Daniella had been confused at the sudden interruption, but she understood why I couldn’t always share the details about my job. After she wished me luck and resumed packing, I called Greyson to tell him I needed backup. Barton trusted me to build my own team, and Greyson was the best choice. Having spent so many years working closely together, we operated as each other’s shadow. I picked him up at his house and debriefed him while we drove to Redstone.
We checked out a pair of handguns and bulletproof vests from the company’s armory. Barton had pulled some strings to equip his employees with firearms identical to those they had used in the service. It wasn’t just for sentimental value; even after retraining, operating a different gun from the one you were used to could cost precious milliseconds or crucial accuracy. So I got a shiny new SIG P226 Navy pistol. Small enough to conceal, but big enough to kill anything that moved. I could only pray this assignment wouldn’t come to that.
Once Greyson and I were fully outfitted, we headed to the intersection of Ridgecrest and Hemlock. From there, we drove in widening circles, keeping an eye out for a building that fit the informant’s description. It didn’t take long to spot a small, dilapidated ranch house with a white sedan parked out front.
Keeping low, I crept across the overgrown yard to look in the window. I saw a mostly bare living room with mold-stained walls. The single naked light bulb on the ceiling cast more shadows than it banished. A man sat on the couch, hunting knife in hand, watching the front door. The skin on the back of my neck prickled.
This was definitely the right place. I turned my attention to the layout of the room. Its only access points seemed to be the front door and the kitchen. If they had a hostage here, I was guessing she and her guard weren’t the only ones present, since Barton had told me the kidnapping was gang-related. More people were probably waiting elsewhere in the house. But how many, I had no idea.
I signaled to Greyson and we moved to the front door. We weren’t the police; we had no obligation to announce ourselves or give the enemy a chance to come quietly. We would use the element of surprise to get in and out as fast as possible.
With Greyson close behind me, I shot through the lock and kicked the door in.
The guard jumped to his feet. He took one look at our gear and bellowed, “Cops!”
His warning shout confirmed the presence of his allies. No intimidation tactics, then. Even if I managed to threaten him into dropping his weapon, it would just waste enough time for his buddies to show up. But I also didn’t like killing people if I could help it, and I wanted some answers from these assholes.
The guard rushed at me, knife brandished in his fist like an ice pick. How sloppy. He pulled back his arm to stab downward, and I spun to let the blade pass in front of me. I grabbed his wrist in one hand and pistol-whipped him in the back of the head. He thrashed and cursed in defiant rage. I slammed his face into the floor, forcing him to his knees, his knife arm twisted painfully behind his back. His snarling quickly transformed into incoherent screeching.
I must have dislocated his shoulder, which meant his knife arm was thoroughly disabled. Unless this prick was ambidextrous, it was time to stop screwing around with him and get what we came for. I holstered my pistol, yanked his knife away, and hauled him onto his feet.
I pointed to a spot along the wall near the kitchen door. “Stay there,” I growled under my breath.
He bared his bloodied yellow teeth and spat on my vest. I just stared hard at him, eyes narrowed, and pointed again—with the knife this time. After a moment, he accepted that I wasn’t bluffing and obeyed my order.
I flashed Greyson a quick sequence of hand signals to tell him I’d search for the hostage while he stayed behind as a lookout. Grey gave a nod of approval and faced the kitchen, pistol at the ready. The former guard seemed willing to stay down, but Grey still kept one eye on him.
I crept through the kitchen and found a set of stairs that led to a basement. It was rare that Texas homes had basements, but maybe that was why these perps had chosen this house in the first place.
With my back to the wall, I silently crept down. The lower level stank of mildew. A quick sweep of the area showed concrete floors and walls, and a shadowy figure huddled in the corner. It was so small I almost missed it. Even facing the wall, though, it was clearly female.
Shit, the hostage.
She’d better be alive or these assholes were going to answer for this. But as I crossed the room, she gave a small murmured groan, and I released a relieved breath.
I knelt behind her and used the guard’s knife to cut through the plastic zip ties securing her wrists and ankles. She made a groggy noise and struggled weakly on her side. She seemed awake, but very disoriented; maybe her kidnappers had sedated her. Or just given her a concussion.
“Don’t worry, Lucky, you’re safe now,” I murmured. Her name had probably never been more appropriate. Once her limbs were free, I rolled her over. “I’m one of the good guys. I’ll get you out of . . .”