He’s got a Glock 45 in a shoulder holster, a KA-BAR combat knife on the same shoulder kit. Jeans, well-worn combat boots, and a tight black tee. Everything about his presence and appearance screamsoperator, and a competent one at that. His eyes tell me he’s seen the same shit I have, and I just know instinctively this is a man I can respect.
I extend my hand. “Kane Sutherland.”
He grabs mine and shakes it with a firm grip—nothing to prove, just a good solid handshake. “Zane Badd.”
Rev gets a handshake, next. “Name’s Rev. Good to have you, Zane.”
Zane eyes us, grinning. “Not used to being the small one in a group, Jesus.”
Rev grins, giving a low chuckle. “Let’s go get this shit done.”
Zane holds up a finger. “Told you I’d find you guys something in terms of gear.” He produces a pair of collapsible batons from his back pocket. “Not much, but better than nothing. Xavier’s security guys had these, let me borrow them.”
We’re both familiar with them—a cushioned handle about the size of an umbrella handle, you flick your wrist and twenty-four inches of steel shoots out, with a solid knob at the tip providing counterbalance weight for a good hard swing. They’re technically nonlethal self-defense, but in reality, they’re damned effective weapons.
“Better than nothing,” I agree.
He grins. “You two swore an oath—I didn’t. So if shit gets hairy, let me do my thing, yeah?”
I nod, grinning back. “I like that plan.” I turn and gesture. “The target is the house two from the end, blue with white shutters, black sedan on the street, SUV in the driveway.”
We’re all serious, now.
“Zane, since you’re armed, I’ll let you take the front door. Rev and I will come in through the rear—I’d guess they’ll have her in a bedroom, most likely, but no way to know for sure. We’ll be focusing on incapacitating as many as we can as fast as we can. You locate Anjalee and get her moving. I’ll deal with Jiwan myself. We’ll wait to go in the back until you’ve gone in the front. Plan?”
Zane nods. “Works for me.”
Rev just lifts his chin.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s move. See you on the inside, Zane.”
He tosses a two-finger salute and sets off in a fast, easy lope, angling to the sidewalk. Rev and I cut through a yard, hop a fence, and jog along the alleyway—some of the houses are set farther forward closer to the street, allowing them a few feet of backyard along the alley, and others are set farther back so they have a front yard with the back doors opening directly to the alley. The variance either way is only a few feet, though. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I figure most occupants are gone, at work. I do see a few folks on back porches, smoking cigarettes and eyeing me with obvious suspicion.
We halt about a dozen feet from the target—this is one that’s set back to the alley, no backyard, just a tiny back porch, barely big enough for a bistro table and a pair of rusting wrought iron chairs. The storm door is closed, the interior door as well. The windows are barred, as is the storm door. We snap out our batons and creep up to the back door—moving slowly and gingerly, I try the door. Unlocked. Tug the storm door open, try the inner door—locked. The frame is old, faded, cracked wood, the knob cheap, the lock flimsy—a good boot and it’ll open easy enough. Rev puts his back to the storm door, bracing it open, ready.
I wait.
I hear a crash—Zane booting open the front door. And then, hell breaks loose.BAM—BAM—BAM!The shots are quick and precise. They’re followed by a barrage of wild firing—BAMBAMBAMBAM—BAMBAMBAM.
Two more of Zane’s precise single shots—BAM…BAM.
I kick the door in, planting my boot just left of the knob—the frame splinters, the door flies inward, and I move aside, let Rev dart in. I’m close on his heels. We’re in a kitchen, old and rundown, stuck in the 70s, with buckling laminate flooring, chipped and peeling Formica counters. Through the open doorway, a hallway—stairs at the entrance leading to the bedrooms above, a dining room to the left, and a living room to the right. I move to the stairs—two bodies on the floor at the foot of the stairs, bleeding from the gut. Not instant kills, but they won’t make it without medical attention. They’re out of commission, though. Another downed target in the dining room, and another in the living room. All gut shot.
My dude doesn’t fuck around, clearly.
Rev grins at me, reading my mind. “I like this guy.”
“Same.” I consider grabbing one of the guns on the floor, but I know my rage is still banked and simmering, so I choose not to.
I sprint up the stairs and find Zane in a bedroom doorway, body mostly behind the frame, pistol held in both hands, aimed around the frame. “Got a sticky situation here,” he says.
I move beside him into the open doorway—reckless, perhaps. Jiwan, with Anjalee held in front of him. He has a pistol aimed not quite at her. He could shoot her, or he could whip it around and shoot us.
The fucker is movie star handsome. His hair is thick and black, slicked back neatly, perfectly, not a hair out of place. Artful stubble trimmed with razorblades precision along his cheeks and at his throat, symmetrical features. Dressed in a three-piece charcoal suit, white button-down, no tie. His dark eyes are dead, cold.
“Kane, please no.” Anjalee looks at me. “I will not risk your life. It is why I came with them.”
“And I’m not leaving you with this fuckin’ pussy-ass jackal piece of shit.”
