Марк Грини - One Minute Out

Verdoorn’s own men were here inside the home with him, and he had them in cover. All eight were dressed like the wealthy johns allowed access to Rancho Esmerelda; they wore nice suits, expensive polos, or other casual clothing, and they bunked in a couple of the dozen or so rooms on the second and third floors normally used by the johns and the whores.

His boys wouldn’t like this environment at all. They weren’t security guards; they weren’t here to police the johns. They were hunters, enforcers for the Consortium. But their ill ease was good, as far as Jaco was concerned.

He didn’t want them happy—he wanted them ready.

Verdoorn had steered clear of Sean Hall and his team of six security officers since they’d arrived here with Cage an hour earlier. They were all up on the third floor, in or around Cage’s private apartment on the eastern side of the house, or else positioned around whatever room Cage was in, either enjoying one of his new arrivals or relaxing in the lounge off the entry hall, eating, drinking, and snorting lines.

Jaco dozed a little, but he’d spent the entire time here tonight wishing Gentry would just get on with it. He’d studied the way the assassin had ingressed to target on the few of his missions about which such details were known. He liked to move silently, with stealth, cunning, and the tradecraft of the most elite assassin in the world.

The South African fully expected Gentry to try to slip into this building unnoticed, and Verdoorn and his men would be here to greet him, and then the Mexicans outside would close off any chance he had to escape.

And Cage? As far as Verdoorn was concerned, Ken Cage was Sean Hall’s problem.

Court Gentry was the real VIP.

• • •

I try not to puke as our helicopter lurches up and down in the dark. Hanging on to the edge of the open hatch, I tell myself the fast-food tacos we all ate on the drive down from Bakersfield were a bad idea, and A.J. is an asshole for suggesting them.

But Carl, on the other hand, is a damn fine pilot, and I can feel his skill in the movements of the helo; he has a deft touch to his pedal controls and his cyclic, and I know this flight, as jarring as it is, could be a hell of a lot worse.

Eventually I hear the power come off and then the aircraft slows quickly and pulls into a hover, yanking me and the other outboard guys forward. Then Carl descends the few feet to the Earth, and the skids touch down. Dust swirls all around the darkness, so I can’t see a thing, but I know A.J. is unhooking his carabiner and leaping from the skid on the starboard side of the aircraft, dropping down to quickly set up a shooting position, more than a half mile from the rear of the property.

I know with our low flight and our distance that we still should be silent to our enemy, but once we get back up into the air and move forward a few hundred yards, that will no longer be the case.

We’re banking on the opposition not expecting us to hit tonight, via air, and with such force.

If we’re wrong, then we’ll probably get blasted out of the sky before this party even starts, so I try not to think about that.

I brush dust off my goggles again, and I look back inside the hatch towards the two men in the front seats. I can only see the back of Shep’s head; he’s leaning into the scope of his rifle, searching for targets on the roof of the distant building.

Carl’s wrinkled face, all the more wrinkled with the intensity of his focus on his windscreen and on the controls, is a mask of experience and determination. I recognize instantly that he is exactly where he wants to be, doing exactly what he wants, needs , to be doing.

For a brief second I feel the same, but then my mind shifts back into game mode. As I watch, Carl looks back over his shoulder, takes his hand off his collective, and holds a single gloved finger up into the air.

His voice crackles over the radio and into my ears.

“One minute out!”

The entire team repeats the call into our mics, and then we bring our weapons to our shoulders and scan forward in the darkness as best we can.

Here we go.

• • •

Ken Cage stood in the bedroom, still in his boxers, still half-covered with the sheen of sweat from his attack on the Hungarian girl five minutes before. In front of him, Maja stood nervously, her back to the wall, the black cocktail dress perfectly fitted to her perfect body.

He’d done nothing to calm her nerves.

“Take it off,” he demanded.

The Romanian hesitated, then said, “Look, sir, I am—”

“Take it off!” he shouted now.

She did as she was told, stood naked before him, her jaw quivering but her eyes remaining on his. Fixed. Proud. Afraid but resolute.

Cage said, “I’ll finish the job Claudia couldn’t manage on her own.”

Maja asked, “What job?”

The American smiled. Dropped his boxers, the Viagra he took hours before still on duty.

He looked her up and down and said, “I’ll wipe all that delicious defiance right out of your soul.” He moved towards her with aggression, his eyes wild with intensity, and he shoved her back against the wall. Pressing his body against hers, he slipped a hand over her face and covered her mouth and nose.

Behind Cage the door flew open and Sean Hall rushed in, a walkie-talkie in his hand and an intense look on his face. He wore a white tank top undershirt and jeans, sandals on his feet, and his pistol was jammed into his waistband.

Cage spun around, making no attempt to cover his manhood. “What the fuck , Sean?”

Hall raced forward, pulled a robe off the footstool at the end of the bed, and handed it to his boss. He grabbed Cage by the arm, pulling him naked towards the door to the hall while a nude Maja spun away and raced for the bathroom.

The bodyguard explained as the two men rushed into the hall. “External security says there’s a helicopter inbound, flying over the rear of the property with no lights. Until it’s ID’d, I’m moving you to a secure position!”

Cage wasn’t happy, at all, but he knew it was best to comply. Hall tended to exaggerate threats, but Ken knew that bitching about it after the fact was the way to go. Fighting with him now would only delay the process and cause everyone more agitation, Cage included.

As they ran, Cage threw his robe on and cinched the belt tight, and Hall brought his walkie-talkie back up to his mouth.

But before he did so, the unmistakable booms of gunfire erupted just above their heads, on the roof of the ranch house.

More rifles outside at ground level rocked off fully automatic a second later.

Hall kept Cage’s pace up by squeezing his hand on his shoulder as they ran towards the stairs. While doing so, he said, “That’s outgoing. That’s our Mexicans. They’ve identified the helo as a threat! Move!”

“Where’s Jaco?”

Hall didn’t answer. Instead he shouted over his walkie-talkie to his men. “We are leaving. Get in the G-Wagens!”

Cage ran along, enraged that, for the second time in three days, he found himself fleeing for his life with a frantic bodyguard’s hands all over him.

• • •

“We’re taking fire!” Shep said, and I hear him through the radio, but I also hear the supersonic crack of bullets zipping by the helicopter.

Shep leans out of the opening next to him, his SCAR rifle positioned on a cable running midway across the hatch to serve as a shooting platform. “I’ve got targets on the roof!” he says, then begins firing slow, controlled shots.

I can’t see any targets yet, or even the target building, but A.J. speaks up over the radio from his sniper’s hide behind us. “Overwatch has targets on the property, east side, ground level. Engaging now.”