They did not have to wait long for the armed men to begin their assault. Glass broke at the front and back of the house. The sofa nearest the front door crashed into the living room. Two men entered through the window.
Hardy waited until the first man was inside. He fired three times and the man dropped to the floor, his leg hanging on the windowsill. The second man had one foot inside and could not back out soon enough. Hardy shot him twice in the head. The man’s body went limp and lay over the windowsill. Gunshots sounded to the right.
Special Agent Cruz fired on intruders at the back of the house. One man came in through the window over the kitchen sink. She shot him twice. When he did not go down, she fired two more times and he dropped onto the sink, his body sliding over the edge and landing on the floor. A barrage of gunfire came from the kitchen window. Chips from the stone fireplace flew in all directions and Cruz took cover, pressing her back against the chimney.
Gunfire came from the window in the living room. Bullets punched holes in the wall above Hardy’s head. He dropped to the floor, got into a prone position and returned fire. The bolt on his rifle locked open. Jettisoning the spent magazine and yanking a fresh one from his jean pocket, he jammed it into the rifle and released the bolt. “How we doing over there, Cruz?”
She leaned out and saw a man inside the kitchen and a second one jumping off the sink. Not having enough time to acquire a sight-picture, she extended her weapon and fired several times before the men disappeared from sight. Getting Hardy’s attention, she pointed two fingers at her eyes before holding up those fingers and motioning toward the main floor.
Hardy nodded and ran toward her in a low crouch. Back to back, they leaned against the chimney. He peered around the corner and had a clear view of the front window. Focusing on the wall facing the top of the stairs, he saw light from the kitchen window shining on it. Shadows danced on the pale-colored surface. The dark images moved, growing bigger. He held off as long as he could before pivoting his body around the chimney. His rifle up, he pressed the trigger six times, sending three bullets at each man.; the first one fell forward, while the second clutched his chest and toppled over backwards, his rifle discharging when he landed. Pivoting back behind cover, Hardy saw a man attempting to enter through the front window. He took careful aim and pressed the trigger once. The attacker disappeared from sight. Incoming rounds slammed against the chimney, which did not afford much protection for two people. Cruz’s body was pressed against Hardy’s back. He ejected the rifle’s magazine. Eight rounds left.
Cruz spun around and fired, until her weapon’s slide locked open. More men climbed through the kitchen window. Tapping the magazine release button on her pistol, while slipping her fingers under her shirt, she grabbed a full magazine and elbowed Hardy. She held up the magazine, “Last mag,” before inserting it into the pistol and running the slide forward.
By his count, Hardy had killed four or five attackers. “How many have you shot?”
“I got at least two. There are more inside the house, now.”
Hardy watched the wall at the top of the stairs for shadows. They were low on ammunition and there were still a half-a-dozen armed men nearby. His sat phone’s speaker squelched. A deep and muffled voice bellowed from his pocket. “Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. Do you copy—over?” Shepherd was Hardy’s call sign.
Cruz spun her head around. “What was that?”
Hardy dug out his phone. “Bigfoot, this is Shepherd. I hear you loud and clear—over.”
Cruz stared at Hardy. Shepherd? Bigfoot?
“Shepherd, be advised AR-1 has a fix on your position. We’re two minutes out. What’s your situation—over?” Bigfoot was the call sign for Tom Henderson. He was the leader of AR-1, an assault and rescue team created by Director Jameson to provide support for Hardy when he was on missions. Jameson had dispatched AR-1 soon after getting the call from Charity. The team had been conducting training in Little Rock, Arkansas and he wanted the team close in case they were needed.
Bullets came through the second floor hallway, sending faint beams of light toward the ceiling. Cruz drove her body harder against Hardy, nearly pushing him beyond the cover of the chimney. “They’re firing through the floor.” She leaned out and fired over the railing.
“We’re on the second floor. OpFor,”—opposing force—“is on the main floor, all heavily armed.” More bullet holes appeared in the floor; one a few inches from Cruz’s leg. Hardy yelled above the gunfire. “We’re pinned down and running out of ammo—over.”
“Roger that, Shepherd. We’re coming to you—over.”
Hardy jammed the sat phone back into his pocket, spun out from the chimney and emptied his rifle at the first floor figures. One man ducked into the bathroom, while a second took cover in the main floor bedroom. A third dove to the floor, but Hardy doubted the man had been struck by a bullet. He reeled around and rammed the last magazine into the rifle; a partial—two rounds left. Cruz and he did not have the two minutes AR-1 needed to get there. He spotted Cruz’s duffle bag on the floor. Kneeling, he rummaged through its contents. Grabbing a road flare, he rushed past her. “Get ready to cover me.”
Hardy went into the first bathroom and re-emerged with several folded bath towels. He ignited the road flare and held it up to a towel. “Cover me.” Cruz moved to the corner of the chimney, nearest the stairs. One by one, he lit and tossed the flaming towels over the railing, hoping the fireballs would dissuade the attackers from coming up the stairs. Adding to the blaze, Hardy tossed the road flare over the railing.
Cruz and the first floor gunmen exchanged gunfire, stone chips spitting at her face. Taking cover behind the chimney, she felt a sharp pain on the right side of her stomach. Her back to the chimney, she closed her eyes and crinkled her nose. The pain shot up the right side of her body. Her stomach was on fire. Hardy approached and she held up her empty weapon. “I’m all done.” Her arm fell to her side and the weapon slipped from her grasp.
Moving around her, Hardy relinquished his rifle. “You’ve got two rounds.” He withdrew his Cold Steel Recon 1 tactical knife, locked open the blade and assumed a fighter’s stance at the corner of the chimney. Crouching, he squeezed the knife. Come and get some, you son’s-of—