Stephenie Meyer - The Chemist

“Can you see the upstairs windows?”

“They all look covered,” Daniel told her.

“Okay, start slowing. Two seconds after we’re out, stop and get ready to shoot.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

“Einstein, come here. Get ready.”

Daniel angled the car so that his side was facing into the lights of the house. She hoped she would be invisible on the dark side of the vehicle. She opened the door and slid down toward the slowly moving grass below. She tried to re-create the move she’d seen in a hundred movies: she fell to her knees, then rolled onto her side as Einstein leaped over her. She was sure she’d done it wrong, but she wouldn’t know how wrong until the Survive wore off.

She’d forgotten to tell Daniel to close the door and lock everything down, but it was common sense and he seemed to be thinking quickly tonight. Maybe it was genetics again – he was wired for this kind of situation, just like his brother. Anyway, if someone tried to get into the car, Khan would be waiting. She could imagine what it would feel like if someone who’d already been harried by dozens of attack dogs came face to face with Khan on higher ground in the dark. There was no way this wouldn’t affect his aim and reaction time.

Even though she had gloves on, crawling across the gravel would have been excruciating if she hadn’t drugged herself up. As she hurried away from the Humvee, she heard the rush of her pack’s paws approaching in the dry brush – not just Einstein, but the dozens of other survivors. She’d never had backup like this before. A sniper above would have trouble separating her from the mass.

She moved into a crouch next to the porch. The Humvee was stopped now. She heard the door slam. A low whimper, quite near her head, made her freeze. The quiet whine happened again. It wasn’t a human sound.

She heaved herself up onto the porch, rolled under the banister, and then stayed down, lower than the windows. Lola was there, curled up in the far corner. Alex knew that even injured, Lola would sound the alarm if someone else were close by. She crawled to the dog, her gloved hands slipping against a trail of blood. Lola raised her head half an inch, and her tail lifted for one limp wag.

“It’s going to be okay, Lola. I’m coming right back. You hold on, all right?” She caressed the dog’s ears once, and Lola panted softly.

Einstein waited in the shadows by the door. Alex crawled to him.

“Stay with Lola, Einstein.”

She couldn’t interpret the look he gave her. Hopefully he understood. She had to go in alone this time.

If she got through this night alive, she was going to track down a gas mask made for dogs.

Alex crouched beside the door and carefully inserted her earrings. They were out of place – delicate and fussy – next to the rest of her serious gear, but she didn’t have time to be worried about appearances and this could very well get physical. She grabbed the bigger canister from the front pocket of her vest, twisted the top off, pulled the door open, and threw it inside.

There was no reaction. No shout or sound of footsteps retreating as the gas filled the room. She waited two seconds, then half stood and ran crouched through the doorway with the Glock in her right hand and the shotgun in her left. She would be clumsy with her left hand, but you didn’t need good aim with a gun like this, not in close quarters.

She didn’t bother searching the first floor. If someone tried to come after her in the next five minutes and he didn’t have a gas mask, he’d be down quick. She played it out in her head as she moved to the stairs. Hector had come inside, searching for Daniel or Kevin or both of them. Because he’d come in alone, she suspected he’d been looking for only two people. With Arnie down, he’d think it was one on one. Still, he must have been very confident in his abilities to go in solo.

He would have had to check all the rooms downstairs. Then he would have tried the doors upstairs.

She was halfway up the steps now. The mist spilling from the canister below was heavy; it wasn’t climbing with her. Looking up, she could see that Daniel’s door was open, as was the bathroom’s. Light spilled down from the far right. That could only be her storage room.

She holstered the shotgun, crept to the top, put her elbows on the first step down, and leaned around the edge of the banister.

A man was down in the hallway, dressed in rugged black pants and combat boots. His head and shoulders rested on another set of legs, coming out of her room, these in similar pants but wearing black sneakers rather than boots.

Hector would be the one on the floor in her room, if the man in the suit had described events correctly. He would have opened the door, flipped on the light, and dropped. After a few minutes, Angel would have come looking to see if he needed help, seen his legs, and slid along the wall with gun in hand until the gas overpowered him.

She had no idea how long they’d been down.

So far, the man in the suit had been pretty honest with her. It made her feel safe enough to holster the Glock and get started. First, she took the gun she found in the first man’s hands and tossed it over the railing to the floor below. There was another gun tucked into the back of his pants – that went over the railing, too. She didn’t have time for a better search. She wished she could inject him with something that would keep him quiet, but unlike the gas, which would disappear from his system in the next half hour, the longer-term sedation would linger in his bloodstream and be a dead giveaway to anyone who suspected she might be here. She zip-tied his hands behind his back and then zip-tied his ankles together.

Hector was smaller than Angel, who looked similar to the dead blond in the SUV except for his coloring; both Hector and Angel were dark-haired, as she’d expected from the suit guy’s description. Hector was no more than medium height and lean, fit, but not in a way that would stand out on the street. He was clean-shaven and his skin was unmarked, at least the parts she could see; he wore a long-sleeved black athletic shirt. Angel had tattoos on three of his fingers and one on the side of his neck. Hector was smarter. If you were going to do wet work for a living, it was better to blend in, avoid features that any witness could easily describe to the police sketch artist.

A huge suppressed Magnum lay inches from Hector’s right hand. The sniper rifle was holstered across his back. She pulled the magazine from the rifle, took the massive handgun, and carried them back to the hallway to dump them over the stair railing. She heard them thud against the hard wood below; one of them made a metallic chink when it hit the previously discarded weapons.

She turned back to secure Hector.

The body lying in her storage room was gone.

She ripped the shotgun out of its holster and pressed her back against the wall beside the door. There was no sound. He would have to come through the door. When he did, she would shoot him. Even the most experienced assassin would be incapacitated with his legs blown off.

When the movement came, it was not through the door. Angel began to writhe, moaning in Spanish. In the split second that Alex was distracted, a shadow peeled off from Angel’s body and flew straight at her, knocking the shotgun from her hands and sending them both crashing toward the ground. She braced for the impact even while wrestling with the hands that were trying to strip the gun from her waist. His hands were stronger than hers, but then the crash came, and with it the shattering of tiny glass bulbs.

She could feel the scalding gas sear her neck, the exposed skin around the base of her mask, and she knew she would probably look sunburned there for a few hours, but her eyes and lungs were protected.