he abandoned his post. He connected with his targets—head shots. Both men hit the ground, but not before heat streaked through his bare shoulder. The glass littering the floor cut into the soles of his feet, but he hardly felt it. Adrenaline had dimmed his pain receptors while heightening his other senses.
As his heartbeat steadied, he approached the two wounded men and swiftly kicked away any weapons lying in their vicinity. His gaze focused on the first man, a bulky Hispanic with a shaved head. Eyes wide open. Dead.
Fuck.
“Ohhh.”
The pain-laced moan had come from the second soldier.
Still alive.
The man’s breathing was ragged, wheezy, but his chest was rising and falling. Blood seeped out of both his kneecaps. The cries of agony that left his lips echoed in the suddenly silent house.
No more explosions. No more gunshots. No more grunts, shouts, gasps of pain. From the corner of his eye, Trevor glimpsed flashes of red and orange. The chopper. Engulfed in flames, a hunk of burning metal in the courtyard.
“I’ve got one alive,” he reported. “Status?”
“Four tangos KIA,” Kane reported back. His voice went dry. “Guess I’m a little trigger-happy myself. No sign of Holden. Making my way back to you.”
“Sinclair?” Trevor asked.
“We’re long gone. See you at the rendezvous.”
“D?”
“Heading to you.”
“Holden?”
No response.
“Hank?”
Silence.
Unease washed over him. Shit. Holden hadn’t checked in once since the ambush began, and Trevor couldn’t remember when Hank’s last radio contact had been. Where the hell was the guy?
Trevor got his answer when D’s grim voice filled his ear.
“Hank’s dead.”
A few minutes later, Kane and D entered the parlor from opposite directions—D from the back hallway, Kane through the front door. Both men took a look around and shook their heads in amazement.
Trevor didn’t blame them. The enormous space looked like a goddamn war zone. Bullet holes in the walls, smoke thickening the air, glass, debris, and blood staining the floor.
The soldier lying in the middle of the room moaned as Kane gave him a sharp kick in the side.
“Kneecaps,” D remarked, his coal black eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Nice.”
“Let’s get some answers from this motherfucker and get out of here,” Kane said in a no-nonsense tone. “You got this, D?”
“You know it, bro.”
The former Delta operative removed a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and gripped the ox-bone handle. Lithe as a cat, he crouched next to the injured man.
“Now it’s D’s time to shine,” Kane murmured.
“Who hired you?” D’s voice was harsh, but the movements of his hand were ever so soft and smooth as he dragged the tip of his knife along the curve of his prey’s clean-shaven jaw.
The soldier didn’t respond.
The blade danced its way down to the man’s left knee.
“You don’t remember, huh?” D said sardonically. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”
He dug the tip of his knife into the soldier’s shattered kneecap.
Though the resounding cry of anguish made Trevor cringe, he didn’t have anything against D’s method of persuasion. Sometimes extreme measures were necessary to get the job done.
And no matter how professional a man wanted to be, sometimes that need for revenge clouded every last bit of common sense. All Trevor had to do was remember Abby’s dull “We lost Lloyd” and D’s curt “Hank’s gone” and any sympathy he might have felt for the wounded man in front of them left his body like dirty bathwater spiraling down the drain.
“Who. Hired. You.” D’s tone was deceptively calm, but the look in his eyes could have terrified even a bloodthirsty animal.
The next silence earned their prisoner a stab in the right knee.
Another scream sliced through the parlor.
Shrugging, D glanced up at Kane. “Time to start cutting off some limbs?”
“Lassiter!”
The hysterical shout echoed in the air, making
As his heartbeat steadied, he approached the two wounded men and swiftly kicked away any weapons lying in their vicinity. His gaze focused on the first man, a bulky Hispanic with a shaved head. Eyes wide open. Dead.
Fuck.
“Ohhh.”
The pain-laced moan had come from the second soldier.
Still alive.
The man’s breathing was ragged, wheezy, but his chest was rising and falling. Blood seeped out of both his kneecaps. The cries of agony that left his lips echoed in the suddenly silent house.
No more explosions. No more gunshots. No more grunts, shouts, gasps of pain. From the corner of his eye, Trevor glimpsed flashes of red and orange. The chopper. Engulfed in flames, a hunk of burning metal in the courtyard.
“I’ve got one alive,” he reported. “Status?”
“Four tangos KIA,” Kane reported back. His voice went dry. “Guess I’m a little trigger-happy myself. No sign of Holden. Making my way back to you.”
“Sinclair?” Trevor asked.
“We’re long gone. See you at the rendezvous.”
“D?”
“Heading to you.”
“Holden?”
No response.
“Hank?”
Silence.
Unease washed over him. Shit. Holden hadn’t checked in once since the ambush began, and Trevor couldn’t remember when Hank’s last radio contact had been. Where the hell was the guy?
Trevor got his answer when D’s grim voice filled his ear.
“Hank’s dead.”
A few minutes later, Kane and D entered the parlor from opposite directions—D from the back hallway, Kane through the front door. Both men took a look around and shook their heads in amazement.
Trevor didn’t blame them. The enormous space looked like a goddamn war zone. Bullet holes in the walls, smoke thickening the air, glass, debris, and blood staining the floor.
The soldier lying in the middle of the room moaned as Kane gave him a sharp kick in the side.
“Kneecaps,” D remarked, his coal black eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Nice.”
“Let’s get some answers from this motherfucker and get out of here,” Kane said in a no-nonsense tone. “You got this, D?”
“You know it, bro.”
The former Delta operative removed a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and gripped the ox-bone handle. Lithe as a cat, he crouched next to the injured man.
“Now it’s D’s time to shine,” Kane murmured.
“Who hired you?” D’s voice was harsh, but the movements of his hand were ever so soft and smooth as he dragged the tip of his knife along the curve of his prey’s clean-shaven jaw.
The soldier didn’t respond.
The blade danced its way down to the man’s left knee.
“You don’t remember, huh?” D said sardonically. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”
He dug the tip of his knife into the soldier’s shattered kneecap.
Though the resounding cry of anguish made Trevor cringe, he didn’t have anything against D’s method of persuasion. Sometimes extreme measures were necessary to get the job done.
And no matter how professional a man wanted to be, sometimes that need for revenge clouded every last bit of common sense. All Trevor had to do was remember Abby’s dull “We lost Lloyd” and D’s curt “Hank’s gone” and any sympathy he might have felt for the wounded man in front of them left his body like dirty bathwater spiraling down the drain.
“Who. Hired. You.” D’s tone was deceptively calm, but the look in his eyes could have terrified even a bloodthirsty animal.
The next silence earned their prisoner a stab in the right knee.
Another scream sliced through the parlor.
Shrugging, D glanced up at Kane. “Time to start cutting off some limbs?”
“Lassiter!”
The hysterical shout echoed in the air, making
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