Chapter Seventy-Two

“The generators,” Lena said unnecessarily, breaking the ominous silence that followed.

Weapon ready, Rory froze and squinted in an attempt to adjust his eyes to the abrupt absence of light.

Close to him, Lena called out, “Duvall?” She’d still used the wrong name, but he detected a faint trace of concern in her tone for the reporter.

For a moment he wondered about that, but then vague outlines began to form in the dark.

“Over here,” del Valle whispered. A slight stirring placed her near the desk. Again, her voice was remarkably calm.

Because her lack of panic was a good thing, he didn’t question it but filed it away for later analysis. There were more pressing problems.

“Both of you, stay close to me,” he said quietly, by now able to distinguish inanimate objects from the two women. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt by accident.”

The feel of fabric brushing against his arm announced Chris’s arrival at his side. At least she was smart enough to listen to reason.

“No. We wouldn’t want that to happen…by accident,” Lena drawled.

Despite the storm raging outside, the building was quiet. In the wake of the explosion, the darkness was almost oppressive, as if the night itself was bracing for something to happen.

A second explosion shook the building on its foundation.

On pure instinct, he dragged Lena to the floor. Twisting down and away, he covered her with his larger frame.

A deafening roar rolled over them. For a moment, he was robbed of all his cognitive senses.

He peered into the shadowy darkness of the office as a black cloud of fallout swirled around them. Breathing was nearly impossible. The thick, offensive dust cloud was inescapable. But destruction to the room was surprisingly light.

The use of explosives on the building had been meticulous. The blast had gone straight down, limiting the damage to a semicircular hole in the ceiling. Rain poured into the room.

Behind the overturned dented desk, he could make out del Valle and was relieved to see she was unharmed.

Suddenly, two red dots danced over the floor and walls in a thorough pattern that cut through the office. He followed the narrow beams back to their origin—the jagged edge of the hole in the ceiling. In the darkness, he could make out faint movements. Then twin ropes uncoiled through the air with a whoosh. The ends slashed through the dust cloud and came to rest on the floor with only a couple of inches to spare.

With a whispered, “Move,” Lena pushed at his shoulder.

He did move—pulling her along with him to the cover of some metal filing cabinets. He held her close, shackling her with an arm.

She hissed at him.

Booted feet appeared overhead and a moment later, two bulky shapes landed on the wet, debris-covered floor.

A sound from behind the desk where Chris was hiding drew the laser guidance dots like a magnet. Bullets pelted the desk, sending it into a sluggish skid across the floor. Chris huddled down, the metal protecting her even though it resonated with every screeching impact.

Rory used the distraction and pushed away from cover, emptying his clip at the intruders. The barrage ceased, red dots going wild as two shooters went down.

His ears hammering, he jumped over a toppled cabinet as he changed out the clip—then froze as two new red dots, coming from up high, tried to get a bead on him.

Crap. How many of these assholes were up there?

Diving into a controlled roll, he came up on one knee and aimed.

The flash of a muzzle and the bam-bam-bam of three rapidly fired shots stopped him cold. There was a shuffle and a short shout, followed by a body plunging down to the floor and landing with a reverberating thud.

Lena. She’d broken cover and managed to get a drop on the men overhead.

He made for the three motionless intruders lying in the rubble, kicking aside their weapons.

Her gun trained on the ragged hole, Lena edged closer to them, using a semicircular approach. She was an experienced agent, Rory reminded himself, curbing the impulse to call her back.

“You okay, Duvall?” she called over her shoulder, her narrowed eyes never straying from the downed intruders.

“I’m good. Who are those guys?” Chris emerged from behind the desk, covered in grime and her hair in disarray, but otherwise appearing none the worse for wear.

No one answered her question.

Rory checked for vital signs on the first body. Pulse thready, but still alive. He turned to the other two.

“All clear,” Lena said, casting a dispassionate glance around the room.

With one hand, he grabbed hold of one of the men’s harnesses and dragged him out of the way. With a grunt, he said, “One dead.”

“Make that two.” Her gaze went to a foot that dangled from the hole overhead. “Tapped him right between the eyes.”

The pride in her voice had Rory gnashing his teeth as he returned to the guy with the barely there pulse. “This one’s fading fast, and that one”—he nodded at the fourth intruder—“is unconscious but breathing steadily.”

He kicked another assault rifle aside and bent down to check the would-be assassin for hidden weapons.

“Next time, try to be a little less accurate, Lena,” he admonished. He dragged the second intruder to a corner. “We need to question them, and dead men don’t talk.”

At a warning shout from Chris, he whirled.

But Lena was already in motion. She slammed her foot onto the fourth guy’s hand that was holding a semiautomatic. He screamed.

She pistol-whipped him and muttered, “Shut up,” then relieved him of his weapon. Triumphantly, she turned to Rory. “You were saying?”