Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (5 page)

Kane nodded. “You got this?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He overturned the credenza leaning against the wall and dragged it several feet away, then took cover behind it and clicked his earpiece. “D, you copy? What’s your position?”

D’s gravelly voice rasped in his ear. “Roof. East side. Did a little bird hunting, rejoining the party now.”

“Negative,” Kane said. “Three tangos heading your way. We want at least one alive.”

“Gotcha.” However, D hadn’t been radio silent for more than two minutes before he spoke up again. “Three tangos KIA. Fuckers opened fire on me. No choice but to engage.”

Kane swore, then went absolutely postal when Abby reported there were four men down in the kitchen.

Trevor maintained his position, but the enemy soldiers seemed to be taking their sweet-ass time. After Abby checked in, he shot Kane a pained look. “Only one needs to stay alive, damn it.”

“Clearly that’s impossible seeing as we’re surrounded by trigger-happy assholes,” Kane muttered.

“You know one of those assholes is your wife, right?”

“Oh, I know.” Green eyes flickering with irritation, Kane checked his ammo and edged toward the hallway to their left. “I’ll neutralize the exterior team and track down Holden.”

“Tunnel secure.”

Ethan’s brusque report brought a flicker of relief to Trevor’s chest. Good. That meant Isabel was safe.

“Proceed with exit protocol,” Kane ordered as he darted off.

The former SEAL had just turned the corner when a round of gunfire sprayed the front door and the intruders finally made their move. Chunks of wood, paint, and drywall ricocheted off the walls and slapped the front of the overturned table. A second later, heavy boots kicked in the skeleton of the door and bodies burst into the parlor.

Trevor opened fire, aiming for legs and abdomens rather than chests and heads. Two men hit the floor, two agonized shouts slicing the air. Shit, had he killed them? One of those fuckers had to live. One was all they needed to find out who the hell had sent these soldiers to ambush them.

When he popped his head out from behind the table, he glimpsed dusty fatigues, black boots, and a lot of firepower. Were they military? Mercenaries?

Trevor ducked out and fired another round, then took cover to shove a fresh clip into his machine gun. The intruders blasted him with return fire, spraying the credenza with bullets until the piece of furniture was riddled with more holes than a brick of Swiss cheese. Rendering his position ineffective.

Two soldiers remained, firing rapidly and practically trampling their injured as they came closer.

Taking a breath, Trevor dove away from the table, pulling the trigger as he abandoned his post. He connected with his targets—head shots. Both men hit the ground, but not before heat streaked through his bare shoulder. The glass littering the floor cut into the soles of his feet, but he hardly felt it. Adrenaline had dimmed his pain receptors while heightening his other senses.

As his heartbeat steadied, he approached the two wounded men and swiftly kicked away any weapons lying in their vicinity. His gaze focused on the first man, a bulky Hispanic with a shaved head. Eyes wide open. Dead.

Fuck.

“Ohhh.”
The pain-laced moan had come from the second soldier.

Still alive.

The man’s breathing was ragged, wheezy, but his chest was rising and falling. Blood seeped out of both his kneecaps. The cries of agony that left his lips echoed in the suddenly silent house.

No more explosions. No more gunshots. No more grunts, shouts, gasps of pain. From the corner of his eye, Trevor glimpsed flashes of red and orange. The chopper. Engulfed in flames, a hunk of burning metal in the courtyard.

“I’ve got one alive,” he reported. “Status?”

“Four tangos KIA,” Kane reported back. His voice went dry. “Guess I’m a little trigger-happy myself. No sign of Holden. Making my way back to you.”

“Sinclair?” Trevor asked.

“We’re long gone. See you at the rendezvous.”

“D?”

“Heading to you.”

“Holden?”

No response.

“Hank?”

Silence.

Unease washed over him. Shit. Holden hadn’t checked in once since the ambush began, and Trevor couldn’t remember when Hank’s last radio contact had been. Where the hell was the guy?

Trevor got his answer when D’s grim voice filled his ear.

“Hank’s dead.”

A few minutes later, Kane and D entered the parlor from opposite directions—D from the back hallway, Kane through the front door. Both men took a look around and shook their heads in amazement.

