Cold Day in Hell (13 page)

Walking quietly, so as not to disturb the man’s short nap, she moved until she was next to the couch. Her stomach heaved. Swallowing hard, she took a step back. Javier wasn’t resting. Necks weren’t meant to bend that way. God, was the killer still in the house? She looked around. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Who’d killed him? The sound she’d heard must have been the killer leaving the room, but where was he now?

A thump upstairs answered the question of where. He’d gone up the main stairs as she’d approached from the back of the house. Why hadn’t the killer looked in the kitchen? She wasn’t going to seek him out to ask him, she was just glad he hadn’t.

Several more thumps from above. Some louder, some softer. Shit, there had to be more than one of them. Were there others outside? Where was Ricky? Had they killed him, also?

She needed to hide. The men were on their way home. She couldn’t chance going outside and running into more bad guys, so she’d have to hide and make her stand here.

Hold out until Risto and the others got back.

She needed a gun. The Ruger Conn obtained for her was upstairs, dammit. She glanced at poor Javier. He had a gun. It was in his shoulder holster. Clenching her teeth against the whimper threatening to erupt, she gingerly removed the gun from the dead man. A Glock. She checked the clip, 9x19 parabellum cartridges, seventeen-round magazine. It was full. She left the safety on for now and went back to remove the extra mags Javier had on his belt. She had three full mags including the one in the gun; that was fifty-one rounds. She could shoot a lot of bad guys.

An abnormal calm settled over her. She could do this. She’d pretend the bad guys were the targets she annihilated at the range—or treat this as a live single-shooter video game such as the ones she played with her brothers. She beat their scores every damn time. She could do this—but prayed she didn’t have to.

Thuds and angry shouts from upstairs told her whoever was up there was tearing the place apart. They were looking for her. She searched for a hiding place and decided upon a very dark corner behind a huge, leather wing-backed chair. She’d have the wall to her back, the chair with its stuffing to slow down bullets to her front and the French doors to her one side as a possible escape.

She ran on tip-toes to the corner and set her gun and clips down behind the chair, then unlocked the French doors and opened them slightly. No alarm went off, which told her the intruders had either disarmed it—and she doubted it, Conn had a good system—

or, they’d forced Conn’s men to disarm it—again she doubted it, Javier and Ricky were hardened soldiers. Or, and the most likely occurrence, Ricky had sold out, which meant he’d killed Javier and was one of the men upstairs looking for her.

Callie’s gut told her it was Ricky. As for whom he’d sold out to was anybody’s guess. She vibrated with anger. Javier had never had a chance. He’d trusted his buddy.

Thudding feet came down the front stairs. She scurried to her hidey-hole, picked up the gun and flicked off the safety. Kneeling, she used a two-handed grip and braced a shoulder against the wall so she could aim around the side of the chair. She could hear her dad’s voice as clear as the day he’d instructed them on how to wait out an enemy when you were out-numbered and trapped:
Single shots, Callie
.
Breathe calmly. Assess
the situation. Pick your targets. Get them in your head. Once you shoot, baby girl, they’ll
zero in on your position. Make every shot a kill shot—or you’re dead.

She whispered as the steps came closer. “Thanks, daddy.” She swore she felt him sweep a hand over her hair. Shaking the feeling off, she took a deep cleansing breath and watched the entry to the great room. The hallway light would backlight her enemy, making them easy to take out. Her ears took in every creak, crack and thud now. She could even hear the drapes as they rustled in the humid breeze coming through the opening in the French doors.

Two, no, three men, approached. As soon as she thought it, the first one came into the room, low, his gun hand sweeping. The second came in high. The third, the murderous traitor Ricky, hovered in the double-width doorway.
Move into the room,
asshole.
She wanted to move her shots from the lead man through the second to Ricky before they separated too much. Didn’t look as if Ricky would cooperate.

Good news for her was Cruz wouldn’t pay for her dead body, so Ricky would be the most likely to hesitate to kill her—and that would be his mistake. She could easily save him for last, even if she had to chase him down. However, the other two looked like hired guns, the kind of battle-hardened mercs she’d seen during her travels in third-world countries for her charitable work. She knew their type. If she shot and didn’t kill them, Cruz wanting her alive wouldn’t matter. They’d shoot to kill whoever shot at them.

