Chapter Thirty-Two
I t wasn’t the perfect arrangement, but Anderson was aware of the fact that he couldn’t have his family caught in the crossfire of what was about to happen. There had been a moment of doubt when Anja had first contacted him some hours before to inform him of a possibility that there might be a heavily armed group of men headed his way.
It hadn’t been the right choice to stay there, in retrospect. It was actually one of the dumbest choices he’d ever made, and that wasn’t a low bar to clear. He’d made any number of serious mistakes in his time and he really didn’t want to have to repeat them, not with his family involved.
He wanted to be able to blame his PTSD, and the inherent desire to stay in a place that his mind had somehow assumed to be safe was the kind of thing his doctors had told him might be a problem. Of course, they hadn’t really anticipated that he’d be in a combat situation again. Honestly, he hadn’t thought it would be an issue either.
Besides, blaming what had happened to him in the past wouldn’t help him save his family. He needed to act, and he needed to take precautions. The house had already been set up like a small fortress. The windows were all paned with bullet-proof material, the doors were all reinforced with steel bars, and he had weapons hidden throughout. He had been a fan of Kevin McCallister while growing up, and those had been the instincts that he’d drawn from when he’d designed this house. It had been as expensive as hell, especially on a government salary, but he’d managed to do most of the manual labor himself. It was a work in progress, though, and he could only hope that the effort he’d already put in was enough to help him hold these invaders at bay.
He gritted his teeth and listened for the click that told him his wife had locked her and their kid up in the basement from the inside. At least that way, they would be kept safe from any stray gunfire. For himself, a vest of ceramic body armor would have to do.
His hands shook when he heard the first gunshot. It was loud and echoed in the way that told him it had come from a long way out. Anderson drew in a ragged breath and tried to stop the tremors, but they seemed to have spread to his knees. While he hated the weakness, he couldn’t allow it to interfere.
Resolute, he ignored it and strode over to the section of his foyer that opened to a small gun rack. He removed the Beretta M9A5 and slipped it into a hip holster before he dragged out the M1020 combat shotgun he’d used so many times before. Well, not this one, specifically, but it was the shotgun assigned to men who were likely to head into close-quarters situations. The thick spread in the buckshot rounds that came with it was enough to clear a room in two or three shots and it was easy to load.
Anderson knew that because he had spent the last few hours mechanically going through the motions of loading every weapon in the house. All the while, he’d continued to hope that he wouldn’t need any of them.
We should have left, he told himself as a phantom tingle started in the burn scar on his arm. He closed his eyes and shook the sensation aside. Memories of his friends and comrades in arms devoured by the flames fed by the helicopter’s fuel tanks could not be allowed to take center stage.
“Oh, God, I should have left,” he said aloud and something akin to panic surged as the gunfire outside the house picked up momentum. Anja had told him that Savage had taken up a position beyond his house and would use a rifle to hinder their approach. That would definitely help, but with their sheer force of numbers, they would inevitably break in soon.
His heart thundered and he ducked behind the bar that had been reinforced with steel to provide proper cover. He drew in quick, shallow breaths, but the oxygen didn’t seem to register in his brain. It was an odd thing to know that you were having a panic attack but couldn’t do anything to stop it.
Time slowed and the room seemed to shift like he hovered above his body and watched himself go through the motions. That separated self hoped and prayed that he could get it together before the men broke in to kill him and his family. His fingers tingled and his mind drifted to all those times he’d walked out of dangerous situations alive. He made a list of all the places he’d gone into and escaped without so much as a scratch. They’d called him Old Ironsides in his battalion due to the fact that he almost never showed up with anything worse than a couple of scratches and bruises. He’d been lucky.
The realization slowed his heartbeat and he calmed enough for his mind to slip back into old patterns. People needed him to fight back. He needed to fight back and damned if he would die crouched behind a bar.
This driving need was new. It was never something he’d felt in the field and Anderson paused to consider it for a moment. These people attacked his home. They endangered not only his life but those of his family. There were certain lines you simply never crossed, and these men had already stepped way beyond what was acceptable or even explainable.
