Page 43 of Cross Down
His hand reaches out, and the screen returns to its earlier position. “Considering what we’re talking about, getting drunk and hitting the floor might be a good idea. What next, guys?”
I say, “We all meet with General Grissom and his interagency team.”
At my side, Mel says, “Sounds good. Elizabeth?”
She shrugs. “Can’t hurt, I suppose. When?”
I look at my watch. “Based on what I know about them, they’re probably meeting right now, and they’ll schedule another session for tomorrow morning. Plenty of time for you and Ruiz to haul your asses to DC.” I check out Ruiz but the screen has shifted once more; the camera is pointing at the ceiling.
Mel says, “Jesus, Paco, fix your screen again, will you?”
Something seems off.
Something sounds off.
The owls outside have stopped their hooting.
I hear a creak of a wooden step outside the door.
The screen belonging to Ruiz is shifting again, and his face appears.
His eyes are wide open.
The camera lowers, lowers, until the raw stump of his neck appears, dripping blood in long streams.
Chapter
51
In front ofthe cottage, Maynard holds up a hand. He’d thought about NVGs, but with the moonlight, it’s bright enough.
He turns and points to Cameron, who hustles up to a window, grabs a flash-bang grenade off his vest, pulls the pin, punches in the window, and tosses the device inside.
“Go!” Maynard says in a sharp whisper, and they move almost as one.
Chapter
52
Things move quickly.
Mel and I take out our weapons; I slam the computer lid shut and heave aside the kitchen table as I hear the sound of glass smashing.
A small cylindrical object hits the floor. “Flash-bang!” I yell.
The explosion rocks the cottage, and even with my eyes covered and my body turned away, the bright flare of the grenade gets through.
But I’m not blinded.
I turn and drop to one knee, and Mel and I start firing on whoever is opening the door. We saw Ruiz’s severed head; this is not a time to ask,Hey, who’s there?
We know who’s there.
Mel and I shoot the door dead center and pump more rounds on either side. The cottage’s walls are thin wood and plaster, and a couple of Molotov cocktails would torch this indefensible place. No time to waste.
Mel yells, “Reloading!”
“Covered,” I yell back, and we both duck the return fire. I give Mel a heavy smack on his left shoulder and point to the lake side of the house; we flop on our bellies and fire front as we crawl toward the rear porch.
