Bait the devil, p.23
Bait the Devil, page 23
“They were created to be vessels for man. Nothing more.”
“I should have killed you the night I ended your father.”
Follman canted his head. “You know, I should be thanking you for that. Saved me the trouble of figuring out a way to off him myself and get away with it.”
“Burn in hell.”
Follman’s gaze brightened. “You’ll have the luxury of enjoying it first.” He looked Caleb from head to toe and then back. “By the looks of you, you’re not much longer for this world.”
“I have enough in me to take some of you with me.”
Follman made a dissatisfied noise deep in his throat and turned as if to leave, only to stop and turn back with audible flourish. “One more thing. The couple. Dorothy and Titus. Who are they to you?”
Caleb scowled as best he could considering his faltering brain. “How the fuck should I know who two old birds are?”
“Oh, they’re not old. Nowhere near it. But they do owe me.”
“What? A blowjob.”
There was a hesitation on Follman’s part. Caleb wondered if he was trying to decide to be offended and react or let the comment slide.
A slick smile creased the man’s face. “You know, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
From outside the stable came an explosion of metal on metal and things shattering. Follman and his bodyguard jolted and turned to the doors.
Caleb smiled. “You better run.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The chaos that erupted when T.J. plowed the Suburban into one of the vehicles was glorious.
Dot, Eriksson, and Peters, his partner, bailed out of the Suburban and opened fire on the men loitering in the yard. T.J. slammed the gas to the floorboard and pushed the SUV across the gravel drive, creating a dust cloud for cover.
He ducked down as bullets peppered the bulletproof windshield, but he continued to inch forward.
The heavy slap on the hatch made him let off the gas and throw the car into park. He killed the engine just as the hatch opened. Dot grabbed out the rest of her weapons and darted away.
T.J. threw the driver’s-side door open and slid to the ground, keeping the door as a barrier. Over the sound of the gunfire, he heard the terrified screams of a girl. Everything in him demanded he move toward the screams, but Dot had ordered him to the stable. She would handle getting the girl.
Logic dictated she be the one; it was evident that another man, despite rescuing her, was going to cause more problems for the girl than if Dot were to do it herself. His objective was the stable. Eriksson was Dot’s backup and Peters would be T.J.’s.
“They’ve scattered.” Dot’s alert came over the comms.
“Move out,” T.J. ordered. “Peters, with me.”
He peeled away from the door and hurried to the back of the Suburban, where he grabbed a second loaded shotgun and slung a shotshell bandolier crosswise over his body. T.J. drew his pistol as Peters materialized beside him, and they took off for the stable.
“Revach and another man with the girl are headed to the house,” Eriksson said. “Did anyone see Follman or Hassin?”
“Negative,” T.J. answered.
They hadn’t seen Follman leave the stable with the rest of the men. T.J. only assumed Follman had stayed for some reason.
Behind him, T.J. heard Dot make contact with the enemy. It took everything within him to not do a one-eighty and run back to help her. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. He had to disregard what she was doing and focus on his mission parameters.
He and Peters came to a stop behind the second unscathed SUV and waited. When no gunfire came their way, they broke from cover and ran for the building. Bullets chased their heels as they made the last few yards. They returned fire, then slammed up against the stable walls.
“Hassin is nowhere to be seen,” Dot relayed over the comms.
“Shit.” T.J. looked back at Peters, then looked around him. “I see a back door.”
Peters nodded. They left their position, firing in their wake, and rushed along the wall. T.J. exchanged his emptied pistol for the shotgun, readying it to use as a doorbuster. T.J. pumped a shell into the chamber, and fired two rounds into one hinge, and then fired two more rounds into the second hinge. He swung to the left of the door, readying to reload as Peters stepped back to kick it in.
Peters was waylaid before he could kick the door as a gun blast came from his right. Peters jerked and fell. Dead.
