In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(35)

“We will start soft. We have plenty of time,” he said. “I’m an artist, you see. I like a long, slow buildup. Tell us about The Sword of Cain.”

She dragged in a huge breath and screamed, with everything she had. All her horror and fear and anger, from the depths of her being. She screamed, in his face. His mouth was open, he was yelling back, but she just kept on screaming. She might never stop.

He shoved her underwater.

The world went blue, shot through with red, her lungs already empty from screaming. Her lungs jerked in agony. Her torso was overbalanced, shoved down headfirst. She flopped and writhed, but that cruel hand held her down. Airless, frantic. Drowning.



Sam peered through the swaying tree boughs that draped the rotten, fragile roof upon which he was stretched full length. Trying not to slide down, not to make a sound, to catch a clear glimpse of the sentry by the open door. Breathing down his panic. He’d never panicked before. He turned ice cold when things got dangerous. He had a reputation for it. He didn’t sweat, his heart rate didn’t go up. His colleagues envied him that quality. It had never failed him.

Until now. His heart was crawling up into his mouth, and his bowels churned. How anybody could think clearly or handle lethal weapons responsibly in this condition, he did not f*cking know.

Didn’t matter. Scared shitless or not, he was all Sveti had.

He dragged himself up off his belly, easing into a crouch behind the cover of pine branches that draped the roof. The van was parked right below him. The building he was on looked like a derelict barn from the first half of the last century, paint peeling, wood faded to gray. In front of the barn, on the other side of the van, was a small cinder-block building, of newer make, but just as derelict.

He had not seen them unload her. They must have done that while he was making his approach on foot. Lucky their team was small, and that they weren’t expecting company. The front entrance that looked down the road was the only approach they bothered to guard.

He tried not to think about what was happening inside.

The sentry was smoking a cigarette, a walkie-talkie on his belt, a ski mask, an H&K PSP in his hand. Sam had a clear shot. He could cap the guy, and was tempted to do so, but with no suppressor, he’d lose the advantage of surprise. This had to be quiet, or he’d get Sveti killed.

It had taken fifty minutes to get here. The roads were deserted; he’d been forced to hang back and risk losing them so as not to be noticed. If he shot the sentry, he could use the guy’s cell to call the cops, assuming there was coverage, but it might take the local guys a half hour just to find this place, let alone get on top of things.

No. It happened now, and fast, or not at all.

At least he wasn’t dealing with high security. The place had the feel of an impulse decision. The owner would be absentee Joe Schmoe from Phoenix, or somebody dead with no heirs, property in limbo.

His face itched under the mud he’d smeared on it as he reviewed his strategy. All he had to work with was what he’d gleaned from his car, the detritus of an out-of-work loser. Bottles he hadn’t bothered taking to the recycling center, the gas in his tank. He’d half-filled an empty whiskey bottle with premium unleaded, ripped off the lower half of his shirt, wound it around the bottom, knotting it and soaking the dangling end of the rag in the bottle for a fuse. He corked it, leaving the bottle top free for flinging. His hands stank of gasoline. He’d be lucky not to self-immolate. A hostage situation, and he was reduced to a f*cking Molotov cocktail. Problem was, it would make noise, too.

His leather jacket would have given him more camouflage than his light gray sweatshirt, and the smartphone in the pocket would have given him fifteen experienced cops to back him up.

This was what he got for being a goddamn gentleman.

If he could get that guy into a better position, he’d have a chance of jumping him. Sam lobbed the chunk of rotten wood he’d found on the roof, aiming for the cinder-block wall. It thudded dully against the wall. The sentry’s head jerked around at the sound. He held still, listening. Slowly, he sidled closer to investigate. Sam willed the guy to follow the right trajectory. So much hung on pure, random chance. He f*cking hated it.

Closer . . . closer. A gut-wrenching female scream ripped out from within the building. Sam lit the fuse, with trembling fingers, and let the bottle fly. The scream continued as the bottle sailed through air.

Crash, breaking glass against the cinder-block wall, then the whump of ignition. The sentry stumbled back with a startled shout, and Sam leaped as he reached for his walkie-talkie. He landed on the guy, smacking him to the ground. The walkie-talkie dropped. The H&K flew out of the sentry’s grip, bounced, spun.

They rolled on the ground. Sam came out on top, but the guy was wiry and quick to recover. He smacked the heel of his hand up under Sam’s chin. Sam jerked back in time to avoid the elbow rake across the throat. The sentry twisted free. They bounded to their feet, and Sam blocked a roundhouse to the thigh and spun, deflecting a punch to the face. A grab, a rush, and the guy went down again, Sam on top.

The man’s legs wound around him, struggling to flip him. Sam grabbed the guy’s biceps to pin him, wrenched loose, and slammed his fist down into the guy’s groin. He howled. Sam shoved the man’s legs aside and half-mounted the f*ckhead’s chest. An elbow strike into his face, a knee strike to the temple. He pulled away, panting. That guy was done.