Before going operative, Karla endured a queasy stomach, heightened senses, and the nervous tingling of muscle and bone. Not that anyone would ever catch a whiff of it. Not from CPO Karla Raven. As a female, her balls had to show more polished brass than any other man’s in her platoon.
Knowing that thirty Talon security guys were waiting just behind that gate wasn’t in any way comforting. Better that they’d been Al-Qaeda–trained Taliban. At least they got sloppy on occasion.
As she roared up the conifer-lined drive; her eyes searched for the first black-clad guard who would step out and level his weapon. She could name a thousand things that could go wrong, and her imagination, if given the time, could have invented thousands more.
Damn it, she was a SEAL, and SEALs did the impossible on a routine basis.
But generally with better intel and planning.
Stow it. You’re on a mission.
That smug-assed Major Savage had sat through the entire briefing, his arms crossed, mouth clamped. His disbelieving eyes had practically screamed, “Idiocy!”
The Skipper’s reaction had been almost as bad. She’d watched his worry grow the way a thunderhead did over a mountain. By the end, she’d seen a desperate fear behind his eyes.
He thinks we’re not going to make it.
She jacked the wheel, sending them right on the narrow paved strip that dropped down toward the basement kitchen.
“So far, so good,” she whispered.
Which, of course, was when the guard stepped out from behind a dark-green dumpster at the edge of the kitchen parking lot. Two Jeeps and a Subaru were nosed in against the wall, and Karla recognized the loading dock and rear kitchen door.
“Let me,” Cat said unexpectedly, grabbing up her map. She was out the door the moment Karla slowed the Chevy.
“Hey!” Cat screamed. “What’s with the damn gun? You a psycho or what?”
“You’re in a restricted area. I need you to get down on the ground now, hands where I can see them!”
“Okay, so he’s not buying her lost tourist bit,” Karla murmured as she slipped the HK .45 from her hip holster. Her foot hovered over the accelerator, ready to stomp it if he stepped in front of the vehicle. Or whip the HK out the window for a left-handed shot if he didn’t.
“Don’t be a macho asshole!” Cat almost shouted, tears leaking out of her eyes. “You’re scaring me. Here, see? Here on the map. We’re looking for Murry’s. You know, the director? We’re supposed to be at the party.” More tears, Cat obviously terrified. “We thought this was his house! Tell us where to go, and we’ll leave!”
Then, to Karla’s amazement, the guard actually frowned and lowered his gun as he stepped forward—right into Cat’s spray. The guy dropped like he’d been spine-shot.
“I’ve got to get me some of that.” Karla drove wide around the sprawled guard and backed up to the loading dock.
Cat was struggling with the guard, having rolled him over. Now she was tugging at the subgun’s sling. Something about the image—Cat Talavera in her short shorts, boobs swaying in the high-tied white shirt as she tugged at a Heckler and Koch submachine gun—brought a chuckle to Karla’s lips.
She stepped out and glanced up at the security cameras, which, hopefully, Edwin had blinded. They stared malignantly at her.
“Cat, come on!” She darted to the wall, approached the kitchen door, and tried the knob. To her complete surprise, it opened. Karla tucked her pistol tight against her breastbone and leaped through the opening.
Darting immediately to the right, pistol tracking her gaze, she scanned the kitchen. Three horrified middle-aged women gaped back at her. Two worked before the huge industrial stove, one with a spatula, the other with an oversized spoon. A third woman stood at a counter to Karla’s left, a cleaver in her hand as she chopped onions.
Karla ordered, “You, with the cleaver, lay it carefully on the counter and step back.”
The woman was in the process of complying when Cat charged through the door, the heavy MP-5 held Rambo-style before her. Wide-eyed, tears streaking her cheeks, her breath came in hard gasps.
“Easy, Cat. You okay?”
“Yeah . . . Yeah. Who do I shoot?”
“Ease down, Cat. Ease down.”
“Yeah. Right. Who do I shoot?”
“I need you to take your finger off the trigger and lower the gun. Then you have to go over and flip the switch for the loading dock door. I’ll cover these guys; you unload the canisters.”
“Got it!” Cat charged forward, machine gun swinging this way and that.
“Uh, behind me, Cat! As in not between me and someone I might be shooting at? Understand?”
Cat growled to herself, head bobbing affirmation as she pulled up short. She ducked behind Karla, hurried to the big galvanized metal door, and slapped at a switch. The segmented door clanked and rumbled as the motor began to whir.
Karla started forward, stripping zip ties out of her belt. Two of the older women were crying, almost shaking with fear as Karla secured them to the heavy table legs.
