God. Not now.
Two gunshots pinged from the kitchen. He shook himself out of it. Now. Stay in the now.
Pippa whimpered next to him, and that sound, that one small sound, brought him entirely back to the present. He lifted his gun and waited.
Groans of pain and the crunch of glass came from behind him. Then muscled shoulders rested against his. Wolfe. “Are we clear out front?” the soldier asked.
“Affirmative,” Angus said through the comms. “I’m almost at the rear of the building.”
Smooth as a panther, Wolfe pivoted and put his shoulder next to Malcolm’s, pointing his weapon at the swinging kitchen door, and then he slid sideways, settling against the opposing booth to view both the front and back. The guy was definitely well trained.
Sobbing came from somewhere behind the counter.
“Everyone stay in place.” Malcolm barely raised his voice. “Keep your heads down.”
The kitchen door was kicked open, and a gunman wearing a ski mask moved in, AK-47 spraying toward the floor. Tiles chipped and exploded. Mal aimed for center mass and squeezed the trigger. The bastard fell back, his gun still firing, now up toward the ceiling. Then he went down.
Quiet, the unnatural kind, came from the kitchen. Mal sprang up. “Go,” he ordered.
Wolfe reached the door first, angling to the side. “You kick.”
Mal’s arm started to shake. Fucking panic attack. Not now. He nodded. “You want high?”
“Low. I go low and to the right,” Wolfe whispered, his legs tense but his tone clear.
Mal counted. “One. Two. Three.” He kicked open the swinging door. Wolfe instantly went through and went low, his gun pointed right. Mal was on his heels, high and left.
Two quick shots from Wolfe’s gun, and the last shooter went down to the right of a food cart.
Mal moved in, going to the left and sweeping the rest of the kitchen. “Clear.”
“Clear,” Wolfe said, jogging up. He reached the first gunman and ripped off the guy’s face mask. Brown hair, dead eyes. “Know him?”
“No.” Mal took off the other guy’s mask. “This guy either.” Mal flipped him over and searched for identification. Nothing.
Angus Force came silently from the far side of the kitchen, his gun still in his hand. He set it at his waist and took out a phone, snapping pictures of the two dead guys. “We’ll find out who hired them.”
The swinging door opened, and Mal pivoted, pulling his gun out at the same time as Wolfe and Force.
“Whoa.” DA Comstock had blood all over one shoulder and splashed over his face. His left hand covered a wound on his arm, and his fingers were already coated. He looked down at the guy by Wolfe and swore.
“You know this guy?” Force asked.
Comstock nodded. “Yeah. Lowlife thug for hire. I put him away three years ago on a weapons charge. Didn’t know he was out.”
Mal’s gut rolled over. “This is about you?”
“And probably you,” Comstock said thoughtfully, his face unnaturally pale. “That guy”—he nodded toward the other body—“did some low-level work for the Bodinis years ago. Looks like the two guys I’m prosecuting still have a little juice.”
The room started to waver, and Mal shoved the panic attack back. The shots echoed in his head. He shook it, trying to get clear. “We set up this meet last night. Who did you tell?”
“Just your lieutenant.” Comstock grimaced. “That’s it. I made my own travel arrangements.”
It would’ve taken eight hours for the shooters to drive from New York, but there had been time. “Have him checked out, but I’d bet my life it wasn’t Montego.” Mal read people too well. The lieutenant might be about to retire, but his blood ran blue.
“Give me your cell phones,” Force said. “If it wasn’t Montego—and we’ll find out—one of you has a bug.”
Fuck. If they knew where Mal’s house was, he’d have to move. Even if they took down the two henchmen in New York, there was always another lowlife who’d like to make a name for himself. Show some weird allegiance to a family that basically no longer existed.