Trevor didn’t blame them. The enormous space looked like a goddamn war zone. Bullet holes in the walls, smoke thickening the air, glass, debris, and blood staining the floor.

The soldier lying in the middle of the room moaned as Kane gave him a sharp kick in the side.

“Kneecaps,” D remarked, his coal black eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Nice.”

“Let’s get some answers from this motherfucker and get out of here,” Kane said in a no-nonsense tone. “You got this, D?”

“You know it, bro.”

The former Delta operative removed a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and gripped the ox-bone handle. Lithe as a cat, he crouched next to the injured man.

“Now it’s D’s time to shine,” Kane murmured.

“Who hired you?” D’s voice was harsh, but the movements of his hand were ever so soft and smooth as he dragged the tip of his knife along the curve of his prey’s clean-shaven jaw.

The soldier didn’t respond.

The blade danced its way down to the man’s left knee.

“You don’t remember, huh?” D said sardonically. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

He dug the tip of his knife into the soldier’s shattered kneecap.

Though the resounding cry of anguish made Trevor cringe, he didn’t have anything against D’s method of persuasion. Sometimes extreme measures were necessary to get the job done.

And no matter how professional a man wanted to be, sometimes that need for revenge clouded every last bit of common sense. All Trevor had to do was remember Abby’s dull “We lost Lloyd” and D’s curt “Hank’s gone” and any sympathy he might have felt for the wounded man in front of them left his body like dirty bathwater spiraling down the drain.

“Who. Hired. You.” D’s tone was deceptively calm, but the look in his eyes could have terrified even a bloodthirsty animal.

The next silence earned their prisoner a stab in the right knee.

Another scream sliced through the parlor.

Shrugging, D glanced up at Kane. “Time to start cutting off some limbs?”

“Lassiter!”

The hysterical shout echoed in the air, making Trevor’s lips twitch. Why was it always the threat of losing a limb that spurred a man to capitulate? Any soldier worth his salt, any soldier who’d been trained right, would offer his hands and feet on a silver platter before giving the enemy a vital piece of intel.

“Lassiter,” D echoed in a pleasant voice. “Lassiter who?”

When their prisoner didn’t answer, D jammed his knife deeper into the man’s knee, eliciting a moan of misery.

“Ed Lassiter. Eddie.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. Why did that name sound so damn familiar?

Beside him, Kane’s lips curled in a sneer. “Shit, I know Lassiter. He’s a scumbag lowlife who specializes in putting together hit squads.”

“Right.” Trevor nodded in recollection. Lassiter’s name came up often on the merc grapevine. He was a middleman who paired mercenaries up with potential clients. Known to be shady as hell too.

“Who hired Lassiter?” Trevor demanded.

“I d-don’t know,” the soldier stammered.

D removed his knife from the man’s knee and brought it up to his throat. A thin red line appeared as the blade pressed into flesh.

“You don’t know, or is this another lapse in memory?” D said mockingly.

“I don’t know! I swear! Lassiter assembled the team, told us the objective—”

“Which was?” Kane interrupted. “What was the objective?”

“Kill every man on this compound.” The man moaned again, his breathing going shallow.

He was beginning to show signs of blood loss. Mottled skin, sweat dotting his forehead, glazed eyes. Before long those eyes closed and the man went unconscious.

“You wanna keep him alive and try again?” D asked Kane.

Kane, who served as second-in-command in Morgan’s absence, shook his head. “He gave us a name. That’s enough.”

“Do we leave him here?”

“Might as well. It’s not like he’s walking out of here.” Kane slung his rifle strap over his shoulder and unholstered his pistol. “Let’s find Holden and get the hell out. The compound’s been compromised.” He turned to D. “Can you deal with the explosives?”

D nodded, drawing Trevor’s attention to the black and red snake tattoo circling the base of his neck. “Find McCall. I’ll handle the rest.”

As D stalked off, Trevor and Kane exchanged a wary look. “Ethan said Holden and Beth were trapped in Morgan’s suite, but there’s a balcony there,” Kane said in a low voice. “Holden could scale that thing in his sleep.”

“Maybe Beth couldn’t?”

