Colt wasn’t sure what had tipped them off—finding some of the downed men. A missed check-in—but the damn workers from the far end had shifted into the adjoining space. Were hunkered behind what looked like machinery and smaller crates—impossible to tell for sure with the lights out. Just large shadows scattered around the floor. And just Colt’s luck, it looked as if all the men were SOG guys. Trained. Skilled.
He’d trained, too. Every day for over twelve years. And there wasn’t a challenge he couldn’t overcome. A threat he wouldn’t conquer. He crawled closer—used one of his blades to get a better picture of what he was up against. He still couldn’t make out what the shapes were, but he guessed about a dozen men, judging on the muzzle flashes. The odd head bobbing up. From the sound of the discharges, he’d bet a mixture of semi-automatics and pistols. Likely M16s. A couple of AK-47s. Some Sigs tossed in for good measure.
A couple of men broke off from the pack—tried to flank around front, but either Kam or Six picked them off. Nothing but a crumpled body and bloody mist left strewn across the pavement.
That leveled the field a bit more. Chucking a frag through the broken window got Colt even closer. Took out three men trying to breach the room. Also got him some heavy return fire. A stray round caught him across the thigh. Not too deep, but the damn thing burned. Started dripping onto the floor. He laid down a spray of cover fire, then darted back to Ice, pressing his back into the doorframe.
Ice grunted, glaring at his leg. Colt waved it off, holding up a flashbang. Ice gave him a hard look but nodded, readying himself to make the dash. Colt didn’t need to read him the play. Ice knew. Had executed similar plans a thousand times before.
Colt waited for the next wave of bullets to pause, then dove forward, rolling into his position by the door. He blew through the last of his ammo in that clip, changed magazines then pulled the pin—tossing the container into the other room. There was a clinking noise as it bounced along the floor, then a deafening explosion shrouded in a blinding light.
Ice ran for the door, clearing both sides, then hoofing it toward the crane, Six and Kam raining down a steady stream of bullets. Colt kept the men in the room back with more cover fire. The grenade had bought them some time, but he knew McCormick’s men would recover quickly.
Colt managed to scoot back, gain his feet and grasp the door when one of the men tossed a grenade into the room. It landed a few feet away, still spinning from momentum. Colt yanked open the door and dove, hitting the ground as the grenade exploded, tearing off half the roof and part of the side. Metal pieces shot into the air, a couple slicing through his clothes—one large section landing across his legs.
A loud ringing filled his head, the force of the explosion knocking the wind out of him. Leaving him dazed. He pushed onto his elbows, trying to get his bearings only to realize the damn sheet had him pinned to the pavement. Shouts rose from inside the warehouse, and he knew the soldiers would be charging out the door.
He twisted, tried to shove the damn sheet off, only to have Ice appear at his side. The man lifted the metal, yelling at him to move, before dropping it. There was a burst of fire from Ice’s rifle, holding the others back as they ran for the crane. Jumping behind the thick metal struts. Barely beating the next wave of bullets.
Kam had Ellis’ head cradled in her lap as Six continued to pick off anyone who left the warehouse. Engines roared in the distance, three black Suburbans rounding the far bend—heading their way. More of McCormick’s men, which only made a bad situation worse.
Colt kept up the suppression fire, trying to hold the vehicles back. “Get into the water. I’ll cover. Toss a bunch of grenades and dive in after you’re clear.”
“And get an ass full of lead.” Six cursed, switched to his Sig. “I’ll cover. You go.”
Colt knew what Six was doing. He didn’t have anyone he’d label as special. Didn’t have any other family besides them. His brothers. And he was aiming to make the sacrifice. Give Colt a second chance to make things right.
Screw that. He was the reason they were here. He’d told Ellis Delta didn’t trade lives. And he’d meant it.
He waved to Ice. “Take Kam and Ellis. We’ll follow.”
Ice was emptying his mags—tossing out whatever grenades he had left in his arsenal. “Forget it, buddy. We’ll throw out all the smoke grenades. Then make a run.”
Colt snorted. “I hope you don’t get your ass shot off, Ice, because I want to shoot you, myself.”
He grabbed two canisters, knowing it wasn’t going to be enough, but damn it, they’d go down fighting. He looked at his friends—his brothers—then nodded, counting down from three. He reached one, when a section of the pier off to his left exploded. Just lit up, shooting chunks of concrete and asphalt into the air.
Another hit on the other side, sending everyone scrambling for cover. Colt blanketed the area with another burst of fire, tossed the two grenades, then he was up. Joining his buddies as they raced for the edge. No slipping gently into the water. Just a giant leap, a second of hang time, then they were under. Cold waves covering their heads.
He crested the surface, first, gun at the ready, covering his team as they swam for the other end of the pier, Ice carrying Ellis without slowing down. It didn’t take long. A minute, and they were climbing up, clearing the space. Colt waved them on, maintaining a buffer between the others and anything coming at them. There had been a couple more explosions, all on the pier, with black smoke rolling through the containers—blanketing the entire wharf in a thick dense layer. Had to be the Marshal’s predator drone. Nothing else made sense.
Tires squealed off to his right. Close. But the damn smoke swallowed up any hope of getting a visual. Made his eyes water as he searched for a hint of movement. A low whistle from behind. Six. They were clear.
Colt turned, headed back, when headlights cut through the haze—barreling straight for him. He dove, rolled, came up ready. One of the Suburbans sat a few feet away, three of McCormick’s men standing behind the doors. AKs pinned on him. Fingers inside the guard. A couple more were facing the other way. Checking for the rest of Colt’s team.
He held firm, not firing, but not backing down, either. His vest would stop a couple of bullets. He’d probably get hit half a dozen times before it was over—three or four too many.
McCormick rounded the vehicle, calm. Completely detached. He didn’t have a weapon drawn. Just stood there. Watching. Colt vowed to take the bastard down with him. If nothing else, Ellis wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder. That should be enough. It would have to be.
McCormick chuckled—shook his head. “Looks like I made a bad judgment call five years, ago. I should have enlisted you, too, Sievers. You and Baker could have made quite the team. That rescue was very impressive.”
Colt kept scanning the area, looking for an opening. “You don’t sound too upset for someone who’s lost most of hisassets.”
“Rule number one about having subordinates. Keep the ones you trust close. Everyone else… You actually did me a favor. Cleaned up a mess I thought I’d have to handle myself. Now, there’s just Baker. And if she was willing to trade herself for that bitch, she’ll do anything for you.”
McCormick sighed. “She never did get over that. I suspected she might end up being a mistake. But, damn…the woman’s one hell of an operative.” He waved at the back door. “Get in.”
“I don’t think so.”
