Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
We split up approaching the house, Gunner and Handlebar heading for the back entrance, me and Blowback taking the front. We pause at the side of the porch, because we haven’t had eyes on the front of the building—and his security would be real fucking stupid not to have at least one man out there. But that’s why Gunner and Handlebar and a hand grenade are going to provide a real nice distraction out back.
The explosion means it’s go time. The bang of the grenade is still ringing in my ears when I slide around the side of the house, where a big fucker in a suit did what any human would and looked in the direction of the boom. It ain’t the suit who escaped that night, but they all fucking drop the same when I pull the trigger. The airy cough of my silencer is buried under the noise Handlebar and Gunner are still making, shooting out the windows at the back of the house. One of two things will happen now: the security guards will rush Papa out the front door, or they’ll hunker down in the most secure room.
They hunker down. And this is turning into a hell of a good day.
Three guards left. They’ll make sure Papa’s secure, then leave one guard with him while the other two go see what the fuck is going on and to clear us out.
No shouting from inside to give away their position. These suits know their shit. I crouch near the dead guard and take a look at his radio earpiece. No good to us. My bullet clipped the receiver and the whole thing fucking shattered. The others are likely asking him for a sitrep. When he doesn’t answer, they’ll know we’re out front, too.
I look to Blowback, then glance to the narrow windows peeking through the foundation. There’s a basement. He nods, motions me ahead.
I go in low through the front door, sweeping the living room, then cover his six as he moves swiftly into the dining room. Gunner and Handlebar come in from the kitchen, both silent as fuck. I gesture to what I’m assuming is the basement door set into the kitchen wall. Gunner nods, then points upward.
Shit. Stairs are the worst goddamn thing, and the suits have the advantage for both. No doubt two of them are on the second floor, one guard ready to blow the head off anyone who comes up the steps while the other checks the windows, from where he can sweep the yard and fire at anyone outside. And the basement, hell. Even the stupidest guard can shoot someone who comes down the stairs.
Good thing Gunner came with goodies.
He passes a few flash grenades to Handlebar, gives us all a pair of combat earplugs, then looks to Blowback. Time to switch dance partners, because the basement will be just some blunt force shit, while taking out the fuckers upstairs requires a little more stealth.
Handlebar and I are the blunt force. He smirks a bit as he looks to the basement door…which can’t even be locked from the inside. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He gets the fun part. I get the shitty part, going blind into a hole. But I’m more accurate with a handgun than he is, so that’s the way it’s gotta be.
We both put in our earplugs using the unblocked end that’ll muffle loud explosions while still letting voices through. We wait just long enough for Gunner and Blowback to get where they’re going, because the flashbang down here will probably be like poking a hornet’s nest upstairs.
Standing to the side of the door, Handlebar reaches for the knob, swings it open. No shots. So either nobody’s down there, or Papa’s guard isn’t some impulsive dipshit.
Then Handlebar yells, “FBI! Come out with your hands up!” and I about lose my shit trying not to laugh, but hoping they’re dumb enough to fall for it.
They aren’t. He shrugs, because it was worth a try, and tosses down the flashbang. I cover my eyes with my hand. Now the shout comes, a guard yelling to get down—then the percussion slams through my chest and pops in my ears.
I charge through the door, down three steps with my gaze scanning through the swirling smoke below. Unfinished basement. Support columns. A furnace. Lots of shit to hide behind but the suit’s only partially behind cover, still wobbling a bit as he aims my direction. And that’s the fucker. The fucker who hunted down my girl. I put two bullets in his chest but he must be wearing body armor, because he gets knocked back but doesn’t go down.
Bullet in his face gets the job done.
“Guard’s down!” I call up to Handlebar. Smoothly I take the rest of the stairs, making a sweep—and find Papa cowering behind the furnace.