When the last bolt dropped, Gibby bent the mesh as quietly as he could. It took time; it was harder than it looked. “You first.”
He pulled the mesh as high as he could off the floor, and Chance slipped through like a greased ferret.
“Here, take this.”
Chance took the pressure, and Gibby forced himself into the gap. He was larger, but made it through with only a few cuts and scrapes. Dusting himself off, he said, “I’ll never look at a dog pound the same way.”
“Whatever, man, I’m calling you Houdini from now on.”
“Not yet. That door’s locked from the outside.”
Chance checked to make sure. It was solid steel, and seriously locked. “So what do we do?”
“A lot of dangerous stuff in here. I guess we find something sharp, and kill the bastard.”
Chance waited for the punch line.
It never came.
“You check over there.” Gibby picked up a scalpel, gripped it like a knife, and then put it down when he found a larger one. “Anything?”
Chance opened a few cabinets. “I found bleach.”
“Check that big chest.”
“It’s a freezer.”
“Check it, anyway.”
The freezer door went up. “Um, Gibby.”
“Yeah?”
“No. Seriously.”
Chance’s face should have been warning enough. It wasn’t. Gibby crossed the room, and stared down. “Oh, Jesus.”
“That’s somebody’s leg.”
Gibby closed his eyes, but the image wouldn’t go. Plastic, frost, those things that were beneath …
“Oh shit,” Chance said. “I think that one is somebody’s head.”
“Close it, please.”
Chance did that, too.
Behind them, a key grated in the lock.
For a moment, time stopped, then Gibby charged the door. It opened, and framed the small man—same gun in his hand—and there was a moment of pure comic genius: his face when he saw what was about to happen. Because Gibby was big and fast, and not about to slow down. He tucked his shoulder, and hit chest-high, one hundred and ninety pounds of pissed-off, shit-scared, eighteen-year-old with a very strong desire to live. He drove the little man back through the door, and they went down in a tangle, Gibby on top, and trying hard to stab a man somewhere it actually mattered. He had little luck, and no time at all. The gun went off, maybe into the dirt. Gibby rolled right, and the world exploded again, powder grit and fire as the gun lit off ten inches from his face.
Still alive, though.
Chance must have been close behind, because the next three shots went into the basement, then the little bastard was up and running. Gibby tried to stop him, but couldn’t. He was half-deaf, half-blind.
“Chance?” He stumbled back into the basement. “Chance? You alive?”
“Yeah, believe it or not.” Chance straightened as he stood, ten feet from the door and big as life. “That dude cannot shoot for shit.”
Jason’s plan had always been a simple one: distract Reece, then get in quickly and quietly, but very quickly and very quietly. Reece was a predator, and even predators could panic. Usually, that meant a hard run in a straight line, but Reece was the crazy kind of predator; and crazy was hard to predict. So Jason kept one eye on the house, and the other on the cops. His father was agitated and uncertain; they all were.
Right now, that was good.
The more the better.
And the cops were coming faster, too. Not a car here or there, but three or four at a time, light bars strobing. Jason waited for critical mass, then rolled left, and dropped over the wall. Best he could tell, the camera angles were almost perfect, but not quite. There were blind spots, and he used them, quick but smooth, stopping if he thought he needed to. He couldn’t go straight at the house, and remain unseen. It was more like, Twenty feet due north, then ten more at a diagonal. He stopped more than once to get his bearings. It made for slow going, but the house was close, tall and massive, with multiple wings. That was the tricky part—not just getting inside but finding his brother, and getting back out before the cops worked up sufficient nerve to storm the gate.
He was counting on the time.
And the alarm codes.
If the codes were bullshit, he’d have to improvise, but he was good at that. Violence, speed, sudden changes to whatever plan had blown up in his face. It was a skill set he’d honed in three years of war, the difference between living and dying, going home empty, or getting the job done. In all those hard years, Jason had learned to not expect much from the world, but sometimes it could be a giving place.
Kind of.
When the shots came, they were close, two quick blasts, followed by three more. Jason took off at a dead run. No pain, no thoughts of pain. He had a location, but knew these things, too: it was doubtful Gibby had the gun, and the cops would for damn sure be coming in. Jason weighed his options in terms of seconds, not minutes. He went hot on the M16.
Five seconds, straight ahead.
Left at the corner.
He made the turn, weapon up, and saw Reece in full flight for the back wall, a perfect silhouette twenty yards out and running in a straight line. Jason could put one in his skull, count one Mississippi, and still have time to put another in his heart, all before he hit the ground. He didn’t do it, though, and that hesitation surprised him. Maybe it was because he was tired of killing, or because there were a million cops beyond the gate. Maybe it was for X, or because Reece deserved something more than a clean, quick death. Whatever the cause, Jason’s finger came off the trigger. When he lowered the gun, he saw his brother, standing with Chance outside a basement door.
“Jason? What are you doing here?”
“Kid, it’s a long story.”
“What’s that noise?”
“That would be Dad and about a hundred cops. I suspect they’re taking down the front gate. Either of you hurt? Either of you shot?”
Gibby blinked.
And Chance blinked.
Jason had seen it before in raw recruits. “You’re in shock. You’re going to be okay, but I have to move, and you have a choice to make.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“It’s this simple, little brother. Wait for Dad or come with me. There’s no wrong answer, but you need to decide right now.”
“Where are you going?”
“Not far and not for long.”
“I’ll come with you.” No hesitation.
“Chance?”
“I go where he goes.”
“All right, then.” Jason slung his rifle as the gate came down. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”