T.J. lifted the shotgun and pumped it as a figure started to come around the corner. He fired the final round just as the figure yanked back from the edge. T.J. tossed away the shotgun and grabbed the man’s hands as he whipped around the corner again. T.J. twisted the man’s hands upward, causing the gun to go off.
As they struggled for control over the weapon, T.J. met the man’s steely gaze and recognized him as the asshole who had been his and Dot’s escort slash handler the day the girls were loaded onto the helicopter.
Yonatan Hassin gave him a cruel smile. “You’re out of your league, American.”
“You just keep on believing that,” T.J. said through clenched teeth as he fought to keep Hassin’s hands and the gun pointed away from his body.
“I should have killed you that day,” Hassin snarled in his face. “Took that woman of yours and put her in her rightful place.”
“You talk too much.”
“And you are weak.”
“Fuck you,” T.J. roared and threw his substantial weight into Hassin, forcing the somewhat lighter man backward.
T.J. leaned harder into Hassin, propelling them behind the stable and into the open space between it and another building. Hassin swung his body around, veering them off course, and T.J. was thrown off-balance, jerking Hassin’s hands down with him. The momentum between them toppled them both to the ground.
Dust billowed into the air as T.J. skidded across the dirt. When he came to a stop, he swept his bulky frame around and froze. Hassin was already on his feet and raising the pistol he managed to hold on to.
T.J. scooped up handfuls of dirt and flung them at Hassin’s face. The dirt exploded. T.J. charged into the dust cloud and tackled Hassin midbody. T.J. felt something fly past his head. His tackle slammed Hassin into a wall, where he tried to pin him.
Hassin managed to free an arm and drove his elbow into T.J.’s neck. The right side of his body went numb. T.J. staggered back, and the other man drove his fist into the side of T.J.’s head, sending him reeling away.
Hassin grabbed T.J.’s arm and swung him into the wall. He rotated at the last second and let his shoulder absorb the impact. Hassin cupped the side of his head and tried to push it into the wall. T.J. resisted, instead headbutting Hassin. Hot liquid hit his face, and Hassin released him.
T.J. pushed Hassin, who’d managed to entangle his arms with T.J.’s and fell backward, dragging T.J. with him. The momentum of the fall threw him over Hassin’s body, and somehow the other man kicked up and propelled him farther. The impact with the ground rattled T.J.’s teeth and must have winded Hassin, as he’d released his hold.
T.J. lay there a moment, trying to catch his breath. With a groan, he rolled onto his side and spat out a stream of blood. He pushed upward and glanced over.
Hassin was coming at him, this time brandishing a knife. T.J. got to his feet and avoided the first two swipes by backing away, only to ram himself into the wall again. Hassin threw himself at T.J. He grabbed the knife-wielding hand and shoved it aside as Hassin leaned into his body, punching T.J. in the side.
Twisting to avoid more blows, T.J. freed Hassin’s knife arm and had to throw his body out of the way as Hassin took another swipe at him. The knife glanced off the wood wall, and Hassin bent forward.
T.J. punched him in the head once, then twice, forcing the man back and giving T.J. the space to get away from the wall. Having no weapon of his own, T.J. was fucked.
With a frustrated yell, Hassin rushed T.J., swiping the blade at his torso. T.J. smacked the knife arm away on the first swipe but missed the return and felt the blade slice through his forearm. They did this dance for five more steps, T.J. receiving two more slashes before he was able to capture Hassin’s knife arm and bend it backward.
The other man grunted as T.J. applied more pressure and propelled his body into the stable wall. He bashed Hassin’s knife hand into the wall repeatedly until the knife fell. Then T.J. stepped back and kicked Hassin into the wall.
Heaving, T.J. glared at the bloodied man.
“You’re supposed to be one of the good guys. You fucking prick.”
Hassin laughed and coughed up a wad of blood. “Americans. Always fucking things up.”
T.J. punched him. Hassin slid down the wall and sat on his ass.
“I’d rather fuck things up than be known as a kiddie rapist.” He spotted Hassin’s discarded pistol inches from his boot.