“Holden was a fucking Ranger. He would have found a way to get her down.”

Trevor secured his MP5 and palmed his SIG. “Maybe they made it out. Maybe they’re already on their way to the rendezvous.” He paused in afterthought. “No, if Holden had found a way out, he also would’ve found a way to check in with us.”

“Even if they did manage to escape, I’m not taking off without knowing for sure,” Kane said.

They went outside through the front door, which had been reduced to a naked frame and a pile of wood. The chopper across the courtyard continued to burn, but the fire had lost some of its intensity. Plumes of black smoke spiraled up from the wreckage and were carried away by the cool breeze. The smell of fuel, exhaust, and smoke clogged the air.

Judging by the faint sliver of light on the horizon, dawn was approaching, but the sky was mostly black as they rounded the main house. They stopped only to pop into the detached garage, where Kane grabbed a coiled length of rope from one of the worktables, and then they continued on their way.

It was eerily quiet out, save for the soft hiss of the wind and the occasional crash as another wall or ceiling collapsed inside the blown-to-shit estate Trevor had called home for five measly months.

Morgan’s suite of rooms was on the second floor, offering a large rectangular-shaped balcony ringed by a curved steel railing. The balcony was fifteen feet off the ground, give or take. The men gauged the height, then exchanged another look.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Kane suggested.

“Fuck. Fine.”

Trevor threw paper.

Kane threw rock.

Trevor was given the honor of planting his bloody feet on Kane’s shoulders and being hurled into the air. His hands caught the railing, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. He heaved himself up and over, soundlessly landing on the concrete floor before bouncing to his feet.

The balcony doors had been shattered. Curtains were half open, the burgundy fabric fluttering in the night air. Trevor prayed that Holden had shot the doors himself for some reason, and that the McCalls had made it to safety, but the ominous humming in his body told him they hadn’t been that lucky.

Swallowing his unease, he secured the rope to the railing in a two-turn bowline knot and flung it over the side. The rope stretched taut as Kane shimmied up it. Half a minute later, the ex-SEAL’s legs swung over the rail, his boots met concrete, and he joined Trevor at the doors.

Neither man said a word as they raised their pistols. They approached the threshold with cautious steps.

Trevor’s gaze immediately landed on the slumped shape beyond the doors. His breath caught, then steadied when he noticed certain details about the dead man on the floor. Buzz cut. Caramel-colored skin. Not Holden.

As relief shuddered through him, he slid into the master bedroom ahead of Kane. It was bathed in shadows. Not a single light, no sounds except for the occasional cracking noises as pieces of plaster dislodged from the ceiling. Whatever firepower that helicopter had been packing—RPGs, Trevor suspected—had left a gaping hole in one section of the ceiling, revealing the inky, moonlit sky. Broken clay tiles slid off the exposed roof and crashed to the floor, several pieces colliding with the motionless figure on the carpet.

Apprehension skated up Trevor’s spine, growing stronger when he got a better look at the lifeless body. The merc’s fatigues were soaked red. Looked like someone had unloaded an entire clip into the dude’s chest.

“Holden?” Trevor murmured.

Kane had also made a soundless entrance. From the corner of his eye, Trevor saw the other man assessing the scene with a frown.

Morgan’s room was a purely masculine space, with dark blue walls and a black and silver color scheme. Expensive furniture, but no framed photographs or knickknacks cluttering the dressers. No art or decoration on the walls except for a massive flat-screen TV.

The thick black carpet felt like sheer heaven beneath Trevor’s torn-up feet. Shit, he definitely needed to find some socks and boots before they hauled ass.

“Holden, where the fuck are you?” Kane muttered, frustration resonating in his voice.

A soft rustling came from the other side of the king-size bed.

Trevor raised his gun and moved closer.

This time when his breath hitched, it didn’t ease or get released. It lodged in his throat until his lungs burned and his chest ached.

Holden was on the floor with his back against the wall and his bare legs stretched out before him. His broad shoulders were hunched over, shaking uncontrollably as he clung to the woman in his arms. He rocked her as if she were a baby, murmuring silent words as he stroked her black hair and gazed into her vacant eyes.

Kane came to a halt beside Trevor, a ragged burst of air leaving his mouth. “Oh fuck.”

