Читать книгу Beneath The Surface - Meredith Fletcher - Страница 12

Before Drago could pull the trigger on the pistol, Shannon kicked him in the crotch. The big man staggered back and remained standing.

That surprised Shannon. She’d felt certain the kick would have put Drago on the ground. Seeing him still standing wasn’t good.

Drago cursed at her and tried to take aim again.

Moving on instinct, Shannon grabbed her opponent’s hand in both of hers. She wrapped his thumb with her left hand and wrapped his pinkie with her right. She pulled and twisted, hoping to break either the finger or the thumb.

Despite the hold she had on him, Drago was simply too strong. He curled his hand into a fist again and nearly trapped her hands. The whole time he cursed at her.

Adrenaline slammed into Shannon. She soaked it up, knowing it would help her only momentarily, then leave her weak.

Instead of trying to maintain her grip and lose the battle only a little slower, Shannon kicked Drago in the crotch again. He partially blocked her with a thigh, but she still struck home. Another yelp escaped his bared fangs.

Panicked now as the pistol swung back toward her, Shannon let go with her right hand and raked her nails across Drago’s face. Bloody furrows opened up across his right cheek and eye. She thought she might have gotten him in the eye, as well.

He screamed and it came out unbelievably high-pitched. But he stumbled back and fired the pistol. The report sounded incredibly loud in the enclosed space. Partially deafened, Shannon turned and fled to the door.

Be open! she thought frantically. She couldn’t remember Drago locking the door. Her hand closed around the doorknob. She twisted and yanked. The door came open in a rush.

Another shot banged out and a vibration shivered through the door. A hole opened up only a few inches from Shannon’s head. She shoved through the door and stumbled out into the hall.

High-heeled sling-backs are so not made for running. Shannon still gave her effort her best, though. Out in the hall, she kicked out of them and ran barefoot. I can come back for the shoes. Right now I just need to find a cop.

Gunfire broke out ahead of her.

The bartender went for something under the bar. Rafe pulled the expandable baton from its holster, pressed the release button and felt the weapon chug as it moved instantly from seven inches in length to sixteen.

“Rafe,” Allison said. “What’s going on?”

“Butt out,” Rafe said. “I’m busy.” Praying that his knee held together and the brace kept it strong, Rafe twisted around and smashed the baton across the bartender’s wrists.

A cut-down double-barreled shotgun dropped from the bartender’s hands. Rafe only caught sight of the weapon for an instant. The bartender tried to back away. With the baton’s extended reach, Rafe leaned over the bar only slightly and whipped it against the side of the man’s head.

The bartender’s eyes rolled up into his head and he sat down hard. Rafe would have been willing to bet that the man was out before his butt hit the floor.

In the mirror, Rafe saw that the man at the table had gotten his gun out.

The man didn’t offer a chance for last words or even spend any of his own. He pointed the pistol, not even bothering to aim.

Rafe dived over the bar and hoped it was made of good wood. His leg quivered, and he thought for a moment it was going to buckle under the effort and his weight. His rehab trainer had told him the knee was going to come back slow.

He didn’t quite clear the bar, but he managed to get up on top of it. He rolled across as the guy tracked him with the pistol. Bullets missed him by inches. He rolled over the edge and dropped.

More bullets pounded the bar but didn’t penetrate. Bottles behind the bar shattered. Alcohol leaked down from the shelves and pooled on the floor. The worst of it was the broken glass. Slivers embedded in Rafe’s flesh and raised dots of blood.

He ignored the pain and lunged for the shotgun. His hands curled around it and his finger came to a rest on one of the double triggers. Instead of trying to rise up and become a target, he stayed prone.

The man at the table called out to Rafe. “You still alive back there?”

Rafe didn’t answer. C’mon. Step out here and give me a target.

“You moved too quick, buddy,” the man said. “Tells me you come in here expecting trouble. You ain’t no dockworker.”

Rafe watched both ends of the bar. He caught a glimpse of movement at the end that fronted the hallway leading back to the bathrooms and storage area. Allison had also uploaded blueprints of the bar to the notebook computer he had in the car.

A quick swivel brought the shotgun muzzle around to cover the spot. He almost pulled the trigger when he spotted the face peering around the corner. Then he caught sight of the blond hair.

