Chapter Seventy-Three

Rory rose, but a sound from the hallway had him bringing his weapon up.

From her position, Lena also drew a bead on the open door.

Bobbing streaks of light rushed down the hallway, but he recognized the form of Colonel Johnson, his men close on his heels. Rory let his gun arm drop.

They came storming into the office.

“Everyone okay?” At a signal from the colonel, the marines fanned out and secured the room.

“Yeah,” said Rory. He nodded to the wounded man at his feet. “Better send for a medic.”

“Sullivan!” the colonel barked.

Rory squatted down. “Can I get a light over here?” He jerked two state-of-the-art night vision goggles off the intruders.

Simms hurried over, his flashlight lighting up their black-painted faces. They definitely had a military look about them. Mercenaries, most likely.

Unfortunately, none of the three intruders were Creed. Rory figured the dead guy on the roof wasn’t, either.

Which meant the night was far from over.

Sullivan, the medic, confirmed that the wounded man needed surgery immediately. Except for tying off the severed artery, there wasn’t much he could do.

For a moment, Rory considered the unconscious mercenary at Lena’s feet. The man groaned, coming to, and groped at the bullet wound in his shoulder. He froze at finding himself surrounded.

His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but Lena’s hushed, “Incoming!” cut him off.

Lights and weapons instantly swerved upward to the hole in the ceiling.

Sergeant Hoffman’s face suddenly materialized in the opening. She appeared unperturbed by the weapons aimed at her. “The roof’s clear, sir, except for the dead guy,” she reported. “Intruders have our men pinned down and engaged in shootouts all across the base. It’s a well-organized attack, aimed at causing as much confusion as possible. I’m putting up a perimeter, but I’ll need more men up here, sir.”

The colonel grunted. “Try to reach Captain Plunkett. He’s checking C sector. Sergeant Ryan, get your ass up there.” Next, he snapped orders at the other men to take up positions at the windows.

Rory walked over to the mercenary who’d regained consciousness and squatted down.

“How’s the son of a bitch doing, O’Donnell?” Colonel Johnson asked tersely.

“He seems to be coherent enough to answer some questions.”

Sudden gunfire from the roof cut him off. Everyone froze while the colonel shouted for an update.

A movement at the corner of his eye alerted Rory. “Lena!” She was heading for the door. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered as she smoothly changed course and went toward a window that offered an unobstructed view of the large courtyard.

He was about to tell her to back away, but she only did a quick appraisal of the area, then stepped back.

Satisfied that she was staying out of trouble, he returned his attention to the wounded man. “How many are you?” he demanded. “Is Jonathan Creed out there?”

The merc’s response—a quick succession of Spanish words—rang with venom. Though the precise meaning was unclear, Rory got the gist of it.

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” he muttered.

Lena chuckled. She was lounging against the wall, her pose a tad too casual in light of what was going on. “You aren’t going to get anything from him, O’Donnell. He’s a pro—an ass, but a pro—and he claims he doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“Then translate. We need to know where Creed is.”

“I already know where he is.” She stabbed her thumb toward the window. “He’s out there. And I’m stuck in here. This”—she waved her gun from him to the wounded mercenary—“is a waste of time.”

The colonel interrupted. “Are we sure this is the work of Jonathan Creed?” He sounded like he could chew on his frustration.

Lena nodded. “Yeah.”

“Damn sure,” said Rory. “Who else would be insane enough to attack a goddamn military facility? The son of a bitch just keeps on coming.”

“Nothing insane about it,” Lena said blandly. “It takes time and planning, not to mention some serious money, but other than that, it’s a perfectly doable op.”

Everyone stared at her incredulously.

“What? I’m just pointing out that it’s not impossible.” She shrugged.

“Um. I speak Spanish,” Chris said into the silence. “My grandmother’s from Mexico. What do you need to know?”

Rory turned to study her but hesitated for only a moment. “I need names of whoever hired them, what these men were sent to do here, and how many of them are still outside.”

“Right. I’ll see what I can do.” She took a second to gather her thoughts, then began to question the captive in fluent Spanish.

Rory understood enough to be sure that she was asking the right questions.

Naturally, the man kept his mouth shut.

Yeah. They’d just see about that.