“
Chica
? Señorita Calista?” Ricky called her from the doorway where he partially sheltered himself. The scumbag. She remained silent.

The lead merc straightened and spoke to the others in bad Spanish, “she isn’t here.” Not one of Cruz’s men; Cruz only hired Hispanics according to her research. He sounded Eastern European and looked like a Serbian or a Croat. He’d be the worst one, experienced from a long and bloody civil war. He’d die first.

“She is here,” Ricky insisted. “
Chica
, we won’t hurt you. Come out now. The bad men who killed Javier are dead.”

As if she’d trust the murdering coward. She remained still. The second merc pointed to the open door. “She left that way.” His English was highly accented, definitely not a Spanish speaker, maybe South African.

Both the mercs believed she’d left. Ricky moved into the room.
Gotcha now!
She inhaled, let it out slowly and took the first two shots. The lead merc and his buddy were down. She’d aimed for their heads and was pretty sure she’d hit them dead on. If they weren’t dead, they should be incapacitated with the 9 mm jacketed hollow points loaded in the Glock.

Ricky had dived for the floor as soon as he’d seen his companions go down. She peered around the edge of the chair and spotted his legs extending past the sofa. Sighting down on the Glock, she shot him in a kneecap before he could figure out what happened and return fire. His scream of pain echoed loudly in the room.

Callie moved away from her initial firing position to the other side of the chair.

Ricky shot wildly. One bullet hit the wall, just missing her shoulder. Plaster splinters struck her cheek. Another shot struck the French doors, shattering the glass. She peered around the chair and saw a part of his body as he moved behind the sofa. The man really wasn’t very good at this. She shot and missed.
Damn! Maybe I’m not either.

His curses filled the air. From the sound of his voice, he was on the floor just beyond the sofa, at the opposite end from Javier’s body. Good, she’d hate to desecrate the poor man’s remains.

She lay on her stomach and emptied the rest of the seventeen-round magazine through the space under the sofa. Even if half the bullets embedded in the sofa, the other half might make it through the narrow space and hit Ricky lying on the floor, doing enough damage to keep him from getting up and shooting her.

Smoothly, she ejected the mag and shoved in a new one, then began to belly crawl toward the French doors, giving herself a bail out position if Ricky were still mobile. No shots. No movement from the other side of the sofa. She stopped and listened. Multiple bursts of weapon fire outside. Risto and the others must’ve returned and found the rear guard. But she couldn’t let her guard down. As far as she knew, Ricky was still mobile and playing possum.

Baby girl, slow that breathin’ down. You don’t want to hear your heart thuddin’ in
your ears when you need to be listenin’ for anything out of the ordinary.

Blocking out the sounds of the small war zone in the background, Callie slowed her breathing. Her heart rate soon followed until she could once again hear the drapes rustling in the breeze. Then a swoosh sound. She frowned. What was that? Another swoosh-swoosh. Fabric moving over fabric. Somehow Ricky was on the move, crawling just as she was. Which end of the couch would he come around? Poor Javier’s end or the other? She stilled her breathing even more, forcing all other noises out of her mind, praying no one would come in from the veranda and shoot her ass.

Swoosh-swoosh-swoosh, then a groan. He’d turned and headed for Javier’s end, the end of the sofa farthest from her current position. She checked the other two who’d fallen as they’d headed for the French doors. They were dead; her head shots had hit true, so no trouble from that quarter.

She got up slowly, cautiously, ready to dive for the floor at the slightest noise from Ricky’s position. She heard nothing, no sound, no movement, but she knew he was on the floor in front of the sofa, near Javier’s feet. Blessing her long legs, ballet lessons, and her track and field experiences in high school, she took a running leap and hurdled over the sofa, away from Ricky’s location. As she cleared the couch, she twisted in the air as if taking a high jump and then, using the only part of martial arts training she was good at, fell to the carpeted floor and rolled. Coming up onto her knees, she let off two quick shots, one hitting his gun arm as he lifted his weapon.