He wasn’t calm, he finally realized, he was angry—full of white-hot fury that exploded through his body from the inside. The shotgun settled solidly into his grasp. A whomp was immediately followed by an explosion. They had launched a grenade at his door. Not the front door—Savage would cover that and the side entrances. The big boom of a long-distance rifle still cracked every few seconds. He wouldn’t try to hit the men but rather, keep them away from the door, limit their options, and funnel them into the kill zone. That kill zone was what he had to use to protect himself.
A swift action pulled the bolt back to chamber the first of the ten buckshot rounds into the shotgun and he heaved himself up from behind the bar.
“Anderson, Savage tells me you have some hostiles approaching from behind the house,” Anja said and used the speakers of his house smart appliances to talk to him.
“How many?” he asked and scanned the room. Thankfully, none had managed to break in while he gathered his courage before he stepped out from cover.
“He’s not sure.” She’d apparently heard him, but he had no idea how. “It can’t be more than three or four, though. He says that he has four of the ten at the front dead, and the others are pinned down.”
“Roger that.” He kept low as he circled to the back door.
“Why do military people say, ‘Roger that’ over the radio anyway?” the hacker asked. It was odd to hear her talking as the house, but there were many things weirder than that in this situation that needed his attention.
“It’s a replacement for ‘okay’ in a conversation over the radio,” he explained, not sure why he had focused on that instead of the fighting outside. “It’s to avoid confusion during combat situations—much the same reason why they use the NATO phonetic alphabet.”
“Right.” He wasn’t sure if she said anything after that. She probably did, knowing her, but it was all drowned out by a loud explosion across the room. Anderson quickly regretted not having stashed any earplugs as he dropped hastily to the ground to avoid the splinters of shrapnel. What he assumed was a shaped charge entirely demolished the back door of his house.
The room instantly filled with thick, acrid smoke. He saw nothing but a thick, gray fog for a couple of seconds as he crawled prone and kept his shotgun pointed at the door, ready to respond the moment he caught sight of any movement.
A man stepped through the door and predictably, ran a sweep for anyone who might be standing up to face him. It was possible that the smoke was too thick to see someone crawling over the floorboards. Either way, he wouldn’t give the man any comfortable options. He steadied the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The intruder froze at the telltale sound of the blast, but his reflexes were too slow. The buckshot impacted him like a sledgehammer before he could react, and he stumbled back a few steps. The force shoved him outside the door, where his head suddenly exploded into a red mist.
“Savage says that these guys have body armor, so you might want to shoot for the head,” Anja said beyond his ringing ears.
She was telling him this now? Well, technically, the one telling him this now was Savage, but either way, it was good to know—better late than never. He couldn’t exactly aim for the head with a shotgun, thanks to the spread, but it would be something to keep in mind if he had to use his pistol.
Anderson rolled to the side and behind cover as more men came into view. They were more cautious and wouldn’t risk being shot like their comrade. Instead, they laid down suppressing fire without any methodical pattern. From the sound of the bullets, they used assault rifles—M24 carbines, most likely. They fired wildly and weren’t likely to actually hit anything. He realized that they simply tried to fill the air with as many bullets as possible in the hope that something would find a target. The old spray and pray tactic could be very useful.
They maintained the steady barrage and a couple of men barreled in and used the cover fire to try to find their target inside the house as the smoke started to clear.
The ex-colonel found one of them first and smirked as the man’s head snapped back when nine pellets of double-aught pounded into his face. He staggered and fired uncontrollably in a reflexive trigger pull. The kill caught the attention of his teammates, who turned to face the defender.
Instinctively, he fell back a couple of steps and sprayed the room with as many rounds as he could while he retreated in the direction from which he had come. His ears had numbed to the loud noises. One of the invaders fell back and three more pushed forward into the gap as his gun clicked empty. Obviously, some of those whom Savage had pinned down must have pushed through to join the breach team. He dropped the shotgun and it swung from the strap as he drew his pistol.
