“Something is up.”
John looked at the old windup clock on his desk; it was nearly two in the morning.
“What?”
“Get your wife, get out of that house now, into the woods, and lie low.”
“What’s going on?” John snapped.
“Get out now. We heard a chopper come in, sound muffled, a special-ops type machine. One of my people on watch with night vision just saw eight people get off at the ball field, and they’re heading your way. I’m getting a team together; they’ll be down there in five minutes. Sir, get out of your house now!”
John put the receiver down, raced into the sunroom, and grabbed Makala by the shoulders, shaking her awake.
“John, what is it?”
He put his hand over her mouth. “We gotta move now,” he whispered, and even as he did so, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement out on the moonlit road. “Now!” he snapped, dragging her out of the bed.
A laser dot suddenly flashed on to the wall just as she stood up, and he shoved her down to the floor. One of the windowpanes shattered, three bullets impacting the wall behind where she had been standing but a few seconds before.
“Down, stay down!”
He pulled her to the doorway into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind them.
Outside? Whoever it was would expect that. Upstairs was the only alternative. Upstairs and hope for enough time for Malady to bring help.
“The stairs quick,” he hissed.
As she started up, he diverted to his office, crouching low, grabbed the Glock off his desk, and turned to follow her.
The explosion of a flashbang in the sunroom blew the door he had just closed open, knocking him off his feet. Stunned, he managed to regain his footing, following her up the stairs to the second floor.
Which way to go? He had thought out so many different scenarios across the last two years, but never this one, to be caught by surprise in their own home in the middle of the night. Jen’s old bedroom? No, too obvious; whoever it was would hit there first. Even as he hesitated, another flashbang blew downstairs.
The attic. It was a dead end, but it might buy a few more minutes of time.
He shoved Makala to the attic steps, following up behind her, moving backward, pistol raised, ready to shoot if closely followed. A third flashbang and then the sound of more glass breaking, several short bursts of gunfire.
Behind him, Makala fumbled with the attic door, finally shoving it open. He came up behind her and tried to close the creaking door as quietly as possible.
Makala started to speak, and he put his hand over her mouth. The house-length attic was dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming in through one window. He inwardly thanked God that Jen had been a pack rat, the attic filled with old trunks, racks of clothes from fifty years ago, long-forgotten family heirlooms. He scanned it, seeing where several old steamer trunks were set against a far wall and motioning for Makala to get behind them. She hesitated, and he shoved her into the dark, musty corner and pushed her down to the floor.
She was beginning to sob, and again he had his hand over her mouth and pressed his lips to her ear.
“Are you hurt?”
“What is happening?”
“Just stay quiet. Help’s coming.”
He could see her pale, frightened features in the moonlight. She was protectively clutching her stomach.
“Baby okay?” he whispered.
“I think so.”
“Matherson!” The voice echoed up from down below. “Only you we want. Come out, hands up, and your wife is okay. It’s just you we want to go with us.”
He looked at her, the offer just a fleeting temptation of a few seconds. They had fired without any warning. Whoever it was undoubtedly had night-vision gear and could have seen she would have been hit. This was not for a capture; this was a raid to kill both of them.
And if this was from Bob Scales, and he survived, he would find a way to ensure his former friend roasted in hell.
“Thirty seconds, Matherson. Just come down with your hands up.”
He knew better than to reply. From down below, he could hear that someone was creeping up the stairs to the second floor. Even before the thirty seconds were up, another flashbang went off, just beneath them, the concussion startling him and Makala, who was unable to suppress a gasp of fear.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She was shaking like a leaf. Seconds later, a long burst of gunfire swept the master bedroom below.
Silence for a moment, and then footsteps creaking along the old wooden floor corridor below.
Three more flashbangs popped off, detonating in the guest rooms and bathroom, dust from the low ceiling of the attic swirling down from the concussions. More gunfire as they swept each room.
“Matherson, you’re cornered. Save your wife and just come down; we know you’re up there.”
Makala reached out to clutch his side, an affirmation that he was not to surrender.
“It’s going to hit hard. Be ready; keep your mouth open,” he whispered.
He heard the door up to the attic creak open, and something arced up into the attic. He crouched down behind the steamer trunk, opening his mouth wide to lessen the impact of the explosion on his eardrums. It detonated with a blinding flash, the shock wave hitting so hard that Makala gasped.
He knew he had but an instant to be ready and was back up, Glock firmly held in both hands, resting on the top of the steamer trunk. Gunfire snapped up from the stairwell. And then the first assailant appeared.
John knew the target would be small, face only, helmet and body armor covering the rest. The man rose halfway up, laser sight flashing along the opposite wall, and then turned toward where John waited thirty feet away.
The laser light sparkled in John’s eyes, nearly blinding him, and he squeezed off shot after shot. One of the 9mm rounds must have hit squarely; the killing shot he anticipated in return was a long burst going up over his head and then stitching across the ceiling as the man he hit tumbled back down the stairs.
He could hear muffled cursing, and then a fusillade of fire erupted, smashing up through the floor of the attic, and started to stitch toward them.
“Curl up on top of the trunk!” John yelled, pushing Makala up as he remained crouched, weapon trained on the stairwell.
How many shots did I fire? he wondered. How many left?
And then he heard it: an explosion of gunfire outside his home. Shouts, curses, more shots, several grenades going off.
He waited for whatever came next. A grenade came up from out of the stairwell. He pulled Makala back down from the trunk and held her tightly. This time, it was fragmentation showering the room with a deadly spray that, if not for the packed trunks, would have surely killed them.