Shannon Connor stared at him with fear-rounded eyes.

“Get out of here!” Rafe ordered. “Run!”

She fled at once, and bullets tattooed the corner of the wall where she’d been standing.

Shoe leather scraped the wooden floor at the other end of the bar. Rafe tracked the noise with the shotgun, leveled it with a snap and squeezed the trigger.

The swarm of pellets slammed into the chest of the young man drawing a bead on Rafe. The impact knocked him backward. He continued the fall to the floor without a sound.

An alarm sounded in the back. Rafe assumed Shannon Connor had escaped through the rear door. The alarm was from a panic bar.

The man who’d been sitting at the table cursed. More bullets hammered the bar.

“I’m alive and mobile,” Rafe said out loud. He knew Allison would be wondering. He didn’t know how she sat on the other end of the connection without saying a word. “Shannon’s running for it. Out the back way. See if you can find her for me while I get out of here.”

“I will,” Allison said.

Rafe found he was more concerned about the woman than he was about himself. He’d been through similar situations in the past. As far as he knew, this was Shannon Connor’s first gunfight.

When she’d seen the man lying on the floor with the shotgun so near another man who was dead or unconscious, Shannon’s panic had buried the needle and she’d gone on overload. She’d taken martial arts while at Athena Academy and had liked them well enough to keep up her abilities by visiting several dojos in different disciplines. She’d never stayed with any one long enough to get a black belt, but she knew she could take care of herself.

She whirled back from the corner of the wall and heard bullets strike it. By then she was running barefoot for all she was worth. She flew past the opening door where Drago was attempting to stumble out.

As she reached the back door, she swung a hip forward and crashed into the panic bar. The emergency alarm screeched to life immediately. Then she was out in the alley.

The air was muggy and still. Fog off the Potomac River, which had given the neighborhood its name, streaked the night.

She turned to the right, judging that street was closer, and ran. The asphalt lining the alley tore at her feet. She ignored the pain because she knew Drago and the other men would be following. She had no doubt about that.

There in the darkness, Shannon wished she could find a policeman. Or her car. Either would be fine.

Rafe grabbed a bottle of whiskey that had fallen to the floor and miraculously hadn’t broken. Still lying on his side, he laid the shotgun over the crook of one arm, grabbed the bottle, opened it, poked a bar towel into the long neck and turned the bottle upside down.

The alcohol poured out and soaked the bar towel. A small pool grew under the upended bottle.

“I think maybe we should talk about this,” the man called out.

“I’d be happy to.” Rafe fumbled in his pants pocket for the Zippo he carried. He wasn’t a smoker. But every good field agent always kept something on his person for starting fires.

“Could be we got off on the wrong foot.”

“It’s possible. I got two left feet.” Rafe knew the man was waiting for Vincent Drago to come from the back. If the man did, they could catch him in a deadly crossfire.

Rafe didn’t intend to wait around for that to happen. He flicked the lighter and held the flame to the alcohol-soaked bar towel. A blue-and-yellow flame crawled up the material immediately.

“Are you a cop?” the man asked.

Now we have time for Twenty Questions? Rafe couldn’t believe it.

“No.” With a quick twist, Rafe lobbed the Molotov cocktail he’d made over the bar and in the general direction of the men.

“Get down!” a man yelled.

Rafe shoved himself to his feet. There was less pain than he’d expected, but it was growing sharper and biting deeper. On the other side of the counter, the whiskey bottle shattered. The alcohol caught fire with a distinctive bamf.

During the confusion, Rafe stood and raised the shotgun to his shoulder. As soon as he saw the big man spinning toward him, Rafe blasted the man with the final shotgun round.

The big man sailed backward and dropped bonelessly into the fireball taking hold on the floor. Rafe wiped his prints from the shotgun and scooped the baton from the floor. He assumed Allison would want a clean crime scene. And if he was questioned about his involvement by law enforcement officials later, he had some latitude in the story he’d tell.

A quick rap and a push collapsed the baton. He replaced it on his belt as he drew his pistol and pointed it at the last surviving bar patron.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, man!” The third man threw his pistol across the room and laced his hands behind his neck as he hit his knees.