The men were reloading their weapons as they stepped inside, which gave Anderson enough time to stumble back behind the reinforced bar. He’d stashed shotgun rounds there that he could reload with and an MP5 submachine gun in case he didn’t have the time. For now, though, he needed to dissuade them from a forward push. He jerked upright and fired his pistol in the direction of the men who clustered near the door. None of the bullets were kill-shots, which reminded him that he was still a little rusty, but his enemy fell back behind cover to regroup.
He used the time to good effect, located the case of shotgun rounds, and reloaded. It took ten rounds, which he fitted quickly, and he chambered the first. Thankfully, he didn’t have time to really consider what would happen if he couldn’t stop these men. The thought was ever-present and nagged at the back of his mind, a constant reminder that he needed to survive that fed the fire in his gut.
His jaw tensed and his fingers hoisted the shotgun with the ease of familiarity as he straightened behind the bar. He could no longer hear gunfire from outside and wasn’t sure whether that meant Savage had been taken down or not. Hopefully not, but he couldn’t focus on that either.
One of the intruders, dressed all in black, stepped out of cover and Anderson raised his shotgun. The explosive charge leaving the barrel accompanied by the heavy kick of the shotgun knocked him back a step. His target catapulted back with a soft grunt of pain, but he was able to drag himself behind a couch and out of sight.
The ex-colonel realized his mistake barely in time. A volley erupted and sprayed across the bottles of respectable beverages behind him. He ducked instinctively as glass and alcohol showered his back as he fell. Thankfully, they hadn’t used the advantage of him caught out in the open to good effect.
That wouldn’t happen again, he realized as he checked the number of rounds left in his shotgun. Seven. He hadn’t thought that he’d fired three already, but you lost track in heated situations like that. It was so well-known that it was almost a cliché, by this point. He retrieved the sub-machine gun from where he’d tucked it under the ice bucket. It wasn’t his preferred weapon, but when it came time to deliver as many bullets in as little time as possible, there weren’t many others that could beat it.
A thump preceded an explosion that snapped him out of his reverie. It had come from the front and he knew immediately that someone knew about the super-fortified door. These people were very knowledgeable about the work he’d put into his country house.
The realization seeped in below his calm and triggered the paranoia that walked hand in hand with his condition. He acknowledged the truth that he’d already been invaded at a purely information level. Now, however, they broke into his house and tried to hurt his family. He told himself to snap out of the panic attack that loomed insidiously again and dug deep for the anger. It flared, white-hot and invincible, and empowered his roar of defiance.
“Semper fi, motherfuckers!” he bellowed as he cleared the bar and his finger worked the trigger as quickly as possible. His shoulder absorbed the repeated kicks without complaint. A couple of the men whom Savage had delayed in the front entered cautiously and looked around as if they were a little uncertain what they would find. He wondered why the team didn’t use a comm system to stay in touch with each other but decided not to ask questions about that now. He pulled the sub out from under the bar, aimed it at the door as he cradled the stock against his shoulder, and fired.
The three-round burst pounded him like a mule’s kick, and he staggered but managed to gather himself and gripped the sub with both hands. The invaders who were caught in the doorway tried to fall back. Two made it to safety but two others collapsed with almost simultaneous thuds. He grimaced as their blood stained the hardwood floor.
Anderson felt a moment of elation when his attackers backed away from him, but he regretted the impulse a second later. He’d been away from the game too long, and combat wasn’t like riding a bike. Not by a long shot. He’d performed better against a team of killers than most, maybe, but that would be cold comfort if he were dead.
His mistake was to focus too long on the new intruders in his living room. For a brief instant, he’d forgotten those who’d entered from the back who simply waited for him to come out of cover. Something like a sting from the world’s biggest wasp seared his shoulder. A second strike felt very different—like someone had gut-punched him with a fist the size of the average brick. He lurched back into the bar and glass shattered before he collapsed.
He couldn’t breathe and this time, it wasn’t a work of his tortured psyche. The armor had reacted to protect his chest and now clamped around his torso and prevented him from sucking oxygen in. He looked around and realized that when he fell, his weapons had slipped away from his numb fingers and clattered away. They lay only barely out of reach beyond the mess of broken glass and spilled bourbon.
