Brett Battles - The Silenced

“I can’t reposition that quickly,” Dailey said.

“Fine. Stay on the house. Mercer, anything?”

“No.” Mercer sounded winded. “Someone was just running through the trees, but I lost him.”

“Goddamn it. The rest of you, into the house. Now. I don’t care how you do it. They already know we’re coming.”

The phone in Quinn’s pocket buzzed again, reminding him he had a text waiting. The vibration was loud enough for Nate to hear. He looked at Quinn, eyebrows raised.

Quinn ignored both his apprentice and the phone.

Abel and Cox darted to the front door. Without pausing, Abel kicked out with his right, connecting with the door just below the knob.

Quinn could hear the sound of the wood cracking. More noise pollution. He had seldom seen a job go this bad this fast.

Abel kicked again. This time the door flew inward, then rebounded toward them. Cox took up position against the jamb, aiming his gun into the darkness. Abel nodded, then rushed forward, keeping low.

“We’re in,” Abel announced as Cox slipped inside as well.

“He’s done something to his windows so we’re having a problem getting in at the back,” Donovan said. “Looking for an alternative. Dailey, what’s going on with the targets?”

Targets now, Quinn registered. What a mess.

“They’re at the back of the house, west side.”

Over the radio, Quinn could hear the spit of bullets passing through suppressors.

“We’re receiving fire,” Abel grunted.

“We’re coming around to your side,” Donovan said.

“They’re moving again,” Dailey broke in.

Three more muffled gunshots.

“Into the garage,” Dailey continued.

Several seconds of nothing, then the roar of an engine ripped through the night.

Quinn keyed his mic. “They’ve got a car in the garage. Engine just started.”

“Everyone out front. Now!” Donovan said.

Again, Quinn and Nate held their position. This wasn’t their fight.

Tires screeched, then a tremendous crash filled the air as a large pickup truck exploded through the garage door. Quinn looked at the truck’s crew cab, but couldn’t see anyone. They all must have been hunkered down below the dash.

As the vehicle weaved through the debris, Abel and Cox ran out the front door. A second later Donovan and Beech appeared around the corner of the house.

All four opened fire on the truck. The Ford sped up. As it reached the parked sedan, it swerved to the right, scraping against the Maxima but not slowing down.

“Abort! Abort!” Donovan shouted as the truck raced down the driveway toward Main Street.

“What about the dead man in the car? Shouldn’t we check for ID?” Cox asked.

Good idea, Quinn thought.

“Abort now,” Donovan repeated. “No time. Team four, you’re released.”

“Copy that,” Quinn said. But he held his position as the others disappeared into the woods.

So did Nate.

After ten seconds, Quinn’s apprentice said, “You want the ID, don’t you?”

“The woman was the same woman who watched us in L.A. Wills is going to want to know who these people are.”

“Not our job to get an ID,” Nate observed. It wasn’t an admonishment, just information.

“ I want to know who these people are, too.”

Nate rose out of his crouch and tossed the binoculars to Quinn. “Be right back.”

“My idea. I’ll get it,” Quinn said.

“I’m already on my way,” Nate said, but before he could take a step, something moved near the bushes in front of Moody’s house. Nate knelt back down. “The shooter?”

Quinn raised the binoculars. A man skulked around the yard, holding a gun that glowed bright with the heat of a recent discharge. As he took a few steps forward, Quinn was able to focus in on his face.

“It’s Mercer,” Quinn whispered. He must have come back for the attack on the truck.

Mercer snuck his way toward the car, his gun ready at his side. Then, very faint in the distance, Quinn heard a siren. Mercer’s head shot up. After a second, he glanced at the car, hesitated, then he whipped around and ran east toward the woods at the edge of the property. A moment later he was gone. Nate stood again.

“Where are you going?”

“The ID, remember?”

“Police are coming.”

“So I guess I’d better be fast, huh?”

Nate stepped out of the trees, then sprinted to the sedan. Quinn watched as his apprentice opened the driver’s door and leaned in over the corpse. Fifteen seconds later he was up again and running back.

“Find anything?” Quinn asked once Nate had rejoined him.

Nate held up a thin wallet. “This was it.”

The sirens were getting closer now.

“Time to go,” Quinn said, then let Nate lead them through the woods back to their car.

“Stay down!”Petra yelled at Moody as the truck raced over the remains of the garage door.

Mikhail was behind the wheel, keeping his own head low, aiming the truck toward the street.

Before they’d gone ten feet, a staccato whap-whap-whap of bullets hit the side of the pickup.

“Faster,” Petra said.

“What about Kolya?” Mikhail yelled.

“He’ll have to take care of himself,” she said.

Mikhail lifted his head enough to peek out the window as they passed the Maxima. When he crouched back down, his face was white.

“What is it?” Petra asked.

His only answer was to shake his head and press down on the accelerator. Kolya had to be dead.

The truck tossed them around as they sped across the front lawn. After a moment, Mikhail looked up again.

“Hold on,” he said, then whipped the wheel to the right.

The tires squealed as the truck fought against inertia. Petra braced herself, expecting to flip over. But a moment later the rocky ride ended, and they were racing away along the main road. She glanced into the crew seat behind them. Moody was still tucked in the space between the seats.

“Who were they?” Mikhail asked.

“The same people we’ve been up against since we started,” Petra said.

All of a sudden the truck began to slow.

“What are you doing?” Petra asked.

“Police.”

She sat up and saw the lights in the distance coming toward them fast. “We can’t let them see us,” she said. The truck was riddled with bullet holes. “There.” She pointed at a gravel road several yards ahead on the left.

Mikhail eased off the accelerator and turned. Once they were on the side road, he doused the lights, took the engine out of gear, and let the truck roll to a stop on its own.

They both looked over their shoulders out the back window. To the left a halo of flashing lights began to dominate the night as a siren grew louder. Then a single police cruiser rushed by, its lights quickly fading into the black.

Mikhail started to put the truck back into gear, but Petra stopped him. “Wait,” she said.

Three minutes later, more lights appeared on the horizon. Two more police cars and an ambulance.

As soon as they passed, Petra said, “Okay, go.”

Mikhail turned the truck around and got them back onto the highway.

“We can’t stay in this,” Petra said. “It’ll draw too much attention. We need to find something else.”

Mikhail nodded, then glanced toward the back. “How’s our passenger?”

Petra peered over the seat. “He’s still hiding on the floor.” She reached back and tapped Moody on the shoulder. “You can get up,” she said in English. “We’re safe now.”

He didn’t move.

“Mr. Moody. It’s okay. It’s over.”

Again nothing. She exchanged a look with Mikhail.

“You want me to pull over?” he asked.

“No. Keep going.”