Quiet settled over the house.

Her breaths now came fast and furious.
Aftermath, baby girl, don’t let it beat you.

Use the rest of that adrenaline. Check and make sure the bad ass ain’t gonna shoot at
you anymore.

She moved slowly, gun aimed at Ricky’s head. His arm was flung out, his hand gun lying in his lax fingers. He still breathed, painful-sounding gasps. She’d grazed him in the upper fleshy part of his dominant arm with one of the last two shots. His eyes were slitted, hatred burning in their dark brown depths.

She didn’t need to recall her daddy’s words about wounded animals. She approached cautiously and watched for any tells. Ricky inhaled sharply, his nostrils flared. Before he could raise the gun, she let off two more shots, one decimated his hand and the other sent the gun skittering just out of his reach.

His eyes flew open and his gaze was filled with shock, pain, hatred—and resignation. “Kill me,
puta
.” He gasped the words, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Would’ve earlier. Not my call now. Conn will want to talk to you.” She kneeled down and shoved his gun even farther away from his bloody hand. Her breaths were ragged and she used every bit of strength she had not to succumb to the blackness eager to take her over. She’d survived, her daddy would have been proud, but she was sick to her stomach and just wanted to forget the whole night ever happened.

A noise behind her, from the front hall, had another rush of adrenaline sweeping through her system, momentarily clearing her head, settling her stomach. She dove to the side of the entrance to the great room, then rolled behind a chair near the fireplace and took aim at the door. Anyone entering the room wouldn’t see her.

Risto came into the room, his body crouched low, his gun sweeping the room. His fierce glance took in the scene in a single swift glance. “Callie!” She opened her mouth to tell him she was fine when a noise at the French doors had her turning her head. An unknown man, gun in hand, stood just outside, out of Risto’s line of sight.

As she took the shot, she yelled to Risto, “French doors!”

* * * *

Berto drove to the gate leading to Conn’s. The gate was open. The security panel was disarmed.

“Shit,” Conn swore. “There’s been a breach.”

Leaving the car outside the gate, the three bailed out and checked the small guardhouse. The guard was dead, one bullet to his forehead.

Using the many trees on the estate grounds as cover, Risto made his way toward the house with Conn and Berto running to keep up. As they got closer, he spotted men on the perimeter, watching, waiting, which meant the enemy was in the house already.

He turned and motioned the other two back. Once they were out of hearing range of the enemy guards, he turned to Conn. “How did they get into the fucking house? Your security system is almost as good as the White House’s.” Conn thought for only a second. “Traitor on the inside. Ricky, most likely. Javier is Berto’s cousin and has reasons to hate Cruz and everything he stands for.” The expression on Conn’s face was ugly. Berto looked even meaner. “Shit. Callie’s a sitting duck. How do you want to play this, Risto?”

I promised she’d be safe at Conn’s and now this. He’d failed her.

He ruthlessly shoved down the urge to rush the house. “We need to take out the perimeter guards, then go in and find Callie. They won’t hurt her. She’s worth money alive.” The other two nodded. “Berto, you go round back. Try the silent approach first. If they spot you, all bets are off.
Comprende
?”

Berto’s answer was a wide evil grin as he slithered into the bushes and began his way toward the back of the house.

Risto turned to Conn. “We’ll eliminate the forces at the front of the house.” Conn drew his knife. “She’s fine, Risto. You said it yourself, Cruz wants her alive.

Do your job and she’ll be even better.”

Risto nodded. He refused to think about what the kidnappers could do to her before they decided to deliver her. “Not one of these asswipes leaves alive.”

“Hoo-rah,” whispered Conn as they began to make their way to take out the intruders.

It only took him and Conn less than five minutes to kill two men apiece, slitting their throats. As they approached the last four of the enemy, two in a vehicle and two others leaning against another vehicle, smoking cigarettes, shots sounded from the back of the house. Berto must’ve been spotted. Their four targets began shooting at air.
Fucking
idiots.