Trevor’s heart stopped. He had no words. No idea how to console the man in front of them.

Beth McCall was dead. Her dark eyes were devoid of life, her loose white tank top covered with bloodstains. She’d been shot. Twice from the looks of it, and right in the heart.

“Holden,” Kane said gently.

The man looked up at them with blank gray eyes. “Oh. Hi.”

Shit.

Shit, shit,
shit
.

Trevor knew that expression. He knew that empty tone of voice. Holden was still breathing, but the man had died the second Beth had been taken away from him. Same way Trevor had died when he got that phone call informing him his fiancée had been killed during a home robbery.

“We’ve been married for nineteen years. Did you guys know that?” Holden asked them.

Trevor swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”

With a fervent nod, Holden looked at his wife’s pale face again. “I met her when I was eighteen years old. It was at a graduation party at the lake, the day before I enlisted. She didn’t want to hang out with me that night. She thought it would be pointless to get involved when I was leaving the next day.”

Trevor cast a surreptitious look in Kane’s direction. Indecision, sorrow, and frustration dominated the man’s green eyes. They had to get off the compound. Trevor knew it. Kane knew it. Holden did too, on some level.

But their teammate was rooted to the floor, his arms wrapped so tightly around his wife it would take the Jaws of Life to pry them apart.

Several more tiles broke off the damaged roof and slammed into the bed, shaking the mattress.

“I convinced her to have a drink with me.” Holden remained oblivious to the falling rubble and the urgency stifling the air. “We spent the entire night talking and laughing and fooling around, and by the time morning arrived, I’d managed to convince her to wait for me.” Now he sounded amazed. “She knew me for less than twenty-four hours, and she agreed to wait for me. Can you believe that?”

“Sounds like a woman who knew what she wanted,” Trevor said quietly.

“We were married a year later when I was home on leave.”

A muffled thump came from the balcony.

Trevor turned to see D stride into the room. The big man took a quick look around before approaching the source of the action. When his black eyes absorbed the scene in front of him, D’s expression didn’t even change, but his voice was unusually bite-free as he murmured, “Fail-safes are in place.”

Something cracked. A moment later, another piece of the ceiling crashed to the floor, revealing the support beams beneath the plaster. One of the wooden slats was about to give, if its ominous creaking was any warning.

Son of a bitch. Trevor was getting damn tired of roofs caving in on him.

“Holden, we have to go,” he said. “Why don’t you tell us the rest of the story later?”

The man ignored the request. “She always worried about me when I was deployed. She wanted me to leave the Rangers. I re-upped three times before I finally agreed to retire. I had the job with Morgan lined up, and . . .” His expression grew tormented. “I promised her working for Jim wouldn’t be as dangerous as the army. I promised her I’d be safe.”

Trevor’s heart squeezed. “Holden. We really need to go.”

“No!”

The sharp exclamation made everyone flinch. Even D, who was fazed by nothing.

“I’m not leaving my Beth,” Holden said firmly. “So fuck right off.”

After several seconds of silence, Kane sighed. “We’ll bring her with us. We’ll carry her body—”

“Don’t you
fucking
call it that! It’s not her
body
. It’s
Beth
.”

Shit, their teammate was unraveling like a tattered sweater before their eyes. Trevor took a step forward and knelt in front of the heartbroken man. At that precise moment, a piece of plaster plunged down from the ceiling and nearly clipped his ear off, but he shifted out of the way before any damage could be done.

“Holden, I know this is hard. I know you don’t want to leave her, but that’s not Beth. Beth is gone.”

He kept his tone soft, but firm. Come to think of it, it was the same tone Kane had used when convincing Trevor to rejoin the team last year. He hadn’t wanted to return to the land of the living either, not when the woman
he
loved was dead.

But although Trevor knew exactly what the other man was going through, he refused to let Holden drown in grief the same way he had.

“You can bring her with us, but you know that’s not a good idea,” he went on, meeting Holden’s devastated gray eyes. “You need to say good-bye now, and then you need to come with us.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Trevor’s gaze landed on the beautiful, lifeless woman in Holden’s arms. “She’s gone, man. All you can do now is—”

He was interrupted by another crash, and then a
thud
. He swiveled his head in time to see D hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

A quick glance north revealed that one of the overhead beams had tumbled down.

