Page 88 of Seal of Honor
In those moments of confusion, Gabe saw Jean-Luc spring into action. The Cajun moved swiftly, pulling open the car door and yanking the shocked gangster out of the vehicle. His blade flashed in the dim light, cutting into the neck of his opponent and silencing him before the others could react.
In an instant, he was inside the car, overpowering the other two occupants. There was a flash of steel, a stifled cry, then a sudden thud as one body slumped over lifelessly. The last gang member didn’t have time to react before Jean-Luc’s knife found its target.
Jesus, who knew the good-natured Cajun was such an efficient killing machine?
Gabe lifted his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and put a bullet through the neck of the next closest man. Even before the dead guy collapsed, the others peppered Gabe’s hiding place with bullets and forced him to hit the ground behind the bushes for cover. He felt the heat of one round zing alarmingly close to his temple, and Audrey’s voice whispered through his mind.
Promise me you’ll come back safe.
“I will,” he vowed into the dirt.
Better late than never.
Gabe rolled away from the shower of bullets, gained his feet, and took off in a zigzagging sprint toward the back of the house as Jean-Luc and Ian engaged the remaining tangos. Their window of opportunity to get in, secure Bryson, and get out was now very, very slim. They had to go now, while everyone’s attention held firm on the firefight out front. He calculated fifteen minutes, max, before a neighbor alerted the authorities, and all hell came crashing down. Once the authorities knew, the EPC would know. If they were involved, they’d send in reinforcements. Even if they weren’t involved, they might still send reinforcements solely because of Jacinto’s family ties to one of the head honchos.
Gabe hoped to be long gone—with Bryson Van Amee in tow—before that happened.
With a series of quick hand movements, he told Quinn and Jesse to go. In the original plan, he was supposed to stay outside and keep the backyard, their evac route to the helo, secure. Couldn’t do that now. The danger inside the house while they were in the basement was too great to leave the door unprotected, so he made eye contact with Marcus and motioned him over to the patio.
“Keep this area clear,” he ordered over the bursts of gunfire. Marcus nodded and took up the position as Gabe ducked into the house.
The kitchen reminded him of a morgue—vast, with a lot of cold stainless steel and black marble. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a wall of drawers on the other side of the endless center island, but there was only a heavy door with a massive padlock holding it closed. Quinn hunched over the lock, muttering between his teeth as he tried to finesse it open.
Jesse stood to one side, medical bag slung across his chest. He peeked around the wall into the corridor that led to the action at the front of the house. “How we doin’ back there?”
Quinn cursed and smacked the lock. “Can’t get it. We need Marcus.”
“No,” Marcus, standing half in the kitchen, half on the patio, said. “Ian will do it faster.” And he sprinted across the yard.
Quinn straightened away from the door and grabbed his rifle. “You got this?”
Gabe nodded. “Go help the men out front.”
Weapon raised, Quinn sprinted down the hallway off the kitchen.
A moment later, Ian came running, stumbling as a stray bullet ricocheted off the patio table and nailed him in the shoulder. Gabe laid down cover fire, and Ian scrambled inside. He leaned on the island for a second, holding his shoulder, his lips pulled back in a grimace of pain. Jesse took a step forward to help, but Ian waved him away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Okay?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah.” He straightened. “You needed me? Sir.”
Gabe ignored the contemptuous tone—for now—and motioned to the lock. “Blow it.”
Even with blood dripping down his arm and his mouth still drawn tight in pain, Ian eyed the lock like it was a woman hewanted to lick from head to toe. “With pleasure.”
He made short work of it, taking a brick of C4 from his pack and stuffing a small amount in the keyhole. He inserted a blasting cap, twisted off a length of fuse, lit it, and crouched behind the island with the rest of them. “Fire in the hole!”
The explosion was muffled, just a puff of smoke and a quick metallic pop, but when the dust settled, the heavy padlock dropped to the floor with a resounding thud.
“Nice,” Ian said, admiring his handiwork.
“Get to the helo and stop that bleeding,” Gabe told him. “We’ve got it from here.”
“Yeah, right.” He snorted, grabbed his pack and rifle, and charged toward the front of the house. Away from the helo and into the fray.
Way to follow orders, Reinhardt.
