Читать книгу Under the Gun - Lyn Stone - Страница 7

MISSION: Olympus

Glenfield, N.J., Nov. 12

“Hey, Holly,” Will Griffin said into his collar mike as he winked at his brother. “The gig’s a wrap. This was the right location, after all. Send the recovery teams over here and sweep up. Matt’s calling in his crew.”

“Roger that, Will,” she answered, her heavy sigh audible in his ear. “Big relief. See you in fifteen.”

He cut contact and sucked in a deep, fortifying breath of night air. It stank of cordite mixed with the breeze from a nearby cabbage field.

“That girl’s got a bad crush on you, bro,” Matt teased. “When are you planning to give her a break?”

Will laughed, adrenaline pumping through his system. “Can’t play where I work. Rule number one.”

“Aw, man! You better leave her team then and come on back to work with me. Keep wasting time and you’ll be too old to do anything about it.” He chuckled. “We look enough alike. Think she’d go for me?”

“You lay off Holly.”

“Strike the word off and it’s a deal,” Matt quipped.

Will ignored that and deliberately changed the subject. “Wonder why this guy Odin didn’t show tonight. He’s supposed to be a Cauc and all these guys are foreigners.” He glanced at the bodies.

Matt shrugged. “No reason to get his hands dirty doing grunt work, I guess.”

Odin was the code name for a mysterious man who supposedly was outfitting a group of terrorists with weapons, in this case a cache of easily transportable missiles and also a crate of submachine guns confiscated off the streets by the local police.

Will looked at the little prop plane he had just exited after checking out the shipment. Surface-to-air Stinger missiles stolen from nearby Picatinny Arsenal filled the passenger section, where the seats had been removed.

Three of the gang lay dead on the runway, another was propped unconscious, cuffed hand and foot, against one of the wheels. There were two more near the delivery truck. They wouldn’t be transporting any more SAMs or anything else unless the devil put them to work.

Will checked the nifty little MP5K Heckler and Koch submachine gun slung from the strap over his shoulder. “Barrel’s still hot as a firecracker,” he muttered as he reloaded.

Matt put down his weapon on the tarmac and started ripping off his Kevlar vest. “I’m sweating like a mule in harness. I hate wearing these damn things.”

They were covered head to toe in black. It might be November, but even at 11:00 p.m. it was muggy as hell and felt like the moon was giving off heat. Will yanked his knit mask off and wiped his brow with it.

A movement near the hangar caught his eye. “Down!” he warned Matt just as the figure popped off three rounds. He saw the fire, heard the reports and the thunk as one shot pierced the metal fuselage of the plane. Nine-millimeter handgun, he guessed, whipping up his automatic to sweep the area.

Rapid fire erupted. “God, this is it!” Matt cried, and threw himself in front of Will, crashing into him, knocking him flat. Will’s weapon spat rounds to one side, striking the aircraft.

This is it. His brother’s words rang repeatedly, like thunder in his head, fading slowly to a whisper and then to absolute silence. Matt was hit.

Will tried but couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not apathy, exactly, just resignation. Warm blood oozed across his eyelids.

Matt lay across his chest, heart against heart. Same beat. It felt familiar. Like back in the womb maybe, when they’d been crowded together waiting to be born.

Me first again. The cocky words were Matt’s and only in Will’s mind, their connection a twin thing long accepted. Will desperately wanted to argue, but something distracted him. Someone was approaching. No sound. No sight. He just sensed it somehow.

He wished it were Holly and the team, but he knew better. There would be no goodbyes. Matt was right. This was it.