Catch & Neutralize (19 page)

Tiffany turned and began the hike upstairs, calling over her shoulder: “Stockton’s gang will be here anytime. We need to be ready.”

Chapter 35

Outside gunshots banged through Scott’s ears as he reached the table. It had taken what seemed like forever to close the short distance. The bed was solid and heavier than a constipated elephant; and with zip ties digging into his wrists and ankles, he was slower than a garden snail lugging an inverted shell.

It didn’t matter that it felt like his wrists and ankles were being ripped apart or that his back and neck felt beaten to hell. All that mattered was he’d done it, actually made it. He felt like a gladiator moving in for the kill.

Stretching his hands as far as they’d go, Scott realized they wouldn’t reach the table leg. It was one of those pedestal tables that Scott found particularly ugly. He sighed and tried again. No luck. The only choices were to try pushing it over with his head or try pulling the enormous bed closer and then try knocking the table over with his feet.

Easy route first. Scott leaned as far forward as possible, but his head barely touched the pedestal base. He decided to go with his last resort and pull the bed closer. Only a couple more inches needed. Gritting his teeth against pain, every muscle in his body on fire, Scott strained. The bed slipped forward a little. Stopping for breath, a bullet buzzed past his head and splintered into one of the bed legs.

“Shit!” Scott spurted.

With a rush of adrenaline, the zip ties dug deeper as he slid the bed forward. Another bullet whizzed past him. Bringing his head as far back as possible and with as much strength as he could muster, Scott drove his forehead against the pedestal. It rocked slightly, moving the scissors closer to the edge.

Ramming his head once more was all it took. The scissors flipped once, twice, free falling to give Scott sweet release.

Yes!

Six inches of steel sliced through skin, small slats unprotected by ribs, and through a young, selfish heart. The pointed end of the industrial scissors dug in, buried with only handles visible.

Scott noticed a bloody river spreading from the wound in his chest. He thought about Carley Schuster’s cocoa colored curls blowing against the leaf cluttered sidewalk, a barely conscious whimper rumbling from her battered lips.

He heard that rumbling now—more of a juicy bubbling—and before fading away, realized the sound came from his own lips.

Chapter 36

Her natural shooting ability paired with the sniper training she’d received from the CAN Institute, Angie Carter was on a roll. She’d already shot one of Stockton’s men in the bicep and another in the thigh. There’d been no orders to eliminate these guys. Other than neutralize, Angie wasn’t sure what else to do.

They were easy targets and not very bright. Out of the three, only the driver had the sense to look up. However, he held his gun sideways at arm’s length in the improper and idiotic way of wannabe gangsters.

Angie took out his shooting arm. The power of her rifle knocked his skinny white ass to the ground, his greasy blonde dreadlocks flapping and pistol sliding out of reach. Blood splattered onto their lime green lowrider, a Chevrolet El Camino somewhere in the 1970 to 72 range.

Angie shot the second one in the thigh. He went down with a scream that sounded similar to a coyote’s howl. His hair black, close-cropped with long bleached bangs standing at attention. This one was taller than Dreadlocks and a little on the chubby side. Angie could tell through her scope that Bangs wore tattoos from wrists to arm tops and up his neck. It gave him the appearance of wearing a strange turtleneck.

Angie knew the third guy wore all black from beanie to sneakers. He’d run towards the front of the house before she could get a better look. She’d also seen a weapon but was too focused on the other two to notice what kind. By the way the other two looked at him, Black Beanie was most likely the leader.

She took cover against the automatic rounds pounding the house. The rooftop was equipped for entertaining. Although not obvious from below, umbrella covered tables with stacked matching chairs were against a side wall. Large potted plants dotted the roof as well. A single door led down inside the house. After reloading, Angie went back the way she’d come. This stairwell led from rooftop to a sunroom with pool at the backside of the house.

Now that the element of surprise was gone, she needed to be extra careful. She worried about Tiffany, about the order to keep her safe. How could Angie do that when she didn’t know where Tiffany was? When she didn’t know where Black Beanie was?

One thing at a time
, Angie reminded herself.