Hassin saw it too.
T.J. dove for it at the same time as Hassin. T.J. managed to grab the pistol and was wheeling around to aim when Hassin’s knife sliced across his calf. With a yell, T.J. reeled back and fired repeatedly into Hassin’s chest until the slide jammed.
Stepping back from the lifeless body, T.J. dropped the useless pistol. He wiped away sweat and staggered back to the stable, drawing his own pistol and ejecting the empty clip to replace it with a fresh one. He holstered the pistol, picked up his shotgun from next to Peters’s body, and ejected the last shell casing.
From the bandolero, he reloaded the shotgun. Once the last round was in, he placed the stock against the door and forced it open. The wood door fell off its blasted hinges and landed on the stable floor. T.J. stepped inside, giving the shotgun a pump.
“Follman, I know you’re cowering in here!”
A sound came from his right; he swung the shotgun that way, saw the armed man, and pulled the trigger. Follman’s bodyguard was thrown off his feet, and he slammed into a stall wall. His body made a slow slide to the floor, a path of blood streaking down the wall.
“Sounds like you just lost,” said a voice from halfway down the aisle.
T.J. set his shotgun aside and brought out his pistol. He stepped over the bodyguard’s corpse, wincing as his calf burned, and hobbled down the aisle toward the lone man standing in front of a barred stall.
“You?” Follman spat as he backed away.
T.J. grinned. “Yup, me.”
“Go ahead … kill him …” the voice said.
T.J. glanced inside the stall. The quick look was enough to make him see red.
“You must … be Titus.”
“You must be Caleb Podolsky,” T.J. responded, keeping all of his attention on Follman. “You don’t look good, man.”
“I’ve … been worse,” Caleb said.
“I doubt that.”
“What the fuck is this?” Follman demanded.
“This is two old war vets conversing,” T.J. said.
“You’ve messed in my affairs for the last time,” Follman snarled.
“Yeah, about that.” T.J. hacked up a wad of bloody snot. “It was never about you. Until you pissed off my woman.” He chuckled. “Shouldn’t have gotten into kidnapping little girls.”
“Just who the fuck do you think you are?”
T.J. licked his lips. “I’m the exorcist here to wipe out the devil.”
Follman jerked, a gun coming up from his side. T.J. fired before the man could level the pistol. Follman’s head rocked back with a neatly placed hole in his forehead and then fell backward.
“Any more in here?” T.J. asked Caleb.
“Only those two … and me. They have a young … Afghan girl … somewhere.” Caleb was beginning to slur his words. Something was more seriously wrong than being chained up in here and beaten, if the bruising on his face and upper body was any indication.
“We know. My partner’s getting her,” T.J. said as he holstered his pistol and threw open the stall door.
He avoided the pile of mess left in the hay and followed the chain to the anchor in the wall. It was bolted into the wood and looked manageable to remove with the aid of something sharp.
“There’s a key around here on someone,” Caleb said weakly. “Hassin probably has it.”
Maybe the dead man still had it on his body. T.J. would have to go look for it.
“Man, I can’t leave you in here.”
“Don’t waste any bullets on trying to get that out. Where’s Hassin?”
“Dead.” He was going to have get the key, but T.J. wasn’t about to leave the man unarmed, not with more men with guns still prowling around. He removed his pistol from the holster and held it out to Caleb. “I’ll be back.”
Caleb gave him a weak smile and nodded. “I know you will. You rangers never leave a man behind.”
T.J. gaped at him. “How did you …”
“I can smell one from miles away. You all have a certain swagger.”
“Hang tight. I’ll get you out of here,” T.J. said.
“I’m countin’ on it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dot and Eriksson reached the house only to duck down when the windows began shattering.
“Split up,” he said and headed left.
Dot went right, for the door where she and T.J. had seen a man exit earlier. She’d lost comms with TJ and had to trust that he was fine and taking care of business in his typical hell-bent fashion.
