Rising Tiger: A Thriller (82)

As Carbon dove for cover, the two men he had been hunting stepped into the doorway wearing chest rigs and carrying CZ Scorpion EVO 3 A1 submachine guns.

Somehow they had not only managed to evade him and sneak up on him from behind, but they had also completely upgraded their equipment. That was why the cigar smoker’s jacket was on the bed. It was much easier to throw a chest rig on over a shirt. They probably had gear stored in the foil-wrapped SCIF.

The bullets from the Scorpions rained down like liquid fire and reverberated throughout the stone room like amplified thunder.

Everything was being torn up. Chips of stone, plaster, and splintered wood choked the air. Carbon was pinned down and had yet to return fire.

The two men took turns shooting, each covering the other while he reloaded. For the assassin, it was like being the target of some crazed helicopter gunship.

It was relentless. The intensity of the rounds coming at him was off the charts. These guys obviously had one very specific rule of engagement—no survivors. It explained the scale of devastation from the antipersonnel devices in the woods. In short, the Carlton Group didn’t fuck around.

Neither did Carbon.

Transitioning his pistol to his left hand, he slid a fragmentation grenade from the equipment belt beneath his jacket, removed the pin, and prepared to hurl it toward his attackers, but he couldn’t pull his arm all the way back. Something was wrong.

Looking down at his shoulder, he saw that it was drenched in blood. He had been shot.

He set his pistol in his lap, visualized the distance to the hallway, and, using his left hand, tossed the grenade through the oncoming fire.

It bounced against the doorframe, landed on the threshold, and before the two men could scramble to cover, detonated.

The hail of shrapnel had been close enough to do serious damage, but not close enough to kill them.

Carbon had used the explosion to scramble into the Troll’s side of the his-and-her bathroom. He needed a towel, antiseptic, and medical supplies, but all of that would have to wait until he was sure he had neutralized the threat.

Passing through the other bathroom, he found a door that was open onto the hall. Both men were slumped against the wall, bleeding as bad as him. Their weapons lay nearby, but not in their hands.

Still deadly accurate, he stepped out of the bathroom with his pistol in his left hand.

“Who else is on the property?” he demanded. “Who’s on their way?”

Davis looked at him and smiled, weakly. “Everyone is on their way. They’re all coming.”

“Where’s the man they call the Troll?”

“Never met him.”

Carbon kept his eyes locked with Davis, turned his pistol on Hauptmann, and shot him in the stomach.

The Marine roared in agony and struggled to get to his rifle. The assassin, his ears still ringing from the gunfight, kicked both weapons away and relieved the men of their sidearms.

“I’ll ask you one last time,” he said. “Where’s the Troll? Tell me, or the next round goes through your colleague’s skull.”

Suddenly there was a voice from behind. Someone had climbed the stairs, but he hadn’t heard them coming.

“I’m right here, motherfucker,” Nicholas taunted.

The man spun, raising his weapon. Nicholas, however, was faster and shot him through his other shoulder, causing him to drop his gun. Davis kicked it away.

Then, signaling Argos and Draco, Nicholas gave them the command to attack.





CHAPTER 52


The driveway in front of Nicholas’s home had become a sea of black Suburbans, red-and-white ambulances, and multicolored law enforcement vehicles.

Had Nicholas not returned home when he did, had he not ignored the orders of the two agents accompanying him to wait for backup, had he not released the dogs and charged upstairs, Davis and Hauptmann wouldn’t have made it. They owed Nicholas their lives. And Nicholas knew they would have done the same for him. They were family.

The timing of his return had been fortuitous, to say the least. He had only come back to pick up some things for Nina and return to the hospital. It had been an incredibly difficult night.

Exposure to the Havana Syndrome device had sent Nina into painful, premature labor. She had screamed the entire flight and had almost given birth on the helicopter.

Nine minutes after arriving at Walter Reed, she delivered a baby girl. They had decided to name their daughter Caroline, after Nina’s deceased sister, who had also been a dear friend to Nicholas.

But before either of the parents could hold their newborn baby, the infant was transferred to the neonatal intensive care unit with heart and breathing issues.

None of the doctors knew what was wrong with her, nor whether it would be permanent. Nina was the first pregnant woman to have ever been struck with Havana Syndrome. Both she and Nicholas were beside themselves.

In the chapel that had come with the house, he did something he had seldom ever done before: he got down on his knees and prayed.

He prayed for Nina, he prayed for their baby, and he prayed for the strength they would all need going forward.

Then, exiting the chapel, he set his mind on revenge. No matter who was behind these attacks, he vowed to make every last one of them pay.





CHAPTER 53


NEW DELHI

Upon hearing the rack of the slide, Harvath had turned around. He was just in time to see the manager of the Laid Back point his shotgun at Vijay.