Andrew Britton - The Exile

Silence. But Kealey could hear him breathing into the mouthpiece.

“Come on, Mirghani, talk, ” he said. “There’s no point pretending you can’t hear me.”

More audible breaths over the phone. Then: “Why are you here, Mr. Kealey?”

“I want information,” Kealey said. “You can leave the city, keep your gold, bring whatever else you want out with you. But first you’ll have to answer some questions-”

Kealey was interrupted by a sudden, startling crack of gunfire behind him and to his right. There was one shot, another, then Abby shouting, “ No! ” And three more rapid bursts.

His attention diverted by the chaotic sounds, Kealey flicked a glance over his shoulder and saw Phillips on his knees, clutching the middle of his chest, blood slicking his fingers as it gushed out between them to puddle on the sidewalk around his sagging form. Standing over him as he sunk to the pavement, his eyes wide, Swanson was still covering his man, who’d kept his hands up above his head. But one of the other bodyguards lay sprawled on his back nearby, Abby standing over him with her own semiautomatic pistol. The right side of his head had been blown apart, reduced to a horrible amalgam of bone, brains, and bits of ragged, bloody flesh.

Kealey realized what had happened in an instant. The bodyguard had reached for his gun despite Swanson’s warning, and Abby had taken him out. But not before he’d caught Phillips in the chest, maybe more than once. And the rhythmic spurts of blood through his hands made it clear the field agent had been struck in his heart or a connected blood vessel.

It was with Kealey’s attention momentarily divided that Ahzir seized the chance to whip a concealed gun out from under his flowing tunic. At the same time, the big man he’d backed against the minivan chopped an enormous hand up under Kealey’s arm, knocking the snout of his 9mm away from his body. The brawny bodyguard locked his fingers around Kealey’s wrist, digging them into it like pistons, twisting it, trying to wrest the weapon from his grip.

Kealey’s reaction was automatic, his years of combat training kicking in as muscle memory-all of him, his mind and body, his entire being, pulled into focus. His mind stripped of conscious thought, he brought his knee up between the big man’s legs, heard a guttural exclamation of pain as the breath rushed from his mouth. Kealey, unrelenting, smashed a fist hard into his jaw, hit him a second time in the face, and then the man staggered backward, his fingers loosening around Kealey’s wrist. Tearing free of his grasp, Kealey spun on Ahzir, raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger, firing twice into him at close range. The front of Ahzir’s tunic puffed out where the bullets struck, red splotches appearing on the white cotton fabric. Then his legs went soft and he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

Even as he fell, Kealey had pivoted back around toward the big man-and none too soon. The man had sufficiently recovered to lunge at him, shoving a hand under his jacket to pull his own gun from its holster.

Kealey took cold aim before the weapon could appear and shot him once in the middle of the forehead. The big man looked at him with what might have been a mute expression of astonishment and disbelief, the bullet hole ringed by an aureole of seared flesh, his mouth gaping open as a thin rill of blood slid down between his eyes and over his nose. Then he produced a kind of belching croak and dropped hard onto his face.

Kealey was peripherally aware of what was going on around him on the street-cars slowing, people’s heads briefly appearing from doors and windows, the sound of their keyed-up voices exchanging fearful words before they retreated inside. It was a sure thing the authorities would show before long.

He turned back toward where Phillips had been shot, saw that he was lying on the ground, with Abby and Swanson huddled over his supine body. Abby had taken off the Windbreaker she’d been wearing and bunched it over the wound in his chest, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it was completely soaked through, and Phillips was neither moving nor, to all appearances, breathing.

Kealey hurried over, pressed two fingers against Phillips’s neck, then slid one finger down the side of his jaw.

Abby stared at him. “Ryan, is he-”

“Shhh!” Nothing from the carotid or facial arteries. Kealey lifted Phillips’s wrist, felt for a pulse there, didn’t detect one. And the pinkish red foam on his lips and chin was a bad sign-it meant a lung had been punctured and would have been filling with blood as he tried to draw in air. Kealey looked up, shook his head. “He’s gone,” he said, snapping his eyes to Swanson’s stunned face. “Where’d your guy go?”

Swanson nodded behind him. “Ran off in that direction, I think.”

“No way to tell if he’s bolted or gone for reinforcements,” Kealey said, shaking his head. He motioned toward Phillips’s body. “Take him back to the Jeep.”

The field op swallowed hard. “What about you?”

“I’m going in,” Kealey said, nodding toward the house. “Abby…get Mackenzie on the phone. Tell him to stay put out back.”

“And then what?” Her voice was trembling. “You can’t go in alone.”

“Listen to me, Abby. Somebody’s sure to have called the police by now. We have to get this done before they show. And I’ll need you on the lookout,” Kealey replied.

“But Mirghani might have more guards inside-”

“I can handle them.” Kealey sprang to his feet. “I’ve got my cell. When you two hear the sirens, warn me if you can and get out of here. I’ll meet you back at the embassy.”

He turned toward Mirghani’s house, leapfrogged the low iron fence, and raced over a tiled outer court to its front door, trying the knob. As expected, it was unlocked; his men had been in the process of clearing the place out when Kealey’s team arrived.

He pushed the door open, went through, and assayed his surroundings, the Glock extended in his grip. He was in an entry foyer that broadened out into a spacious, cleanly furnished oval parlor or living room with a polished hardwood floor, wide archways on two sides, and light organdy curtains over its rear windows. Kealey peered through the arch to his right, saw it gave way to another open parlor with some damask chairs and pillows, an inlaid coffee table on an oriental rug, and a number of packed and half-packed cartons on the floor. A hasty inspection revealed that another arch on the far side of that room led to a kitchen.

There was nobody in any of the rooms.

Cautiously, Kealey stepped deeper into the main parlor, moving along its left wall. Then he pivoted on his heel to look past its second archway and saw a flight of runnered stairs climbing up to the home’s second story.

His gun still pointed out in front of him, he turned through the arch and streaked up the steps, taking them two at a time. On the second floor he passed two bedrooms, a bathroom, a hallway with a large walk-in closet on the right wall. Still no sign anyone was present.

He reached into a pocket for his cell. “Mackenzie, it’s Kealey. I’m inside the house.”

“Roger,” the agent said. “I…I heard what happened to Phillips-”

“We can’t afford to think about that now,” Kealey said. “You see anybody leave through a back door?”

“No.”

“You’re positive? Not out the door, the garden, a window…?”

“Nobody left the house,” Mackenzie said. “Not through any entrance but the front. I’d have seen him.”

“Then Mirghani has to be in here someplace.” His eyes swept the hallway. “Where the hell-”

“Kealey? You all right?”

“Yeah,” Kealey said. He’d settled his gaze on the walk-in closet with its closed sliding door. “Stay where you are, Mackenzie. I’m going to need you to be there, copy?”