More gunfire ripped from the house, along with the girl’s screams. Dot lay flat on the ground and waited for the shooting to stop. When it ceased, she was up and moving in a low crawl toward the door.
“This doesn’t end well for you,” Eriksson yelled from the other side of the house.
He was rewarded with more gunfire directed his way.
Dot knew what he was doing—the man was smarter than he let on. The only thing bothering her about this whole scenario was the missing Hassin and Manbun. When she’d bailed out of the Suburban and the dust cloud blew up, she’d lost sight of them both.
She just hoped T.J. was handling one of them.
By the door, she quietly rose into a squat and rotated the Mossberg from behind her back over her shoulder into her hands.
“Might as well come out!” Eriksson’s voice echoed across the now-silent property.
Dot scanned her surroundings and found not a fidget of movement. The dust had long settled and revealed a few bodies of men scattered in the yard who hadn’t been lucky enough to escape a bullet.
By Dot’s count, there should potentially be five men left, and two of them, Follman and his bodyguard, were still in the stable. That left three unaccounted for, and Dot knew Revach and one of his men were in the house with the girl.
“You ready?” Eriksson’s voice in her ear put on her on point.
“In position,” she responded.
“I’ll draw fire. You go in,” he said. “Go.”
Dot bolted upright, plastering her body against the wall beside the door. Within seconds, gunfire rattled through the house. No bullets passed her.
She threw her body away from the wall and, with practiced precision, stepped back and kicked at the door jamb. The door blew inward. Dot followed it with her Mossberg raised.
There was a flicker of movement to her left. A tattered curtain fluttered. She heard the scrape of a boot against debris to her right and was on the move.
Through two darkened rooms into a short hall, she burst into what had been the kitchen. A man spun, weapon coming around. In the space between fully registering his face and Dot pulling the trigger, he flinched.
It was the one they had dubbed Manbun. He took the slug to the chest and flew back into the sink and cabinets. As he sank to the floor, his once-white shirt blackened with blood, his hair coming loose from the bun and falling across his face.
Dot turned away from him and went back to clearing the rest of the house. One down. One to go.
She touched her mic. “First floor is clear,” she told Eriksson.
“I’m coming in.”
A creak of the floorboards above sent her to the base of the staircase. From her position, she could see to the top where the floor teed. Two, possibly three rooms above.
Eriksson joined her and stared upward. “How do you want to play this?”
“I go first, you cover me. I think it’s Revach up there with the girl.”
“Lead the way.”
Taking the stairs with slow and light steps, she ascended, Eriksson one step behind her. The moment Dot’s head came in line with the floorboards she paused to get the lay of the land. Two bedrooms on each side and what looked to be the bathroom straight ahead. The doors were closed or mostly closed.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
Light came from under the bedroom doors but none under the suspected bathroom. Dot gestured for Eriksson to hold. If their target was in the bedrooms, he’d get antsy when neither of them made it up the stairs. If he moved toward the door, she’d see his shadow.
She pointed for Eriksson to hunker down, and she took a position to see back and forth between the doors. If the target was hiding in the bathroom, he might come bursting out.
Outside, the echo of gun blasts reverberated through her head. She recognized the gun. T.J. was alive and well.
Her attention never wavered from watching the bottom of the doors.
Another blast, a shotgun blast, followed the other rounds of gunfire. Someone had passed from this life.
Something flickered in the corner of the left side bedroom. Dot waited. There it was again. Her brain flashed back to the moment she’d entered the house—the flicker of a tattered curtain. The movements from under the door were similar.
Then came the creak.
Eriksson was on his feet. Dot rushed the stairs, and before the target could react, she kicked in the bathroom door. It slammed into a body, and there was a shriek from the girl.
Dot hit the deck, Eriksson following suit as the man fired through the door. Dot took stock of where the bullet holes were coming through, leveled her shotgun dead center, and pulled the trigger. The center of the door splintered, flecks of blood shot through the hole. There was a thud and the door swung shut.
