Deadlock (21 page)

She hurried to the corner and pressed her back against the wall. She smiled back at Dillon and Macie. Catching the light from the eating area and utility room windows, their faces looked pale, their eyes glistened with concern. She glanced around the corner. The garage opened to the side of the house. The driveway made a ninety-degree curve toward the screen. From where she stood, a tall potted evergreen blocked most of her view of the drive.

I can do this
, she thought.
I have to.

She took in a deep breath and let it out. Did it again.

Then she slipped around the corner.

THIRTY

Anton kicked the shoulder of the cop on the ground. The guy didn't move, but Anton put two more rounds into his back anyway. He looked through the interior to the open driver's door. Another cop was sprawled on the street on that side. The police-band radio squawked in a half-dozen excited voices. He didn't need to listen to know they were coming. The sirens were howling like wolves, making their way to the kill.

Anton backed away from the car, throwing glances up and down the street. A few heads in lighted windows, someone on the porch of a house half a block away. He considered taking a quick shot at the guy, see if he could do it. The helmets helped with targeting but could do nothing about shaking hands or bad shooting technique.

He let the thought go and scoped out the house. Front door open—Emile had fired on the cops from there—window beside it shattered, dark windows where front bedrooms probably were. No sign of Emile now.

Anton jogged to the van. The windshield was all but gone, holes pocked the body panels, but the tires appeared fine and the radiator wasn't steaming. He opened the driver's door and stopped. Something had moved in the shadows beside the garage. He lifted the barrel of his machine gun. He stepped closer. He could make out the huge rectangle of the garage door, a plant on either side. Everything else was shadow.

He squinted at the far plant. It swayed gently, as though in a breeze. But the other one was still.

He pulled the trigger.

The bullets ripped off the top of the evergreen. Twigs and needles rained down on Laura. The stucco over her head erupted, adding dust and sand to the debris on her head and shoulders. She pulled in a harsh breath but forced herself to clamp down on the scream pushing out of her lungs. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed.

Here it comes
, she thought.
He's going to correct his aim and blast me away.

She hoped Dillon wouldn't hear, wouldn't come running. When he found her, she prayed the bad guys would be gone.

She pressed her back to the wall, trying to disappear right into the stucco.

Run? Stay?
The words cycled in her mind like a flashing beacon.

Running meant giving the man a definite—but moving—target. Staying made her a sure hit, but only if he really knew she was there. She hoped he had been only trying to scare someone out of hiding.

When the next burst of gunfire didn't come, she leaned forward. The gunman, dressed like the others in black clothes and helmet, had turned to a van parked on the street at the bottom of the drive. He opened the door and climbed in.

Logan was not lying on the drive, as she had feared. But he could very well be
inside
the van.

She sawed her teeth over her bottom lip. If he
was
in there, she could not rescue him, not right then. All right, so between them, she and Dillon had killed one soldier and captured another. But an assault on a guarded vehicle? That was entirely different. She had to believe Logan was still alive, and that meant they wanted him for something. Laura would have another opportunity to get him back safely.

Believe that,
she told herself.
Hold on to it. Because if you don't, you're going to do something stupid. Then you'll get yourself killed and probably Dillon and Macie too.

She stared at the van, picturing the boy lying on the van's floor, crying and scared.

Stop!

Okay, okay. Logan, I'm not abandoning you, I'm not. I'll find you, I promise.

She slipped around the plant and back to the garage wall. She slid through the shadows until she came to the side door. She opened it and stepped into the dark garage.

Hutch's XTerra sat in the center of the wide space. When they had returned from the zoo earlier that day, she had backed in, because that's the way Hutch parked. It had been awkward in the curving drive and unfamiliar garage, but now she was glad she had done it. She went to the driver's door and opened it. The keys were still in the center console's cup holder, where she had left them. She checked the rear seat to make sure the soldiers had not put anything there.
Like Logan's body.

