Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he practiced motions of a man who had been through this a hundred times before, and would likely do so again if he survived, could actually be felt. Muscle memories were the kind that never really went away. It was where the term “like riding a bike” came from. Sometimes, the things you learned simply came to you automatically. He no longer even had to think about it. Drop the empty mag, pull the new one from his pocket, and slap it in, and the slide would slip forward automatically to chamber a round. It all happened in less than a second before he resumed fire.

There was a problem, of course. He’d only brought three magazines, and this was his last. Savage knew that planning for the worst-case scenarios was always the worst way to go about this kind of operation. He’d told himself that bringing more—like maybe the shotgun he’d bought from Max—would only be useful when the mission had already gone so pear-shaped that it didn’t really matter.

Well, things were definitely pear-shaped now, and they fucking mattered, and he really wished he’d brought something with more firepower than a Glock. He had nothing against it, but as of that moment, he merely tried to stay alive as bullets peppered across the wall he currently used for cover. He was really relieved that they hadn’t skimped and had used actual concrete instead of simply drywall. Then again, most buildings still needed actual walls, so maybe it wasn’t only luck.

He adjusted his grip on the pistol and whipped around the corner again as he tried to locate the position of the enemy. There had been seven of them at the beginning. One was wounded and two more were dead. He’d made sure of that. They didn’t wear any kind of body armor, thankfully. Then again, neither did he. He still had the other four to deal with, and a finite number of bullets with which to do so. Seventeen, to be exact.

Two of the men were exposed and moved in search of cover as they approached the door. Savage held his weapon steady and took his first shot. One dropped and clutched his throat and the second spun as the bullet caught him in the arm.

In that precise moment, the operative realized that he’d made a mistake—to put it bluntly, a big tactical boo-boo. He froze as one of the men emerged from cover. The attacker was too close for it to have been a coincidence. How had these guys decided which of them would die or be wounded so one would have the chance to get in close to their quarry?

The logic behind it was more than a little weird, he thought as the man launched himself forward, faster than he could turn his weapon on him. The aggressor didn’t bother to slow and, instead, lowered his head and careened his shoulder into Savage’s midsection in a powerful and painful tackle.

If this had been a football game, flags would have flown. Roughing the passer. Fifteen-yard penalty. First down. He really needed to watch the game again.

As they landed in a violent tangle of limbs, a twinge of pain skittered from his still recovering ribs as they were put under pressure again. The blow drove the breath out of him, and he struggled to bring his weapon to bear on the man who now lay on top of him. The whole damn adventure would enable the other dumbasses to close the distance as well, but that couldn’t really be the problem he had to focus on right away.

He realized that while he attempted to ready his Glock, his adversary did the same with his sub-machine gun. The weapon was a Mini-Uzi, by the looks of it, but with the modifications that transformed it into a small pistol that could shoot six hundred rounds a minute with more reliability over longer distances.

Not that accuracy was needed in that situation. Savage snatched at the man’s wrist to twist it up and away from his head. He gasped and cringed away from the heat from the muzzle as three rounds fired right beside his ear. The flash blinded him, and the sounds deafened his ears, but he struggled to bring himself back from it. His mind was stunned, but some deep instinctual drive forced himself to continue to raise his own weapon while he forced the gun in the man’s hand away from him.

His assailant grunted suddenly, and his body jerked. It seemed his comrades weren’t willing to wait for their man to move out of the way. They were there to kill the intruder and didn’t seem to care enough about one another to stop them from shooting anyone to get to him. He wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or horrified—or maybe some weird combination of both?

Pain seared in his right shoulder and he flinched instinctively. One of the team had managed to shoot around their dead comrade and actually hit him. It was a graze but damn, it was painful—painful enough to make him mad.

Savage realized that he’d fired his Glock at the man above him, and he had absolutely no idea how many bullets he still had in his weapon.

Then again, there was a way to find out. The body was still in place on top of him as a meat shield. It wouldn’t last, of course, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of the situation for as long as he could.

He adjusted his grip on his weapon, tried to aim around the heavy corpse, and pulled the trigger twice. One of the three men who pushed closer dropped with two bullets through the chest. His teammate behind tried to back away but lurched as one of the slugs exited his comrade and lodged in his stomach.

That was the end of the good news, the operative realized when his gun clicked empty.

The last man standing stared at him and actually seemed amused by the death of the men around them. Savage shoved aside his very dead human shield and scowled at his adversary as he scrambled to his feet.

