Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(92)

Cohen followed.

The men swiveled, tracking us.

They were professionals—early to midthirties, athletic builds, all of them wearing a casual uniform of cargo pants and black T-shirts. No Kevlar—which suggested a careless degree of confidence. They stood with their feet apart, rifles snugged comfortably into the meaty part of their shoulders as they leaned ever so slightly forward, mirrored sunglasses glinting in the light.

Only their taut jaws betrayed any uncertainty.

I tightened my forearm against Almasi’s throat. “Their weapons. Tell them.”

Almasi said, “Put down your guns.”

“Bad idea, ma’am,” said one of the men. A Latino with close-cropped hair and a tattoo that snaked out from under his sleeve and twined around his forearm and wrist.

“Almasi.” I pressed the gun harder against her skull. “Be convincing.”

“Put down your weapons!” she said in a voice that promised to flatten everything in its way.

“Ma’am, we can’t—”

“Now!”

The men eased their guns to the ground—at least the guns we could see.

“Now, flat on the ground,” I said. “Good. Lace your fingers behind your heads and cross your ankles.”

The men complied.

“Any of you so much as breathe hard,” Cohen said, “I will shoot you.”

I imagined Dougie’s voice in my head. Shoot each one. Back of the head. Do it fast and get out.

I pushed Laura down to her knees and crossed to the two closest men. I collected their rifles and slung the straps over my shoulder. Then I patted them down and found three more pistols. I cleared the guns and tossed the ammo in one direction, the guns in the other.

I approached the third man. He lay farther away, near the end of the passageway between the trailers, where the corners led to blind spots. As I approached, he looked up.

“Eat dirt,” I said.

He lowered his head.

With the Glock extended, I checked each corner—nothing. I turned back toward the third man, then heard a faint scuff in the dirt behind me. I spun around as a bearded man moved into position from the far side of the trailer, his location blocked from Cohen’s line of fire.

He grinned at me over his pistol. “Drop the gun. Now, hands up.”

I lifted them. Strapped across my back, the rifles clanked together.

Cohen said, “Don’t move,” to one of the men. Then, “Sydney?”

“I’ve got this.”

“Bit of a troublemaker, aren’t you?” The bearded man was still grinning. Maybe thinking about his bonus in next week’s paycheck.

Training, I told myself. It was all in the training.

I kept my eyes on the man as I curled my fingers in toward my palms. A crease appeared between his eyes. But he didn’t have time to puzzle it over.

Clyde rocketed out from beneath the trailer and sailed across the ground, his lips peeled back in a silent snarl. The man screamed as Clyde leapt and sank his teeth into flesh. My partner’s momentum drove them both to the ground, Clyde a furious storm on top.

The man yelled a string of curses. He still had a grip on his gun and was trying to work it under Clyde’s belly.

I scooped up the Glock.

“Out!” I yelled to Clyde.

The man kicked and thrashed, his heels pounding the ground.

“Clyde, out!”

Always the toughest part of the job—getting a Belgian Malinois to let go of his prey. But Avi and I had drilled Clyde on this over and over, and this time Clyde heard me. Or maybe he heard my desperation.

He released the man and danced away.

The man raised his pistol, his focus still on Clyde. I fired. The bullet plowed into his navel, ran up his chest, and exploded out the back of his spine. I fired again. The second bullet entered below his ribs and exited his shoulder in a bloody spray.

He twitched, then lay still.

I spun around. The other three men remained prone. Someone muttered, “Shit.”

“You good?” Cohen said as I approached.

“I’m good.”

I hauled Almasi to her feet. She was red faced and sweating, strands of hair clinging to her damp cheeks, her eyes bright with fury.

“I need the keys to one of the SUVs,” I said.

“Fuck you.”

“I still have those pliers.”

Her eyes promised one thing. That someday I would be at her mercy. And she would have none.

She pointed with her manacled hands.

Clyde and I walked over to the man she’d indicated, a hulk with white-blond hair, and dug my toe into his stomach. “Keys?”

He ground out the words. “Right front pocket.”

His right hand edged down.

I pressed the Glock to the back of his neck. “Don’t.” I crouched, slid my hand into his pocket, and pulled out the keys. Clyde and I returned to the trailer.

“Let’s go.”

I was looking back at the three when a hole opened between the shoulder blades of the man with the white-blond hair, accompanied by the meaty smack of high-velocity metal drilling flesh. From somewhere east of us came a soft pock, like the sound of champagne popping.

The man twitched, then lay still.

Almasi dropped to a crouch, hands over her head. Cohen shoved me against the trailer wall. “The hell?”