The thought forced its way to the front of her head. She pushed it away. The interior was empty.

She went to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. She walked to the front of the garage, found the dangling red handle, and disengaged the door from the automatic opener. She manually opened the door—slowly and quietly. By the meager light of a neighbor's porch fixture and a far-off streetlamp, she made sure no one had slashed the tires or stashed a body in the garage.

Another siren filled the night air like a wailing banshee. Close. Tires squealed. Laura peered out of the garage. The soldier hopped out of the van. He darted behind a tree. He crouched, arced around the trunk, and rattled off a stream of bullets. Another machine gun fired, this one coming from the front of the house.

Laura slipped out of the garage and ran to the backyard.

“Mom!” Dillon said. “I thought they were shooting at you!”

“More cops showed up,” she said. “Let's get out of here while the soldiers are distracted.” She hoisted the soldier onto her shoulders. “Follow me. We have to be fast and quiet and stick really close to the wall.” She looked directly at Dillon. “Got that?”

He nodded.

She pointed to the rifle, arrows, and bow. “Make sure none of those hits anything.” She turned to Macie. “Can you do this?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She peered around the corner. The soldier had taken cover behind the van. He had a knee on the bumper and was leaning out to fire. She ran into the garage. Macie came in next, then Dillon. She nodded at the XTerra. “Get in. Shut the doors quietly.”

She dropped the soldier into the rear cargo area. She flipped him over and pulled his hands behind his back. She retrieved one of the zip ties she'd taken from his utility belt and pulled it tightly around his wrists. Then she slowly lowered the hatch until she heard it click. Sliding in behind the wheel, she said, “Seat belts.”

Dillon, in the front passenger seat, had moved the weapons from his back to the footwell. The machine gun was on the floor, and the bow extended up over the center console. The seat cushion had pushed the bulletproof vest up past his ears. He looked like a shy turtle.

“You can take that off,” she told him.

“I'm okay.” He tried to find the seat belt, but the vest restricted his movements too much.

Laura leaned past him, snagged the belt, and fastened it. She caught Macie's face in the rearview mirror. Laura thought again of Logan. He was probably in the van.

She could think of nothing else to do.

The firefight out front was going full blast.

She couldn't storm the van—not and live. She couldn't ram the van with Hutch's XTerra—not without risking harm to Logan.

She inserted the key.

All she could do was what she was doing: getting everyone else out of there, saving who could be saved.

She started the engine and put the car in gear. She rolled out of the garage, turning away from the street. When the truck came off the driveway, onto the backyard grass, she punched it. The wheels spun, grabbing for traction. The vehicle propelled forward. She clipped a trash can. It clattered against the front quarter panel and spun off.

In the mirror, she saw a soldier running toward them. He took aim.

“Everyone down!” she said.

The kids ducked their heads. Macie whimpered.

Laura flipped on the headlights in time to see three saplings disappear under the front end. The lights splashed against the wood planks of the back fence, growing more focused and brighter as they sped closer.

Dillon yelled. He covered his head with his arms.

They crashed through. Boards splintered and flipped over the hood and windshield. The SUV bounded over something. It crossed the yard in ten seconds and took out another fence. Laura was glad to see an open stretch of grass to the next street. She had not considered the possibility of running into a car or motor home parked beside the house behind Hutch's. Too many things to think about.

They bounced over the sidewalk, then the curb. In the street, Laura braked. She turned the wheel left, accelerated, and didn't stop until the XTerra needed gas in a Colorado mountain town called Idaho Springs.

THIRTY-ONE

Logan shook the glass out of his hair. He tugged at his wrists. They weren't budging, bound behind his back to a brace in the van's side wall.

Okay . . . they're going to kill me. I don't know why, but they are. No, no, I'm a kid. They don't kill kids. They don't. Oh yeah? What about that Bruce Willis movie? The one with the autistic little boy—younger than me. He knew too much, and the whole movie they were trying to kill him. Really splatter him, shoot him, run him over, throw him off a building. But what do I know that's worth killing for? Nothing! Probably easier to kill a kid than a man: not as strong, can't fight back as well, smaller body to get rid of.

