Lucky and Salters weren’t going any damned where, and neither were their assailants. Made no effort to advance. Which meant they were waiting. For what?
A voice came from another direction, cutting off their exit the way they’d come. “Mr. Harrison, you should have listened when I told you no.” Who the fuck?
Something thumped against the floor, leaking a plume of smoke. Orange flickered on the other side of the warehouse. Oh, hell. Flushed from the reeds like a couple of ducks.
As old as this building was, made of aged wood, it stood no chance in hell against fire.
Either take a chance on running, or wait for their targets to come for their unconscious bodies.
Lucky grabbed Salters’ arm and hauled ass.
The smoke obscured the gunmen’s vision. The tat, tat, tat, of gunfire sounded behind him, kicking up dust and splinters. He ran to the far wall, out of sight of the first gunman and directly underneath the second, safely out of range.
He nodded to Salters and pointed to the right. Working the fingers of his gun hand in a walking motion while still holding his Glock, he cradled his injured hand to his chest. “What the hell do you want?” he called, covering Salters retreating footsteps with his voice.
“You, to shut up and do as you’re told.”
“You know my name, so you know enough about me to be aware that I’ve never shut up and done as I was told in my life.”
Did O’Donoghue just mumble, “That’s for damned sure”? More clearly, he said, “If you’re out of the line of fire, keep him talking.”
Where the fuck was team two? O’Donoghue better get a move on!
The brief moment of quiet let Lucky register footsteps overhead, clanking against the metal catwalk, the gunman finding a new position.
“I sent Agent Salters out. Try not to shoot him,” Lucky murmured into his mic. He crouched low, using his short stature to his advantage. A crack. Sheetrock exploded in a cloud of dust above his head. He held his breath, choking back a cough, and scuttled like a damned palmetto bug across the floor and behind a blue plastic barrel. Please let it be full and dense enough to slow down a bullet. Empty might mean dead.
Damn, but his motherfucking hand hurt! He glanced at the floor. Fucking hell. Blood trail. No hiding. And an open wound around unknown chemicals could prove to be a bad thing.
A very bad thing. Okay. Overhead, a shooter. By the cargo door, a shooter. So far, the man who’d spoken hadn’t fired at him. Biting back a scream, Lucky managed to shrug out of his T-shirt and wrap his hand.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck! That fucking hurt! He gritted his teeth against the agony. Fire arced from his hand up his arm. He couldn’t stop now to check damage, but judging by past injuries, they’d fucked his hand up.
Something else they’d pay for.
Back pressed to the wall, gun in his good hand, he waited.
With any luck, Salters had found one of the doors or windows in a neglected office to slither out of. Nothing from O’Donoghue, but silence meant he wouldn’t jeopardize Lucky’s location by making any detectable sound, or asking questions requiring answers.
Lucky slid to the right on his ass, inching across the floor. At least he no longer dripped a blood trail.
“Agent Harrison, we know you’re here, and we want to make a deal.” The voice came across confident, without a trace of accent, not to Lucky’s ears.
“What kind of deal?”
“End your investigation with the suspects you have and live.”
“What happens if I don’t?” Yeah, he needed to keep the asshole talking, let the fucker advertise his whereabouts.
“Do you like a good barbeque, Agent Harrison?”
“I’m Southern, ain’t I?” No use denying his accent or redneck upbringing.
“How’d you like to find out how a hamburger feels on the grill?”
Fuck. More smoke. They planned to burn the place to the ground. With him in it. “I don’t see how that’s going to be a problem, and you’d be screwing yourself over to make a deal with me.” He softened his voice and let the pain come out.
“And why is that?”