The CAN Institute was big on secrecy. They taught soldiers that it was better to
not
tell each other where you’d be hiding in case one was caught. Not knowing means not telling.

First priority, find and neutralize Black Beanie. According to where Stockton called for help, Angie figured this Beanie character was on his way to the upstairs bathroom.

An unusual quiet settled after the gunfire, a troubling silence. The sun sunk low, throwing shadows throughout the dimming house. Crouching and slinking, Angie made her way to the house’s center. Nothing out of place, a good sign Tiffany was okay.

The stairwell’s openness made Angie nervous with nothing to shield her from opponent’s fire.

Under usual soldier performance, she never would’ve chosen a red dress. In this staircase surrounded by the illusion of underwater flames, Angie’s attire made perfect camouflage. The sun dipped lower, dragging with it the cover of darkness.

Halfway up the staircase, Angie heard movement above, the clomping and stomping of an amateur. According to training, Angie knew amateurs were often more dangerous than professionals. Amateurs took more risks, many acting out video game maneuvers that made them feel invincible.

Angie completed her ascent.

The master bedroom door was partially open. Angie moved, exposing one eye to anyone on the other side. Black Beanie wasn’t visible, but she heard his footsteps. Tiffany’s bed blocked the entry. Angie slung the rifle over her shoulder and opted for the pistol Tiffany had given her.

While Beanie was doing who-knows-what in the bathroom, probably looking for Stockton and maybe prescription drugs, Angie took in the bedroom chaos. A trail of blood left by Stockton, but also more blood than she remembered. More and fresher. Slanting her head to get a better angle, Angie spotted Scott. Scissors protruded from his chest.

Dammit! Orders for Target Two: neutralize and hold for pickup.

Angie’s lips puckered. A scowl hovered beneath her features, hidden behind the magic of Botox. She wondered if this was going to be her last assignment with the CAN Institute, first big mission unsuccessful.

Black Beanie stepped out of the bathroom, his skin pasty. He carried an automatic rifle, outdated and possibly an antique, but clearly operational. Angie watched his eyes scan the bedroom, heard him chuckle.

Angie cocked her pistol, catching Beanie’s attention. She should’ve done that earlier.

How could I have forgotten? Who’s the amateur now?

Black Beanie brought his rifle up and opened fire.

Angie fell to the floor, crawling. Bullets screamed through the air. She kept crawling with hands, elbows, and knees pounding against hardwood, the M14 banging against her side.

Finally, the shooting stopped. Ears ringing and head throbbing, she scrambled into another room. Angie took refuge in a linen closet, hid behind the door and cracked it open. She aimed, waiting for Beanie to exit Tiffany’s room. From the hollow clicks and solid clacks coming from that direction, Angie could tell he was reloading.

Tires squealed. Unless Tiffany decided to bolt, that must be the other two scrambling away in their blood-spattered lowrider.

Who, with any intelligence at all, drives a lowrider into the mountains?

Angie took a deep breath, pistol ready.

This part of the house was almost completely dark. Angie would have to rely on all senses to get her through this. Eyes bugged wide, she stared at Tiffany’s bedroom door. Holes were scattered over it and the bordering walls like a giant dot-to-dot puzzle. Shadowy movement behind those holes told Beanie’s location. Padded rustling suggested he was climbing over the bed.

Angie wasn’t taking any chances in the bad lighting. As soon as she had visual, Beanie was going down.

In a blink, he was out and running for the stairs, shoes thumping fast and hard. Angie jumped from the closet, legs apart, pistol pointed. Before she could press the trigger, he disappeared from view.

Angie’s eyes strained against poor lighting as she ran to catch her attacker. Reaching the first step, she lost balance and grabbed the railing. She felt a spike of it catch her dress, ripping one side up to her hip. Angie pressed on, ignoring the new breezy feel of her outfit, not stopping until she heard the thumping and clanging of a body tumbling downstairs.

Beanie’s gun started going off, deafening fireworks. Angie jumped back, hands instinctively protecting her ears. After the sound of a thunderous bomb, Beanie’s automatic fell silent.

Angie drew her pistol, cautiously continuing down the stairway. She hadn’t risked turning the lights on, fearing her attacker would be able to see her clearly. She took a couple more steps before the lights clicked on anyway, beams dull, not as bright as they were last night.

