a couch and adds three stick figures. “Sloan, her brother, and the nurse. When I was in there, they had two arseholes hovering over ‘em, one with his gun to Sloan’s head.”
The shouting’s getting louder inside the cabana and the front door slams open, the German and his entourage get back into a Range Rover and roar off, tires spraying shell fragments.
“Morrie, send up a drone and when I give the signal drop something large and explosive on that car. I want everyone inside incinerated.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Boss!” he says happily.
“Things are getting bad in there,” Michael frowns, listening to the feed. “Shite. Gavin’s up and he just cocked his gun.”
I curse silently. There’s no way to warn my wife about what’s about to happen. “Throw in the flashbangs.” Pulling on my goggles, I count. “Three… two… one.”
A searing light explodes inside the cabana and a percussive thump drowns out the screams and shouts.
Sloan…
The world exploded.
It feels like I’m underwater, thrashing slowly like a turtle, trying to find my way to shore. My flailing hand grabs Nate’s arm, and I pull him off the couch, trying to shove him under the wicker base. Carmella’s foot is the next thing I feel and she kicks out at me violently, making contact with my cheek. Eyes watering, I keep yanking on it until she’s on the floor with us.
My ears are ringing violently, though I know the rapid thudding sounds must be bullets. Pushing Carmella and Nate together, I start crawling across the floor in the direction of my backpack. My hand slips on something, making my chin painfully hit the tile. It’s blood, a big, spreading pool of it but I can’t be lucky enough to have it be from Gavin’s murderous hide. My knee touches something soft and I stifle a scream.
I’m crawling over a body.
I’m inches away from the dark, wavering shape of the chair and the black lump that I know is my backpack. Someone grabs my ankle and this time I scream, kicking furiously with my other foot, fingers reaching desperately for the backpack.
My ankle’s gripped by a hand and my invisible attacker digs their fingers into my other calf, trying to pull me back. My fingertips just brush the canvas strap of my backpack and I grip it, swinging my bag over my head with all my strength and hit them, hearing a pained grunt before they let go of my leg.
Curling up by the chair, I frantically rifle through my bag, finally feeling the reassuring weight of the Glock and yanking it out. My eyes are still stinging and watering, everyone just looks like a white blob. I can’t shoot. I don’t know who to shoot at.
I just hope Ethan does.
Ethan…
What the feck is my wife doing?
Sloan pulls Nate and Carmella down to huddle by the base of the couch, then she army crawls across the floor. God-damnitthat makes her an open target! She’s heading for a backpack crumpled against a chair, crawling over a dead body and kicking another man violently as he tries to pull her back.
I’m pinned down behind a side wall that should disintegrate at any moment from the hailstorm of bullets, shouting directions into my headset.
“Who’s close to Sloan? She’s in the middle of the living room, some bastard’s dragging her down.”
Before anyone answers, Sloan swings the backpack over her head in a move that would make her old tennis coach proud, knocking the man unconscious. Her eyes are streaming with tears and squinted, trying to regain her vision after the flashbang grenade.
“Sloan, stay down!” I shout, “Dinna move!”
Rolling out from the retaining wall, I land on my back and take out the weasel-faced feck who’s about to shoot her. Fortunately, I still have my vision. His shot goes wide and mine sinks into his forehead.
“Clear!” Michael reports, “Everyone down in my area.”
“Aye, no sign of life,” Patrick says, “Nate and Carmella are safe and under the sofa.”
“Who’s got eyes on Masters?” I said, sweeping the room with my gun.
“He was scampering into the kitchen last,” Catriona says.
“Take Nate and Carmella outside. I dinna want him to see the bodies,” I say. “Stay vigilant, we still don’t have Masters' location.”
I kick the body of the attorney aside, bloody, stained papers raining down on him and an expression of outraged surprise frozen on his face.
