Page 2 of Broken
Prescott grabbed a second Glock and returned fire with both guns.POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!
Both men hit the floor as a fourth darted out the exit. Prescott whipped his head toward the runner.
It’s Maul.
He ran outside as Maul scrambled toward the river.
Prescott took aim.
POP! POP! POP!
Maul plunged face-first into the murky waters of the Rappahannock. Prescott bolted over, staring into the blackness as the current raced past him. He flicked his attention downstream, but Maul must have gone under. Determined to get a visual on his mark, he strode along the river bank.
The blast of gunfire woke neighbors because lights flicked on in the house next door. One more earnest glance into the dark river before Prescott took off.
Despite wearing black and covering his face in camouflage paint, he needed to be gone before anyone ventured outside. He hightailed it to the SUV, set his helmet and tactical belt on the back seat, then jumped behind the wheel.
After turning onto the main road, he flipped on the lights and floored it. Though soaked with perspiration, he’d remove his Kevlar when he got home. Only he wasn’t going home. He was headed to Z’s Arlington condo where he’d stay until morning.
Philip Skye—known to most everyone only as Z—worked in a shithole, basement office at the J. Edgar Hoover building in DC. Though heshouldbe barking orders from a corner office on the top floor, he worked alone.
One of the many reasons why he and Prescott got along so well.
Z had moved to DC years ago, but he kept the furnished condo in case an ALPHA Operative needed a place to stay. Turned out, that someone was him.
Even though Prescott lived alone, he needed a buffer after a mission. And Z’s condo was it.
What a clusterfuck.
From the intel he’d read on Maul, the scumbag had been traveling alone. Clearly, that information was wrong.He was having a goddamn sleepover.
A growl rumbled out of him.
Prescott hated—fucking hated—surprises.
As he drove north on I-95, he unearthed his phone from the center console. A sharp pain shot up his arm and he rolled up his sleeve. A bullet had grazed his forearm, his black shirt sleeve now blood soaked. He reached behind the passenger seat, grabbed a T-shirt, and wrapped it around his wound. Ignoring the discomfort, he turned on his phone.
Z had sent a text. “Four, not one.”
“No fucking kidding,” Prescott bit out.
He recognized all three of them from the prison break that Maul had orchestrated, but he’d been assured that the men had split up after the escape.
He tapped Z’s number and the call connected.
“How’d it go?” Z answered.
“I got them.”
“Confirmed?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“You got ambushed, didn’t you?”