“Empty?” the assassin asked mockingly, and his smile widened. He raised his weapon toward the ceiling and pulled the trigger a couple of times. The soft click went almost unheard over the way his ears were ringing. “Me too. In all honesty, I didn’t anticipate that you would put up this much of a fight. I assumed you were one of those CIA boys trained in Langley to be great at infiltration and deceit but not that great in a gun battle. Oh, well, I stand corrected.”

Savage narrowed his eyes. Most of the guns in the room were empty—or he assumed so, anyway, from the man’s lack of effort to retrieve any of them. The one in the hands of his now-dead meat shield certainly was. He took a moment to study his opponent, who definitely looked odd. He was tall and lean with an angular, asymmetrical look to his features. His hair was blonde, as was a hint of scruff on his cheek. The British accent was the real puzzler, though.

“Let me guess,” he said and held the man’s gaze while he inched his hand into his jacket toward the comfortable weight of his knife. “Former SAS turned bodyguard to the incredibly rich?”

“Right on the first half,” the man said. “My name is Linus, and for what it’s worth, I really do believe in what Carlson is doing. I’ve seen the world and didn’t much care for it. I think what the man is doing will work, mate. You should come aboard. Even if you don’t like his style, you have to admit that saving the world and being paid well for it is something to consider, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are we really having this conversation right now? With my ears still ringing from all the bullets that we’ve exchanged?” Savage slid his knife clear from the jacket with his right hand. He sighed. “Fine, if you really want my opinion, I’d say you’re as batshit crazy as your boss. Happy?”

“Let me guess, then,” Linus said with an easy smile. “Former…Navy SEAL, I think, brought in by an old friend in the military. You don’t much care about morality or boast about saving the planet. You talk a big game, but you’re not in it for the money, either. What you want out of this is a modicum of self-respect. You don’t feel you’ve earned it, but your friend has. You trust him to know right from wrong and you merely follow the path he’s laid out for you. All the while, you blindly hope it’s the right one.”

“Rangers, actually.” He shrugged, his tone almost bored. “The rest of it sounds about right, actually. Now, will you let me and my doctor leave here alive, or do we have to go through you?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to try to go through me, mate.” The man’s smile didn’t falter as he withdrew a Bowie knife from his jacket. “But I have to warn you, I’m as tough as a four-pound steak.”

Well, that answered the question about whether that was actually a saying anywhere else but in the States. It wasn’t like he would ever ask it or really care about the answer, but it was never too late to learn about foreign cultures.

His adversary attacked. He was impossibly fast and timed his momentum for maximum impact. They collided and Savage barely managed to push the Bowie aside to avoid a blade in his ribcage, aimed for his heart or lung. He shuddered as the cold steel slipped under his suit jacket and sliced easily through his shirt to find the yielding flesh of his arm.

“Fuck!” he roared and twisted his body to withdraw from the cutting edge of the weapon. He thrust his elbow into Linus’ jaw to force him a step back and brought his knee into his groin to hopefully end the fight in an abrupt, if dirty, way.

The man backed away another step and blocked the blow with his hands. The operative took advantage of the change in position and stabbed his knife toward his opponent’s neck. That blow was blocked too, but he grinned with a hint of satisfaction when the blade grazed his target’s cheek and drew blood.

Linus powered his knife in a thrust toward Savage’s gut and forced him to retreat and take another step to the side as the assassin pressed his advantage and tried to sweep his legs out from under him. The tactic was only partially successful, as Savage dropped away and stumbled into the bedroom. It was enough to give him space, though, and he rolled over his shoulder to push onto his feet again.

He grunted and the pain of the pressure on his battered ribcage made him roar in agony as he hauled himself upright. His lungs sucked air, and with each breath, they pushed against the aching bones. He needed to be careful. The pain distracted him, as did the impulse to keep his breathing light. His body needed the oxygen now more than ever. Blood seeped from the incision in his arm and the bullet wound in his shoulder. There were other cuts and scratches here and there, as well as a couple of bruises, but those would be the least of his concerns if he couldn’t stop the bleeding.

“I’m really glad you’re putting up a fight,” Linus taunted and chuckled with perverse mirth as he rolled his neck and followed him into the bedroom. “You have been a pain in my boss’ side for far too long, between you and me. I had hoped that you would live up to that kind of reputation and not merely be some lucky bloke with a gun. That would have been terrifying, really. It would undermine my abilities as a security specialist.”