Stop it! Stop it!

He forced himself to think about his injuries. His scalp felt torn where the man had grabbed his hair. He wanted to rub it, but couldn't. His right cheekbone ached. It had struck the floor when he'd been tossed into the van. His shoulders throbbed from the wrenching they'd taken getting tied up. He gritted his teeth against the pain. He poked his tongue at the tape over his mouth. He tasted adhesive, but the grip on his lips would not loosen. He tried to scream—his throat was raw from doing it so many times: a high-pitched whine reached his ears, nothing anyone else could hear. Especially not with all the gunshots.

It felt like forever since he had heard the first sirens and felt a surge of relief. The man in the driver's seat had scrambled out, and the shooting had started. Bullets had hit the van like baseballs. The windshield had shattered. It had seemed to continue shattering, spraying glass into the van, for a long time. Certain a bullet would rip through the metal and strike him, Logan had curled himself into a ball and pressed his face against the cold steel floor. He had screamed and screamed, not to draw attention, but to focus on something other than what was happening around him.

When he heard the door open again, he realized the gunfire had stopped. He had craned his head, hoping hoping hoping to see a rescuer. His stomach had cramped at the sight of the helmeted driver sweeping his hand over the seat to clear the glass and clambering inside. More sirens had swooped in. The man had jumped out, and it had all started again.

Now the driver climbed in once more. He snapped his head around to look at Logan. The helmet swiveled away, then returned, as if the man expected him to have vanished.

Logan's eyes felt so wide he thought his eyeballs would fall out. He wanted to yell,
Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me? Where are you taking me?

The man checked his machine gun, swapped ammo clips from a bag between the seats. He spoke—not too muffled for Logan to make out the words: “Command! Command! Come in. What's happening? Ben! Emile! Michael!”

He shook his weapon as if demanding answers from it. He spotted something through the side window. He said, “Okay, okay, Emile, I see you! Who's that? Emile!”

The rear door swung open. A man, helmeted like the driver, stood looking in. He carried someone over his shoulder, just butt and legs showing.

“Emile!” the driver said. “Who is it? Where's—? Who you got there?”

The man at the door—Emile—heaved the body in. It landed beside Logan. Wetness splattered Logan's face. The body rolled toward him. Wide eyes stared at him. The mouth was frozen in a scream. The teeth were coated in blood, which had spilled out, smearing most of the man's face. A stick jutted out of his neck. More blood.

Logan reeled away, kicking. He tried pulling in a breath through his mouth, found nothing. He shifted the effort to his nose. Along with the air came liquid. He smelled blood. He jerked his head back and cracked it against the van wall. He felt a hand clutch his ankle, holding it tight.

Emile was scrambling in. He tossed something forward.

Logan's eyes followed it. When it landed on the ammo bag, it rolled back and clunked to the floor: another helmet.

Emile unslung his machine gun, tossed it onto the bag. The driver grabbed it and put it on the passenger's seat. Emile leaned back to slam the rear door shut.

“Oh crap, man, crap!” the driver said. “Is that Ben? What happened? Is he—?”

“He's dead,” Emile said. He rolled the dead man onto his back. He slapped at his own chinstrap and yanked off his helmet.

His youth surprised Logan. His friend Josh's brother was in college. This guy looked about the same age.

Emile leaned close to the dead man's face. His fingers slid over the bloody neck, stopped. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, he's gone.”

The driver's head swiveled back and forth. “Where's Michael? We have to go. We have to go before more cops come. What happened? What was that strike order, dude? I thought this was a recon job.”

“Go,” Emile said. Crouching beside the body, he stretched his neck to see beyond the front seats and out the shattered windshield.

“But Michael . . . is he down too? He went off-line before the cops came. We need to get his body.”