Meanwhile, Cat was grunting as she wrestled heavy metal cylinders out of the Tahoe’s cargo space. With the last one, she thumbed the button that closed the loading dock door. Cat still had a hysterical look, and the MP-5’s muzzle was pointing in every direction but safe. Karla’s gut crawled each time the ugly black barrel swept her.
Please, God, just get me through this.
“Cat,” Karla said calmly. “Swap me. You running about with a machine gun is almost more than I can bear . . . and they trained me to bear a lot.”
“Hey, I’m not a combat Marine like you, okay?”
“How’d I miss that?” Karla took the HK, pulled the magazine, found it full, and slapped it back into the gun. “Okay, machine room’s through that door. I’ll hold the fort; you gas the house.”
Cat no more than nodded before she was through the door with the first canister. Someone grunted just outside the kitchen. Karla flattened herself against the wall, partially blocked by the gray-metal time clock and employees’ card bay.
A shadow darkened the doorway, and Karla eased the HK’s fire control lever onto automatic. The MP-5 felt like an old friend as she snugged it against her chest.
The man burst into the room; Karla’s finger slipped down onto the rounded trigger. Instantly, she cued on his prominent cheeks, the flashing black eyes, and thin-lipped mouth.
“You stupid REMF!” she hissed, not bothering to lower her weapon.
Sam Savage’s eyes widened slightly as he fixed on the nine-millimeter bore four feet from his chest. Then a faint smile bent his lips. “Good thing you didn’t shoot, Chief. It would have brought the whole bunch of them running instead of just the one I took down outside. He got a little curious about the guy you left lying on the cement out there. Caught him just as he was lifting his radio to call in. You always so messy on a mission?”
She allowed irritation to seep into her expression. “What are you doing here?”
“Covering your six, Chief.” He had the audacity to wink at her, and then he ducked out the door. Accompanied by the sound of sliding fabric, Savage dragged an unconscious guard across the threshold and let him fall with a meaty thud. Then he dropped to a knee, stripping the man of a pistol, knife, his MP-5, a can of mace, and a radio. The cooks were watching like catatonic chipmunks.
“Where’s Cat?”
“In the machine room, setting up her gas.”
“Well, we . . .” Savage stopped short as a woman in a lab coat anxiously stepped out of the machine room door, her hands held high. Then came a bearded man, similarly clad, arms high. Cat—her tiny hands clutching the big black pistol in a death grip—followed.
“Found two more,” she said. “Thought you might not want me to shoot them, Chief.”
Then she glanced sidelong at Savage, her frown deepening. “What’s he doing here?”
“Says he’s covering my ass, Doc.” Karla cocked her head, the HK held at a jaunty angle. “What have we got here? More kitchen staff?”
“Not at all,” Savage interjected with amusement. “Hell of a raid, Chief. You wouldn’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”
“SEALs don’t leave people behind, Savage, but in your case, you’re making me rethink.”
Savage growled, “You’re here to get Drs. France and Farmer, and a sarcophagus, right?”
“Right, and I’d like to get on with it instead of wasting time having a debate with a moron like you.”
“Shit, I don’t believe this.” Savage walked over to Cat’s prisoners. “Good to see you both alive. There’s a Chevy Tahoe outside. Where’re the sarcophagi?”
Karla cursed under her breath, lowering the HK as the bearded man—Farmer, no doubt—grinned, and said, “Good to see you, too, Major.” The man shook Savage’s hand. “Forget the sarcophagus. It’s too hard to get to.”
Kilgore France gave Savage a fierce hug. “We’ve done the forensic research, Major. It’s as baffling as ever. The guy’s name is Fluvium. It’s his tomb. And we just met some weird woman, tall, with the oddest blue eyes. Bill Minor evacuated her the minute the lights went out.” She glanced uncertainly at Cat, and asked, “Can I go get the research? We brought as much as we could.”
“Hurry,” Savage told her.
“On the blue helicopter?” Karla asked, stepping forward. “Tell me about her. Especially the eyes. And did she have kind of honey-blond hair? Spoke with an accent?”
The man nodded. “She said she and the mummy were married . . . while studying at a Mayan site that’s been abandoned for a thousand years. She’s tall, has a real presence. It’s nuts, but she speaks Latin and ancient Mayan.”
“It’s Gray,” Karla cursed. “Damn it, we just missed her.”
At that moment her cell buzzed in her pocket. “Yeah?”
“Chief, they just got smart enough to pull the plug on the phone line. You’ve got minutes before they get the security system up and running.”