“Fuck!” he finally managed to gasp. He scowled at the armor, touched his shoulder, and winced at the explosion of pain when his fingers found the bleeding hole beyond the protective area the vest. It seemed entirely logical to promise himself that he would invest in a suit that would protect his whole body when he got out of there. The kind that they used in the Zoo, he decided. It wasn’t always effective against the creatures found in there, but against regular humans with guns, it was a lot more useful.
When he got out of there. When, not if. Anderson rolled those words around his brain as he focused on one of the black-clad men who circled the back of the bar that he had used as cover. The assassin held a carbine in his hands, and he looked briefly at Anderson before his gaze searched for a weapon. Satisfied that his quarry was helpless, he took a step forward and aimed his weapon at the ex-colonel’s head.
When. Not if, Anderson reminded himself as he stared at the black barrel of the carbine aimed directly at the center of his forehead from not even two yards away. The man clearly didn’t intend to miss.
The killer’s attention was yanked away, and Anderson realized that he’d been about to lose his nerve. The reality of that scared him a little because he knew he needed to believe and follow it through. Distracted, it took a second before he focused on what had diverted the man’s attention. A shotgun fired two shots in quick succession. The familiar whoosh was hard to miss, and he grinned with both relief and pleasure.
Savage was still around, that old bastard. Hope flared to drown out his momentary weakness. He had to make use of the advantage and the unexpected reprieve.
It was very clear that his would-be executioner had lost his focus. He swung his carbine to attack the new threat, which gave his erstwhile victim the opening he needed. Anderson lashed out with his right leg and caught his attacker on the knee hard enough that it overextended and with a painful pop, snapped out of joint. The man screamed in pain and stumbled onto the support of his remaining functional knee. He looked up and into the pistol that Anderson had kept in his underarm holster.
“When,” Anderson gasped. “Not if.”
“What the fu—” The question was cut off when the ex-colonel decided that he wasn’t in the mood to explain and simply pulled the trigger. His adversary’s head snapped back, and his body followed to slump in a motionless heap.
“Inside joke,” he grumbled as he heaved himself to his feet and tried to hold onto his weapon while doing so. “You wouldn’t get it.”
He finally cleared the bar and paused to take stock of the five men who were still alive and had their hands full dealing with Savage. The man looked…monstrous. Anderson recalled the first time he’d met him while he’d still been in the hospital, recovering from his fight. He’d seemed a little off but nothing out of the ordinary. If the truth be told, he wasn’t even that impressive a specimen. While he’d seen video of the man since, nothing was really quite like seeing it live and in the flesh.
The one thing that struck him was how calm Savage looked. His face revealed no expression at all, which was odd considering that it was splattered with blood. A pair of bodies sprawled outside on his porch. Those were the shotgun victims, he assumed. A third man could be seen inside, clutching at his slashed throat.
Savage still held the shotgun in his hand, but the target directly ahead of him was too close to bring it to bear on his head. Buckshot wouldn’t penetrate the armor these men wore, and logic said the operative had to know that.
Whether he knew or not, he didn’t care. He pulled the trigger anyway. The ear-splitting blast made Anderson flinch and the enemy backed away, looking like he’d had the breath knocked out of his lungs. Hell, he looked like his lungs had been punched out of his chest as he fell and landed hard on the couch. Savage raised the shotgun to his opponent’s head and fired. Both Anderson and the man in question flinched, equally surprised when all they heard was the click of an empty firearm.
The man’s relief was short-lived, of course, as his attacker quickly gripped the shotgun with both hands and lurched forward. He pushed his shoulder into the blow and shoved the butt of the shotgun into his adversary’s face. Death was instantaneous and the body slid off the cushions without so much as a grunt of pain.
