The Final Day (After, #3)(66)

“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.

There was more gunfire from outside, several long, sustained bursts, and he waited, the seconds dragging into minutes. Makala was by his side, curled up, sobbing. He did not dare to look over at her for even a second, all attention focused on the staircase. To add to it all, he could smell something burning, and smoke was beginning to curl up from the stairwell.

“John! John and Makala!”

The voice was high-pitched, frantic.

“It’s Grace Freeman! For God’s sake, please answer. Please!”

Long-ago training. They take one of yours, put a gun to their head, and get them to cry out. He didn’t budge.

“The house is burning. My God, sir, where are you?”

He could hear someone running in the corridor downstairs, continuing to shout his name.

There was a pause, and then the stairs up to the attic began to creak. He was still holding the Glock, a weapon where the safety was built into the trigger. Just apply a few extra pounds of pressure, and it would go off again.

A head appeared, hard to distinguish due to the ever-increasing smoke.

“John and Makala?”

“Grace, don’t move,” John hissed, still not sure if she was being pushed forward by an attacker, but he had to take the risk of replying.

She looked his way.

“Are you safe?” he whispered.

“Damn it, sir, this house is burning. We gotta move.” She cried. “We got the place secured. Come on! Come on!”

John reached down, pulling Makala to her feet, Grace coming around to Makala’s side to help.

It was no time for questions as they headed for the stairs. John paused for a second, looking around. He saw an old shirt dangling from a clothes rack, tore it off, and covered Makala’s face, shouting for her to take a deep breath and then hold it.

With Grace leading the way, they fumbled down the stairs. John guided Makala around the body sprawled out by the attic door. A round had caught his would-be assassin just below the nose, and he thought to actually pause to see if the man was still alive. Smoke was pouring out of the master bedroom. Makala was clutching his hand tightly and dragging him along, guided by Grace. With a cold sense that even if the man was alive he would be dead anyhow in a few minutes from that wound, he left the body behind.