Right on D.

Kane immediately dropped to his knees to check on his fallen comrade. “He’s out cold,” Kane said, sounding both worried and amused. “Jesus. He survives a full-out military assault, only to get KO’d by a two-by-four.”

In front of Trevor, Holden was holding Beth even tighter. “I won’t leave her,” he said stubbornly.

Behind them, Kane sounded increasingly concerned as he attempted to rouse D without any results. “Shit. Trev, he’s not coming to.”

“Does he have a pulse?”

“Yeah. A strong one. But . . . oh fuck . . . his head’s bleeding like crazy.”

A ripping sound cut the air. Trevor turned, saw that Kane had torn off his sleeve and was now pressing it to the back of D’s head.

Son of a bitch. Son of a
motherfucking
bitch.

Frustration constricted in Trevor’s chest, making it impossible to take a breath. This was a clusterfuck and a half. The compound blown to hell. D unconscious with a gushing head wound. Holden refusing to let go of his dead wife.

Trevor’s gaze drifted back to Beth. Christ, that sweet, beautiful woman. Dead.

Like Gina.

“He needs to go to the clinic,” Kane said briskly.

Trevor let out a breath. “Holden, listen—”

“I. Won’t. Leave. Her.”

Goddamn it.

“Go,” Trevor told Kane. “Take D and get him help. I’ll stay with Holden.”

Reluctance creased the other man’s features.

“I’m serious, Kane. The compound’s been compromised. A second assault team could be making its way here as we speak.”

“Trev—”

“Did D secure the perimeter and set the charges?”

Kane nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a detonator. He tossed it to Trevor, who caught it easily. “You sure about this, man?”

“I’m sure. Just get D some medical attention.”

“I can’t exactly throw this mofo off the balcony,” Kane pointed out, frazzled. “I’ll have to carry him out the door.”

Which meant they needed to move whatever was blocking said door.

God. Fucking. Damn. It.

Wow. He couldn’t remember ever having so many expletives buzzing through his brain.

On the floor, Holden had started to rock Beth again, his head bent low as he pressed his chin to his wife’s ashen face.

Suppressing another weary obscenity, Trevor stood up and went to help Kane clear a path in the hall.

•   •   •

Isabel was going out of her mind with worry. She, Abby, and Ethan had been waiting at the rendezvous point for what felt like days. In reality, they’d only been in these darkness-drenched foothills for ten, fifteen minutes tops, but the longer the others took in getting here, the more concerned she became.

“Do me a favor?”

She lifted her head at the sound of Ethan’s pained voice. She’d been sitting on the hood of the Humvee they’d driven out of the tunnel, but she slid off as the young man approached. Not
that
young, she had to amend, as she noticed the way his sweat-soaked T-shirt clung to an impressive set of washboard abs. She knew he was in his midtwenties, yet for some reason he’d always seemed younger to her. Boyish.

But he hadn’t acted like a boy tonight. He’d acted like a man. Pure alpha male, moving with lethal precision, killing without batting an eye.

Apparently he also dealt with injuries the way an alpha male did—by ignoring them.

Isabel stared at the blood dripping from his shoulder and down his bare arm. “Did you get
shot
?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” she said, unable to control her sarcasm. “What’s the favor, then?”

Ethan held out a pair of tweezers and a small first-aid kit. “Dig the bullet out of my arm?”

Isabel gaped at him. Un-freaking-believable. She knew the men on Morgan’s team were expertly trained and macho as hell, but the kid had been walking around all night with a
bullet
lodged in his arm and hadn’t shown a single visible sign of pain? She couldn’t help but be impressed.

Sighing, she patted the hood and gestured for him to hop up. As he got comfortable, Isabel took a breath, then glanced in Abby’s direction. The redhead hadn’t left her post since they’d arrived, not even to check on the dogs sleeping in the backseat of the car. She was keeping watch, her concern for Kane evident despite her attempt to hide it.