Another man approached from behind but in a smooth, controlled swing, Savage gripped the barrel of his shortened, sawed-off shotgun and used the firearm viciously as a club. The gunman fell and tried to rise, but another blow was delivered with a resounding thwack, followed almost immediately by a third. He tried to push up off the ground, but his assailant already had a knife in his hand and quickly put it to use. The blade sank into the back of the unfortunate attacker’s neck.
The fleshy sound of steel as it carved through meat and bone punctuated the end of the fight.
Savage grunted, straightened slowly, and scanned the room.
“Are you all right there, sir?” he asked and directed a concerned look at Anderson, who struggled to stay on his feet.
“I’m doing just fine, dog face,” he replied with a chuckle. He immediately regretted it, though, when his bruised ribs pressed painfully into the hardened ceramic plates. Savage hurried around the bar to support him and held him upright as they moved to the dining room, where he put the injured former colonel down on one of the seats.
“You have a through and through on your shoulder here,” he noted as he snatched one of the cloth napkins from the table and pressed it firmly against the injury. “And a hard hit to your vest. It looks like it kept you from getting turned into a kebab, though, so it was worth it.”
“It doesn’t…feel like it right now,” Anderson hissed through clenched teeth as the other man worked to undo the straps on his vest. “My wife will kill me if she sees you using the napkins she chose to treat a wound. I appreciate the effort, though. And…saving my life and all that.”
Savage smirked. “Well, it wasn’t the first time that I had to drag a man’s ass out of the fire that he jumped into his own damned self, and I doubt it’ll be the last.”
“Come on, man, I just got shot,” his boss retorted. “Twice.”
“And I just saved your damn life,” he replied with a smarmy grin. “And that of your family. So I get to take some shots too.”
His family. Right. “Oh, shit, Anja, are you there?”
“I am here, yes,” she replied through the house’s speakers.
“Well, that’s creepy.” The operative looked around and actually shuddered.
She didn’t answer him. “It’s good to know that the two of you are alive and well, Anderson. You should know that the cops and paramedics are already on the way. It seemed like the kind of situation that you might like to have on record.”
“Good call.” He shook his head when he remembered why he’d contacted her in the first place. “Could you let my wife know that it’s safe to come out again? It…is safe to come out again, right?”
“As far as I can tell,” Savage confirmed.
“Will do, Anderson,” she replied, and the speakers went quiet.
“Look,” he said as he helped the older man out of his vest.” I have someplace I need to be and some business I need to take care of in a very small and rapidly thinning window of opportunity. One that I’ll miss if I have to make statements and possibly get written up for shooting a bunch of people on your property. Not to mention that technically, I’m supposed to be well and truly off the radar. Will you cover for me?”
Anderson nodded. “Get out of here. I’ll handle the paperwork.”
“Appreciate it.” He almost patted the man on the shoulder but thought better of it. “Heal up, Colonel.”
Jeremiah left the dining room and walked slowly toward the door. It had been tough to go through this fight with all his previous injuries still fresh and definitely tender. He would have to see a doctor about it soon and maybe have a nice long nap and a couple of days of rest and relaxation after this. Before that, though, he had to hike through the afternoon heat back to his car and start driving. Anja had given him a timeline. While he had time, he wanted to be prepared for what he hoped was the last confrontation of this little corporate civil war.
He froze when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. There weren’t any men left, he reminded himself. And this wasn’t a man he now faced.
She was a taller woman, lean and beautiful in a modern and elegant kind of way. At the same time, she looked as hard as her husband, and her hands held the Glock in a perfect stance.
Well, almost perfect. He noted a young boy hiding behind her, his face pressed into her back to hold whimpers back.
Jeremiah’s hands came up slowly. “I’m not here to hurt you. I helped your husband eliminate the home invaders, and now, I’m leaving. He’s alive and well in the dining room. Alive, anyway.”
“It’s okay, Ivy,” Anderson shouted from the window. “He needs to get out of here.”
The woman hesitated. It was a good instinct, but her gun lowered slowly. The boy relaxed when she did so and immediately broke away from her to race toward his father’s voice.
“Thank you,” Ivy said softly. He responded with a nod and turned away to continue his retreat out the door.