MARCUS LEFT THE DINING ROOM, WHICH WAS NOW A MAKESHIFT PRISON, AND ENTERED THE LIVING ROOM, WHICH HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO AN ARMORY AND BARRACKS BY THE GROUP OF MERCENARIES. Fagan was in a corner, talking on the phone and typing on a laptop. One operator clad in black tactical pants and a black T-shirt cleaned a Benelli M1014 shotgun at a small desk beside the front window. Another operator slept on a brown floral-printed couch along the south wall. Craig sat Indian-style on the floor, sharpening a long KA-BAR knife. The room smelled of musty furniture and gun oil.
Marcus asked Craig, “Have you seen the Director or Andrew?”
The blond mercenary didn’t look up. He just pointed the knife toward the front porch and went back to his work. Marcus could see a sadistic glee in Craig’s eyes as he worked the knife back and forth, as if he was picturing who he would cut with the blade next.
Marcus heard voices on the front porch as soon as he stepped into the entryway. The hardwood front door was open with only an old screen door held shut by a rusty spring separating the interior from the outside.
He heard Andrew say, “He’s getting worse.”
The Director asked, “The headaches?”
“It’s more than that. I think he may need to be committed.”
“Marcus isn’t crazy. He’s just struggling. He’s had a lot thrown at him in a short amount of time.”
“I’m not saying he’s crazy. I just think he may need more counseling than he can get from us. And he could use a break from all this. Some time to clear his head. He’s running on empty. If he doesn’t come to grips with where he came from and who he is and find a way to separate the two, he’s just going to keep slipping farther and farther down the rabbit hole.”
The Director said, “I don’t know. He’s still—”
A gunshot echoed across the valley like the rolling of distant thunder, causing birds to abandon their perches on the surrounding telephone wires. Marcus watched in horror as blood splattered the wire mesh of the screen door.
Andrew jumped to his feet. Marcus pushed his way onto the porch.
The Director didn’t scream. He just fell from his chair, a look of surprise on his face. His blood stained the dirty white boards of the porch crimson.
Marcus jumped forward, staying low to make himself less of a target. He hugged the exterior wall of the house and kicked the Director’s chair out of the way. Then he grabbed the Director beneath his armpits and pulled him toward the safety of the house.
As the initial anesthetizing shock of the bullet’s impact wore off, the Director screamed in agony. Blood poured from a wound in his shoulder. The slippery warm liquid soaked through the sleeve of Marcus’s shirt.
“Get the door,” Marcus yelled.
Andrew looked as though someone had just shaken him awake. He ran for the door and held it open from inside the house.
Another gunshot rang out. It struck the porch. High and to Marcus’s left.
He ignored it and continued to pull the Director to safety. His feet slid in the blood, but he scrambled backward through the door and into the foyer, leaving a trail of blood across the floor in his wake.
The Director’s breathing was fast and shallow. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. He seemed to be in shock.
As soon as they were out of the sniper’s line of sight, Andrew pushed Marcus out of the way and went to work on the Director, applying pressure to his wound and shouting orders at the mercenaries who were watching from the dining room.
Marcus looked toward the stairs. Maggie was coming down so fast that she stumbled at the bottom. Marcus caught her and said, “Help Andrew.” Then he asked everyone, “Where’s Claire? Is she still in the bedroom?”
The CIA contractors had started to take action. They scrambled to the windows, staying low and watching the horizon with their weapons at the ready. One headed for the kitchen to make sure that no one crept up from the rear.
Kneeling beside one of the windows, Craig said, “The shots might have come from that patch of trees up there.”
“I don’t see anyone approaching,” another contractor said.
“Where’s Claire?” Marcus repeated.
Fagan cowered in a corner behind a large reclining chair. He said, “Last I saw, she was on the back porch.”
Andrew was still trying to stop the bleeding from the Director’s shoulder. Marcus asked, “Are you going to be—”
“Just go. Find Claire,” Andrew snapped, all his attention on his wounded comrade.
Marcus rushed toward the back of the house. He bypassed the dining room. He didn’t want one of Ackerman’s guards to get an itchy trigger finger and shoot him accidentally. Instead, he circled around to the kitchen through a small room off the living room. A mercenary stood at a back door leading directly outside on the far right of the kitchen. The entrance to the back porch was on the opposite wall.
Marcus stepped out onto the screened-in porch. Old outdoor cushioned furniture sat atop bare wood 2x4s. Long vinyl shades covered most of the screens, shrouding the space in darkness.
“Claire?” Marcus said.
He heard the floorboards creak and saw her step from the shadows on his right. A big black pistol in her hand was aimed directly at him. He recognized it as one of the .45-caliber 1911s that the mercenaries used. Her hands shook, and her eyes were wet with tears.
“Don’t move, Marcus,” Claire said. “Take out your gun slowly and put it on the floor.”
“What is this?”
“That gunshot was my signal. I’m supposed to deliver you to him. I’m sorry, Marcus. He has my boy.”
“You know there’s a good chance that turning me over to him still won’t save Dylan.”
“I know. But it’s my only hope. I have to.”
Marcus pulled his Sig Sauer from its holster and laid it gently on the floor. “I won’t fight you. You’re right. If there’s any chance that it will save Dylan, then I’ll gladly sacrifice myself.”
More tears poured down her cheeks, but she swatted them away with her left hand. “Do you have the keys to that Suburban?” Claire asked.
“In my pocket. But my friends will come after us.”
“That shooter out there will keep that from happening. We’ll go out and circle around the house.”
She gestured with the gun toward a screen door leading to a flight of concrete steps and into the backyard. Marcus pushed open the door and went down the steps.
One piece of him knew that he could easily overpower Claire and prevent her from taking him to his father. Another piece wondered if this was the purpose of his life—to die in exchange for his child’s survival. And yet another piece knew this was the best chance he would have to catch the man who had murdered his parents, tortured his brother, and taken the lives of countless others. He just wasn’t sure what it would cost him to make that happen.