Nick slid his gaze to Dalton. “If I called out everyone I thought was lying to me, I’d be talking to people all day. Besides, in theory, this is just a consultation. We’ve got plenty of time to have Bodie run additional background checks on this guy before we sign up.”
And if it gave Nick a benign reason to call Sloane, have her work her magic, then he wasn’t about to jeopardize that.
Dalton chuckled. “Either you just gave someone the benefit of the doubt, which, I gotta say, isn’t the Nick Colter I know and love. Or you’re using this as an excuse to call Sloane.” He stopped, grinned. “Wanna guess which way I’m leaning?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s what I thought.” Dalton arched a brow. “Isn’t she gonna be in town soon?”
Nick chuckled. “That’s assuming the CIA keeps to any kind of schedule. She’s been all over the map for the last bit of her joint task force assignment with the DIA, so I’m not holding my breath. She should be finishing up just north of Astoria — dropping by for a couple days — but knowing her, she’ll text me from Budapest or worse… New Orleans.”
“Is that her being afraid to see you, or you scared of what you might tell her once she gets here?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right, and I don’t have abandonment issues.”
Nick shoved Dalton as they jogged up the short flight of limestone steps to the main entrance, more glass reflecting the storm-bruised sky. An incoming front loomed on the horizon, the increased winds already capping the waves a turbulent white.
They reached the door, Ward looking at his watch, again, riling up the voices in Nick’s head. He glanced at Dalton, nodded when the guy motioned toward Ward. A clear indication either Nick broached the subject, again, demanded some serious answers, or Dalton would.
Nick hooked Ward’s arm. “Ward, we need to?—”
A sharp compressive thump tore through the air, the gatehouse at the bottom of the driveway exploding into an ugly orange bloom of fire and smoke. The barrier arm sheared off, glass spitting out across the pavement as the report rolled up the driveway, passed through them with a concussive punch.
Nick grabbed Ward, shoved him beneath him as he drew his weapon, swept the area. Black smoke choked the air, flames licking at the remains of the structure as men poured out of the encroaching forest, muzzles flashing against the shadows.
Nick pulled Ward to his feet, pushed him to the door. “Get us inside. Now.”
Ward’s hand shook as he punched in his code, jumping when a spray of bullets chewed up his limestone stairs.
Buck shoved the door open, sweeping through the foyer like a damn ghost, Dalton on his heels. They cleared the immediate area, locked the door, boxing Ward between them as they headed toward the west wing. Rounds pounded the steel structure, the front door rattling as someone tried to muscle their way in.
Ward pointed to a set of fire doors, hands shaking, skin ghostly white. “Those lead to the sky-bridge.”
They angled left, hit the doors moving fast but controlled, Ward still centered between them. The sky-bridge opened up in front of them, trees bending against the howling wind thrashing beneath the glass walkway. The ocean rolled in angry waves across the horizon, sharp spires rising out of the tide like daggers. Suppressors thumped from the surrounding tree line —the disciplined, rhythmic fire creating spiderweb cracks in the safety glass.
They moved out, staying low, booking it across the bridge amidst more gunfire, a couple rounds punching through, bouncing back from the other side. Nick clenched his jaw, the steady clicks a ghostly echo of that night in Prague. How this felt more like containment than chaos. As if the men had been driving Nick’s team toward the west wing, all along.
The thought sparked a memory, and he snapped his gaze down, searched the support structure — caught a glimpse of a small, puck-like disc stuck to the primary beam beneath their feet.
“Charge!”
The word bounced off the glass as he shoved his buddies and Ward the last few yards toward the tiled entry. They stumbled forward, tripping onto the solid floor as the small LED on top of the charge blinked green, blew.
No fireball, this time, just a savage, focused concussion that turned the steel into screaming metal. The span tore, girders twisting inward as the glass shattered, shot a blanket of piercing shards through the air. His buddies hit the floor, their wing holding firm as the section under Nick sheared away.
Dropped him into the gaping chasm.
He landed on a large spruce branch, the impact pausing his descent for a moment, before more debris snapped the limb, took him with it. He crashed through a dozen more, each one slowing him enough he didn’t outright die when he dropped the last ten feet into a thicket of sword fern and salal. He hit hard, breath wheezing out of his chest, the impact sparking a bolt of pure agony though his left thigh. A dull roar echoed in his ears, everything tilting beneath him as he blinked back the black streaks cutting across his vision.
Blood.
Dripping down his leg, leaving a trail across the brush-choked ground — a patchwork of glass and steel peppered along his thigh. He clenched his jaw and stumbled to his feet, bracing his weight on a tree before stumbling off as boots pounded up the short rise.
He grabbed a Ketamine shot like the one Sloane had given him on his last mission, inhaled, praying the drug dulled the pain enough to pick up his pace. Do more than stagger through the thick undergrowth.
Shouts rose behind him, a chorus of speculative gunfire stitching through the salmonberry bushes. Scattering birds and leaving a path of shredded fern behind him.
