Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(98)
“Bull, it’s Reggie. I need a locate.” He muffled the receiver against his shirt and gave Brynn a sharp look. “You’ve got a trial to prep for. Better get to it.”
? ? ?
Erik Morgan was almost out when everything went sideways.
An earsplitting boom.
A billow of smoke.
He halted in the narrow corridor and adjusted the body that was slung over his shoulder. The air around him swirled with grit. Sweat seeped into his eyes. But he pushed the distractions out of his mind as he and his teammate moved into position.
Weapon raised, Erik darted around the corner, instantly spotting two silhouettes. To his right, a man holding a pistol. To his left, a teenage girl holding a cell phone. Erik fired two rounds at the guy, hitting him square in the chest.
“Clear!”
He ran for the door, stopping at the threshold to scan for hostiles.
“Clear!” he repeated, then took off down the stairs.
One flight. Two. A door slapped open above him.
Boom!
Dust rained down as Erik adjusted his load and kept moving. They were running out of time. He could feel it. More smoke, more shouting. He heard his partner’s footsteps behind him.
“Go, go, go!” someone yelled.
Boots thundered as four men carrying more than eight hundred pounds of dead weight bounded down the stairwell. At ground level, Erik stopped at the plywood door. His teammate kicked it open and peered out to scan the area.
“All clear!” Hayes yelled.
Erik followed him through the door, exiting the kill house with a cloud of smoke and dust. He sprinted the last fifty yards to a concrete barricade, then dropped to a knee in the dirt and lowered his load to the ground.
“Two minutes, forty-six seconds.”
Erik glanced up to see Jeremy Owen looming over him with a stopwatch. The former Marine sharpshooter did not look happy.
The man playing the role of Erik’s protectee groaned and sat up. “What the fuck happened back there?”
Hayes shook his head. “I couldn’t see.” He glanced back at the kill house, a building made up of rooms, hallways, and stairwells, where they practiced closed-quarters battle-and-rescue scenarios. Flash bangs and smoke grenades were tossed into the mix to ramp up the chaos.
Erik had watched Hayes work, and visibility wasn’t his only problem. Hayes’s protectee had a paint splatter on his shirt the size of a soccer ball. If they’d been facing live rounds, the man would be dead.
“Okay, everybody up,” Jeremy ordered. “Hit the hoses, and we’ll reconvene on the south range at 1500.”
Erik got up and helped his teammate to his feet. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm and glanced at the sun. It was ninety-eight degrees today—hotter inside the kill house—and his clothes were saturated.
Everyone grabbed their gear and moved out. Jeremy caught Erik’s eye and signaled for him to walk back with him on the trail.
“How’d it go with Becker?” Jeremy asked when they were deep in the woods.
Hayes Becker, twenty-six, of Roanoke, Virginia. As a team leader, it was Erik’s job to help evaluate candidates who wanted to join the elite ranks of Wolfe Security, and Hayes had made it to the final round.
“He’s not ready yet,” Erik said. “But he’s getting there.”
“What’s your take on his skills?”
“His tactical driving’s good. PT scores are off the charts. It’s his shooting that needs work.”
Jeremy grunted. “That’s the problem with these FBI hires.”
“So, we’re keeping him?”
He nodded.
They made their way along the running trail and O-course. Set among the towering East Texas pines, the course had been modeled after the SEAL obstacle course at Coronado. The pinnacle in terms of height and effort was a seventy-foot cargo net, which a couple of new recruits were clawing their way up right now. They wore olive-green BDUs to differentiate themselves from real Wolfe agents, who wore all black.
Erik reviewed this afternoon’s session, making a mental list of the areas where Hayes needed work. Any team they deployed on a job was only as good as its weakest member, and new hires either had to get up to speed or get out, simple as that.
“I’ll spend some time with him,” Erik said. “We can burn through some mags on the range, see if I can pinpoint his problem.”
“Good. I’ll give Liam the heads-up.”
Erik walked into the clearing as a silver BMW 5 Series sped by, leaving a cloud of red dust in its wake. It curved along the dirt road and pulled up to the sprawling log cabin that served as their business headquarters. A man climbed out from behind the wheel. Average height, medium build. From his Ray-Bans and suit, Erik pegged him for a corporate executive. Then the passenger door opened, and a woman stepped out of the car.
Erik halted. Her long, red hair caught the sunlight as she turned around. She wore tight black jeans and a silky white shirt, and she had a big leather purse slung over her shoulder. She was several inches taller than the guy with her, partly because of her mile-high heels.
“Who is that?” Erik glanced at Jeremy.
“No idea.”
They got all kinds of VIPs at the compound. Pop stars, politicians, athletes. Some of their clients were just ordinary rich people who’d picked up an enemy along the way and decided they needed protection. Judging from their looks, this couple fell into the last category. They mounted the steps to the building, peeling off their shades as they went inside.