Sloane reached into the nightstand, retrieved his Sig, then placed it in his hand. “Now, you’re not sitting, you’re backing me up.” She huffed when he simply stared at her. “It’s you they’re after.”
“Not just me.”
“Fine, us. Let the others assess the situation. I’ll personally drag your ass out of here if Bodie so much as hints he needs help.”
Pain punched up through his thigh, a reminder that he really wasn’t in any shape to confront a band of highly trained assholes. Still…
A thump.
Heavy. Direct.
Followed by a sharp crack. A series of quick taps.
Nick growled. “That’s my brothers. I’d recognize their rifles anywhere.”
Sloane cursed, moved over. “Wrap your arm around my shoulders.”
He grunted but obeyed, rocking to his feet in a wave of nausea and pain. His leg buckled, but Sloane caught his weight, braced him until he got it moving. She angled them toward thedoor, gun leading the way, gaze sweeping the shadows in case someone had materialized inside the walls, when a concussive thud rolled through the room, knocked them back on the bed. He hit hard, pain like lightning down his leg, his breath stalled like an iron fist in his chest. Dust and concrete powder rained down from the ceiling, the resulting shock rolling a mug across the floor. A crack appeared along the far wall, spidering through the window and up to the beams.
Bodie’s voice sounded in his ear a moment later, voice edged with fury. “The fuckers have RPGs and freaking dynamite — probably some C4. We can’t hold them without bringing the entire structure down.”
Nick huffed. “Damn it. He’s ordering a fighting retreat.”
Sloane recovered first, patting him down, his obvious pain reflected in her eyes. She motioned for him to wait, stuffed her laptop and a couple other items in a bag, slung it over her shoulder, then offered him her hand.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, heaved himself onto his good leg. No time to worry if he could walk, just a breath, then Sloane propelling him forward. He stumbled to the doorway, Sloane half-carrying him when Dalton appeared through the dust and the smoke.
He moved in, dared Nick to push him off, then wrapped his arm around Nick’s waist as he handed Sloane a carbine. “My truck’s down the side. We’ll likely encounter resistance.”
Nick nodded. “Then, it’s a good thing my arms aren’t broken. You ready?”
Dalton grunted, then struck off. Nick hobbled beside him, his feet barely touching the ground as his buddy shouldered most of his weight. Sloane took point, rifle seated in her shoulder, head on a swivel. They hit the main foyer, moving fast, when some asshole in tactical gear popped up outside the window — opened fire.
The rounds stitched across the reinforced glass, cracks weaving through the multiple layers as they ducked low, booked it down the hall. The door rattled, then gave beneath another thump, smoke pouring in through the entrance, alarms and sprinklers springing to life.
Sloane stopped at the corner with the muzzle aimed back at the entrance. She waved them on, releasing a few quick trigger pulls once they were clear. Shouts erupted in the corridor, footsteps sounding behind them.
The rear exit loomed through the darkness, Sloane stepping in front before Dalton reached the door. She showed the countdown on her hand, then yanked it open, sliding out low and left as Dalton took Nick to the right. Shadows danced across the laneway, rain distorting any reflections on the ground.
Dalton angled him toward his Tacoma when something glinted off a streetlight a good five hundred yards up the road.
“Sniper.” Nick turned, took Dalton to the ground, snagging Sloane’s arm in the process.
They hit the pavement as a round smashed through the truck’s mirror, glass spraying across the asphalt.
Dalton grunted, swung his massive sniper rifle off his back, then crawled to his truck, took up a defensive position along the flatbed. He didn’t move, barely breathed as he planted the scope against his eye, scanned the horizon.
The wind howled through the surrounding trees, the ocean roaring in the background as the waves crashed against the rocks, salty brine heavy in the air. The foghorn called in the distance, the mournful tone bouncing off the scud rolling back across the shoreline.
Dalton shifted, tilted his head ever so slightly, finger caressing the trigger before he fired. The rifle coughed out a round, the butt slamming into his shoulder before a strangled cry sounded a second later, a dull thud drifting on the wind.
Dalton shouldered the weapon, grabbed Nick’s arm. “We’re moving. Now.”
He shoved Nick into the passenger side, as Sloane hopped in the back, then rounded the truck, got the vehicle bouncing down the driveway a second later. Bodie, Rowan, and Buck swerved in front of them, three trucks barreling down the road, water spraying out from the tires, headlights punching through the fog. Dalton turned right onto the main street, headed northeast.
Nick glanced back at Bodie’s place, cringed. “Shit, that’s gonna need some serious repairs.”
Dalton shrugged. “With the kind of work we take on, I doubt it’ll be the last time it gets hit.”