“Roger that.” She hit the end button as Kilgore France stepped out carrying a pack and a satchel. “People, we’re leaving. Right now. Out the door! They just cut Edwin’s link.”
At the startled looks, she bellowed, “Move it!”
As they rushed for the door, she could hear the rumble of booted feet on the stairs above.
Karla sprinted to the kitchen door and locked it. Grabbing a mop, she thrust it through the handle and braced it on the doorframe. Then she turned, took two steps, vaulted the chopping block, and almost slipped on the partially diced onions. Barely catching herself, she pelted through the machine room door. Cat’s cylinders were all lined up, but the hoses hadn’t been fitted to the sheet metal air intake. She ripped off the big, square air filter.
Raising the HK Karla took careful aim and burned off a half dozen rounds. Punctured, the canisters erupted in hissing fits. Slamming the door behind her, she ran for all she was worth.
The banging on the mop-battened kitchen door stopped for a couple of seconds before a barely muffled subgun chattered. Splinters and bits of brass lock exploded like shrapnel. Partially spent bullets dug little furrows in the kitchen floor inches from the captive cooks’ feet. The women shrieked like banshees.
Karla stitched her own burst across the wood to dampen their ardor. She was rewarded by shouts and the hammering of boots as they rushed back up the stairs. Grinning, she was out the door. The black Tahoe was waiting, Savage behind the wheel, the passenger door open. Cat and the two archaeologists were still situating themselves in the back seat.
Hissing and popping accompanied scoring impacts as bullets hammered the pavement beside her. Karla ducked right, almost slipped, and charged for the dumpster. As she ran, she bellowed, “Savage! Go!”
Vicious slugs cut the air a couple of feet to her left as she threw herself behind the dumpster. She twisted and peered cautiously past the side.
There! Up high. Second-story window. She mounted her gun, barely aware as the Tahoe’s engine strained and it surged forward.
The man in the window leaned out, taking careful aim at the fleeing vehicle. Karla pasted the front sight post on his torso as she adjusted for the elevation and distance. Even as she triggered the three-round burst, she saw him jerk. Nine millimeters didn’t have much energy over that distance, but one must have connected with brain or spine. The shooter’s gun slipped from nerveless fingers. He slumped forward. When the heavy gun hit the end of the sling, the jerk tumbled him from the window. His skull made a wet pop as it impacted the pavement.
Karla ran for all she was worth.
“Come on, Savage, tell me you’ve got those people out of here.”
She heard a shout, and rather than stick to the road, ducked into the trees. Panting, she checked her magazine. Maybe twenty rounds left.
Behind her, someone hollered, “They left one behind! Looked like a woman!”
Someone else yelled, “Hope she’s good-looking. Meanwhile, I need someone after that vehicle! Get the cars and go!”
Karla grinned to herself. “Ooooh, bad command and control just shouting like that. So, you’re going after my people? Let’s just see what we can do about that.”
She ducked low, winding through foliage to the intersection where the kitchen drive split off from the main road. She barely flopped herself into the drainage ditch before two large Chevy Suburbans came roaring down the upper drive. Tires squealed as they strained to hold the descending curve.
Karla raised her weapon, found her sight picture, and took out the tires with a short burst as the first vehicle came even with her position. The rubber sidewalls collapsed; the big black Suburban slid sideways, careened off the narrow curve, and down the steep embankment. She sighted on the second Sub as the driver slammed on his brakes.
Prone as she was, Karla’s slugs punctured all four sidewalls. The second Suburban hurtled off in the wake of the first. As it hit dirt at the edge of the road, it flipped on its side, shot over the edge, and crashed down the hillside. She heard the distinct metallic crunch as the second vehicle slammed down on the first.
Karla smiled to herself, leaped to her feet. She ducked from tree to tree and peered over the edge. The second vehicle lay on its side atop the first. The two of them were wedged amidst a wreckage of broken fir trees. A screaming engine tore itself apart with a bang and clattering of broken parts.
Gasoline trickled from the upper vehicle to land on the one beneath . . . and drained into the hood seam. Accompanied by the crackle of a shorted battery, it burst into flames.
Karla whispered, “Not good.”
Turning, she scrambled up the steep slope like a mad hare, her HK swinging with each step.
A sucking whoosh was followed by a ball of reddish yellow flame rising like a little Hiroshima.
A bullet slapped the bark of a tree just to her right.
Karla Raven grinned with absolute delight, her adrenaline pumping as she slithered into a patch of ground-clinging juniper. She checked her magazine, finding just three rounds left.
“My God! Am I ever glad to be the hell out of Grantham!”