“Angie?” Tiffany’s voice called up. “You okay?”

Relief flew over Angie. “Yes. I’m okay.” She leapt down the steps two at a time. “Can’t say the same for your bedroom, this stairwell, or the dress you let me borrow.”

“The Institute will send cleanup agents for repairs,” Tiffany said as Angie reached the bottom step. Tiffany held a pistol by her side, hands trembling.

“What a mess.” Angie bent down to check Beanie’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. “Forget running with scissors,” she instructed the dead thug. “Don’t run downstairs in the dark with an automatic rifle.”

The ceiling peppered with bullet holes, and the beautiful chandelier of flames hung haphazardly. Tiny shattered bits of it, like morning dew, flickered across the ground. Some of the flecks shimmered on Beanie’s freckled skin and auburn hair. His black hat sat in a corner on the other side of the room. Bloody gore splayed across the wall, some on the ceiling. Too many wounds to count, the front of Beanie’s shirt had been obliterated. The consistency of raw hamburger meat replaced his chest.

“It appears he fell down the stairs, shooting himself repeatedly, and shot the chandelier in the process. His automatic must have one of those super sensitive hair triggers.” Angie looked at Tiffany and shook her head. “Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.”

Tiffany pointed at the other side of the stairs, her hand bouncing uncontrollably. “His beanie...”

“Yeah,” Angie said looking over at it, “he won’t be needing that anymore.” She turned eyes back to Tiffany. “How’re you doing? Your hands are shaking like mad. You all right?”

“I’m okay, I guess. Never been through anything like that before.” A nervous laugh burst from Tiffany. She threw a jittery hand over her mouth. “I’m a therapist, not a soldier.”

“Never been through it either,” Angie agreed. “But, I’ve been through soldier training. A bit more prepared for this kind of thing. Don’t give up on it yet. At least go through CAN Institute training first. Okay?”

Tiffany nodded. “I’m not sure what to do about this mess. My cousin will be here with Target Three in about two hours.”

“Well, we won’t have to worry about Scott anymore. It seems he got killed during Stockton’s rescue attempt. Any idea what we’re supposed to do with the bodies?”

“Death Pit.” Tiffany blinked, and it seemed to clear her head a little. “The Institute will instruct us, but they’ll probably take him to the Death Pit.”

Angie nodded putting hands to hips, the rifle sliding behind her. She felt exposed with the knee to hip tear in her dress, but there were more important matters to tend to at the moment. “Let’s get Beanie downstairs.” She paused, thinking. “No, we don’t have time. Call your cousin and see if we can meet somewhere for dinner. How about Macaroons?”

“My cell is in my room.”

“You can wait in the guest room while I get your phone. I also need to check for further instructions from The Institute.” Angie took Tiffany’s hand and started upstairs. “Do you think The Institute knows what’s happened here, or how long it’ll be until it’s cleaned up?”

“They know. They’re already here.” Tiffany stopped and pointed to light filtering through the downstairs windows.

The front door burst open and twenty or more men entered carrying a variety of tools and electronic gadgets. They dispersed, half tramping up the stairs while others went to work on the mess around the stairwell.

The front yard was lit up bright as midday and filled with sounds of rotating helicopter blades.

“We can’t go to Macaroons,” Tiffany admitted. “Laura is bringing Target Three here for elimination. That kind of job is too risky to be done in public with both of us being new to the process. Also, Laura has been instructed to eliminate Stockton, my recommendation for therapy completion by way of CAN Institute orders.”

“Impressive cleanup crew: you with your unorthodox therapy recommendations and these guys.” Angie angled around for a better few. “I don’t know how they’re going to manage. The damage is extensive.”

“Eh,” Tiffany shrugged, “I’ve seen agents clean more in less time. In case you haven’t noticed, the CAN Institute is top-of-the-line
everything
. Best of the best in all aspects. I wouldn’t be surprised if some items were made with materials imported from Mars or Saturn.”

“Anything’s possible, I guess.”

“Let’s get ready. Time’s a ticking.”

Tiffany and Angie headed upstairs and separated.