Dawn was the only time of day when the temperature was actually refreshingly cool, and a nice breeze lifted Isabel’s hair and tickled the back of her neck as she gingerly rolled up Ethan’s sleeve. He had the letters
USMC
tattooed on his biceps, done in black calligraphy. United States Marine Corps.

“I always forget you’re a former marine,” she mused.

“No such thing.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Huh?”

Ethan’s straight white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled. “There’s no such thing as a
former
marine. Once a marine, always a marine.”

“Ah, I see.” She removed some antiseptic wipes from the first-aid kit and then returned her attention to his arm. “When did this happen?”

Ethan pursed his surprisingly sensual lips. “Outside the kitchen, when that asshole dove out with guns blazing.”

When they’d found Lloyd’s body . . .

Isabel pushed the memory aside and concentrated on wiping away the blood caked on Ethan’s thick upper arm. Once she cleaned the area, she examined the puckered hole in his flesh, then touched the back of his arm to feel for an exit wound. Damn. He was right. The bullet was still in there.

“You want something to bite down on?” she asked him.

“Naah. I’m good.”

“Uh-huh. Of course you are.”

Damn macho man.

Gripping the tweezers with steady fingers, Isabel leaned close, brought the tips of the tweezers to the wound, and proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes playing doctor. It was just the distraction she’d needed. She was so focused on digging the 39 mm slug out of Ethan’s arm that she succeeded in blocking out this entire catastrophe of a night.

After she fished the bullet out, she cleaned and dressed the wound, impressed with how still and unflinching Ethan had been throughout the “procedure.”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “I could’ve done it myself, but it’s easier when someone else gets the bullet out.”

She shook her head in amazement. “You’re welcome.”

When the hum of an engine rumbled in the distance, her back stiffened and she went on the alert. Even though Kane had checked in to say he was on his way, Isabel’s rigid muscles didn’t relax until she glimpsed the familiar blond head behind the wheel of the camouflage Humvee barreling their way.

The relief didn’t last long. Kane’s report hadn’t specifically mentioned Trevor, but she’d assumed the men would be together.

But only Kane got out of the vehicle.

“Where are the others?” she demanded as he approached them with somber green eyes.

He planted a quick kiss on Abby’s lips before answering. “D’s unconscious in the back of the Humvee. His thick skull absorbed most of the impact of a ceiling collapsing on it and he needs to get checked out ASAP. Trevor stayed behind to deal with the Holden situation.”

“The Holden situation?” Abby echoed.

Kane let out a breath. “Beth’s dead.”

A shocked silence hung in the air.

Finally, Abby frowned at her husband. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know. Fuck, I guess I didn’t want to believe it myself. But she’s gone, shot to death. And Holden is a fucking mess.”

Isabel could imagine. God. What the man must be going through right now. She’d met Beth McCall mere hours ago, but it was easy to see that Holden adored his wife. He’d mentioned over dinner that their nineteen-year anniversary had just passed. The couple had been together for two decades, for Pete’s sake.

Her heart clenched, a wave of grief swelling inside her and gathering strength when she realized what Kane had said.

Trevor had stayed behind to help Holden.

She supposed it was only fitting—if anyone could empathize with Holden, it was Trevor. He knew what it was like to lose the love of your life.

Isabel went on the alert again as Kane’s hand moved to his earpiece. “Yeah, I copy,” he barked. “What’s your ETA?”

He listened intently, as did Abby and Ethan, while Isabel cursed every single one of them for not giving her a damn earpiece so she could stay in the loop.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Was that Trevor?”

Kane nodded. “He and Holden are on their way.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a series of rapid explosions shook the landscape. Before, Isabel hadn’t been able to see the compound—it was too dark, and the compound was too far away.

Now she had a clear view of it.

Her eyes widened as red and orange flames lit up the night. The wind carried with it the sulfuric scent of smoke, and as the compound burned before her eyes, Isabel experienced a strange sense of grief. She’d visited Morgan’s property only a couple of times, yet for some reason the blazing conflagration evoked genuine, visceral loss.

The others didn’t seem as upset. “It’s protocol,” Kane explained when he noticed the distress on Isabel’s face. Then he turned to Ethan, who was staring at the inferno. “Did you call the airfield?”