Page 180 of Protecting You
It was a tiny island, not even a mile across at the widest point.
Callan strode at a brisk pace down a deserted street toward the south side. He, Bartlett, and Gavin all carried flashlights, making a point to not look like they were trying to hide.
The moment they’d hopped from the deck to a sidewalk, Grant had peeled away. Within seconds, Callan had lost him in the wild grasses among the dunes.
He, Gavin, and Bartlett had passed a line of beach houses, crossed a cobblestone street, and now wove among businesses in the center of the island. There were no cars here, the roads built wide enough to accommodate passing golf carts.
A convenience store. A restaurant. A souvenir shop. All more shacks than buildings, built to withstand the weather but not necessarily protect anyone from it.
Bartlett was in the lead. Gavin walked beside Callan, who carried a tool box that had been emptied of tools and filled with weapons and ammo.
Gavin carried a duffel bag, also filled with munitions. They were meant to look like handymen, Bartlett, an owner come to guide them to the property and explain the job.
The timing was bizarre—who would start a repair project after dark on a Saturday night? It didn’t make sense, but they hadn’t been able to come up with a better plan. They were banking on this going down too fast for Ghazi to think it through.
Ghazi was a fast thinker, but with the cops at his door, he might not know in time to stop them.
More miracles, Lord.
None of them held guns, knowing the drone that they couldn’t see would detect weapons if they showed them.
Callan was careful not to pat the pocket of his jacket, which hid not only his bulletproof vest but the Glock Malcolm had provided, which he’d stowed in the pocket.
The wind was cold, a good excuse to move quickly. Not fast enough. He wanted to sprint. He wanted to barge in and start shooting enemies, starting with Ghazi.
It was killing Callan, knowing Peri and Alyssa were so close.
Which was why Bartlett was setting the pace.
“Slow and steady,” the man muttered as if he could feel Callan’s impatience. “The closer we get before they know, the better.”
Yeah, yeah. He understood.
Didn’t make it easier.
In his ear, the lead on the scuba team said, “Cops are at the door.”
This was it. They’d get the men surrounded, get them to surrender.
Ghazi would agree, or bullets would fly.
It was imperative that the good guys disable and disarm the bad guy. Take out the enemy before they could take out the innocent.
That was the goal.
“Door’s open,” the scuba team leader said. “Cops are inside. We’re moving.”
Still, Bartlett didn’t pick up speed.
“Shouldn’t we?—?”
“Slow and steady,” the annoying man said. Then he nodded ahead. “There are the beach houses.”
Callan saw the line of shacks.
Flashlights moving among them. That would be the police, the decoys they hoped would keep the terrorists’ attention until they and the scuba team could get into position.
“It’s that one,” Bartlett said. “Where the light’s shining.”