He’s got prior knowledge of the position, Rafe thought. He spun and went to the hallway Shannon Connor had come from. He paused at the corner. His leg functioned smoothly enough, but the pain was aggravating.

No one was in the hallway.

Rafe locked his hands in the familiar push-pull grip he’d been trained to use with a semiautomatic pistol and went forward in profile. His steps were smooth and controlled, as if he hadn’t been gone from the work for almost two years.

Perspiration trickled down his forehead and into his eyes. Some of it was caused by tension, he knew, but some of it came from the pain in his knee.

He crept up on the storage room door. If Shannon had come from back there, it stood to reason that she wasn’t alone. And Vincent Drago hadn’t put in an appearance.

When he whirled around the door frame and peered inside, though, the room was empty. He hurried on to the alley and peered in both directions. There was no sign of Shannon or Drago.

Damn it.

“You there?” Rafe asked Allison.

“Yes.”

“They’re in the wind.”

“Get your car.” Allison’s voice sounded crisp and calm. During the years Rafe had worked with her he’d never seen her lose it.

Rafe hesitated only a second. Was she telling him to get the car because she didn’t trust his leg to hold up? Had this been a mercy mission after all?

And if it was, what the hell had gone wrong?

He growled a curse and went back through the bar. The third man was long gone, but that was fine. Loyalty wasn’t a big requirement among the crowd Drago ran with.

“Put the fire out,” Allison said. “According to the fire code, there’s a fire extinguisher behind the bar.”

Rafe complied automatically. He’d noted the fire extinguisher himself while he was behind the bar. Allison’s thoroughness didn’t surprise him. Agents’ lives depended on her eye for detail and quick thinking while in the field. He’d been trained that way himself.

“What about the woman?” he asked.

“I’m searching. I’ll find her. You’ll need transport to get her clear.”

“I’m not going to leave her in the lurch.”

“Neither am I.”

Rafe knelt and felt his knee burn with the effort. He barely kept a cry of pain to himself. This was why Medical wouldn’t put him back in the field. And part of the pain was because he avoided putting too much pressure on the leg. He didn’t want it to come completely apart on him again.

“What about the local police?” He grabbed the fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, aimed the nozzle at the fire and squeezed.

White foam enveloped the alcohol blaze. The flames went out at once. Only a black scorch mark and a few tendrils of smoke remained.

“The police are on their way,” Allison said calmly. “You have no cover for this op.”

Rafe figured that from the quiet way Allison had contacted him.

“If you get caught, we both burn for this one,” she added.

“So I won’t get caught. And if I did, I wouldn’t give you up. That’s not my way.” Rafe felt a little angry. After North Korea, she should have known that.

“I know. I was just mentioning the stakes.”

“Find Shannon.” Rafe caught his slip too late. He couldn’t believe he’d referred to the woman by name. But over the past three weeks of observing her in New York, then following her here, he’d felt as if he’d gotten to know her.

He’d even started wondering what it would be like to talk to her. They had a lot in common. Shannon Connor had her work and didn’t invest anything in her social life. She’d had a boyfriend, according to Allison’s files, but that evidently wasn’t still going on.

Sometimes he’d even fantasized about inviting her to dinner. After all, she wasn’t a hardened criminal or a foreign agent. As far as he could tell, Shannon Connor was just a woman in trouble. His impulse was to keep her safe. And he definitely couldn’t have told Allison that was going on.

Face it, he told himself. You may be washed up for fieldwork. Physically you’re still a wreck. And you’re supposed to keep emotional distance.

That scared him. He didn’t know what he was going to do if he didn’t have his work. The last few months had nearly killed him. He didn’t like thinking about what might have happened if Allison hadn’t called.

After wiping the fire extinguisher down, Rafe jogged through the door toward his car. Sirens screamed into the night. A crowd of people from another bar and a pizza place flooded two street corners under street lamps.

“I’m gonna have to lose the car,” Rafe said as he swiveled and slid behind the seat. “There are too many potential witnesses. And cameras.”

“The car’s not going to be a problem. I can make the car disappear.” Allison’s voice calmed. “I found your target.”

Rafe pulled the transmission into Drive and dropped his foot onto the accelerator.