“And you know something? I hate to disappoint.” Jeremiah steeled himself and dragged in a deep breath. He winced when his lungs pushed at his ribs. “I truly hate it. Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Do you want to rob me of sleep now, Linus? Because that would be mean.”

“You’re stalling,” the man said equably. “That’s good. You know that you’re beat, and you know that you have to think of a good, unconventional way to get around the fact that you’re about to die. Defiant until the end. I can respect that.”

“I really couldn’t give a shit about your respect,” he said. Frankly, he didn’t, but the man was right. He was stalling. Also, he wasn’t sure if Coleman was still in the room. If she was, he hoped she would take the hint and make a run for it. Anja had to be working on a way for her to get out alive with all the documents. If she hadn’t gone already, of course. Coleman was a smart woman—a doctor, no less.

In that moment, the smart move would be to get away from the man if he could or at least get him out of the room. The idea spurred him into action. He raised his hands and launched forward. His adversary smoothly dodged his attempt at a thrust and as he crashed into him, tilted his body away and grasped Savage’s collar to drag him over his hip in an expertly executed judo flip.

The operative landed hard and the air pushed out of his lungs in an agonizing rush.

“Okay,” he gasped. “Maybe offense wasn’t the best defense in that particular scenario. Fuck…” He groaned and probed cautiously at his side.

“I’m afraid you’re right.” The Englishman seemed genuinely sad that the fight was coming to an end. Savage felt a little down about it himself. He gripped the knife he’d somehow managed to keep in his hand and tried to stand. His effort ceased when Linus put a boot on his chest and forced him down once again.

“If it’s any consolation, it will be quick and relatively painless.” He planted his knee firmly on Savage’s chest as he lowered to press the sharp edge of Bowie knife into his neck.

“Not really.” He fought instinctively against the attempt on his life. He’d tried to kill his opponent, of course, but he really didn’t want to think about that. The sting of the blade grew sharper.

He fought the urge to close his eyes and fixed his gaze on his killer. Linus blinked and Savage frowned as he tried to make sense of it—as well as the fact that he was now covered in pottery. But as the man’s weight lessened and he almost fell forward, Savage knew this was his chance. It was now or never. He grasped Linus’ hips as the man toppled and heaved him off before he scrambled to straddle him. With his own knife in hand, he leaned over his back and slid the blade under the assassin’s neck. He gritted his teeth and sliced in a single swift motion. A splash of warm liquid seeped over his hand before the red stream soaked into the carpet.

The silence that ensued was deafening. There had been no gunfire for a while now, of course. He no longer fought for his life and all he could hear was his breathing—as painful and ragged as it was—and his heart hammering in his chest like a runaway jackrabbit. Despite the agony, every breath felt so much sweeter.

He turned slowly. Coleman stood as if rooted to the spot and stared at them with a panicked look on her face.

“I…I thought you’d taken off already,” he said and struggled for another breath. “That would have been the smart thing to do, between you and me.”

“If I had, you would be dead right now, and I would have had a hard time getting my ass out of this hotel alive,” Jessica retorted waspishly. “So…you’re welcome.”

“I only meant that it wasn’t the smartest move,” Savage replied and chuckled as she offered him her hand to help him to his feet. “Thank you, though. I appreciate you staying behind to help me.”

“Come on.” A blush appeared on her cheek as she wiped the blood that had transferred from his hand to hers on her dress. “You took care of six guys and only needed my help with the last one.”

“That last one was tough. Those SAS bastards grow a tough breed of operatives. And you wouldn’t think it with those posh accents they make them speak with, but there you go.”

“If the two of you have finished scratching one another’s backs…” Anja said in Savage’s ear for the first time since the fighting had started. “Are you both all right? There aren’t any cameras in there so I can’t really tell.”

“I’m a little banged up, but I think I’ll survive.” He nodded, more for himself than for her given that she couldn’t see him.

“I’m fine too,” Jessica said.

“Good. Because all that gunfire is bringing every single cop in the city down on your heads. They should be there in the next five minutes, but I’ve managed to clear the service elevator with some creative use of the fire alarms. That should provide enough confusion that you can use it to escape. But the clock is ticking, so you need to leave now.”

“Thanks for the help, Anja,” Savage said.

“Anytime, Jer.” Her voice was soft and might have held a slight tremor, but he couldn’t be sure. “But get out of there alive. Oh, and the new motel is burned too, so I think that our comms are compromised. You might want to get rid of that earbud and I’ll get you a new one later. I’ve texted you the address and room number of a motel I just paid reservations for.”