The Rogue Agent (The Agent Series) Read online

  These men were concerned with only what faced them, not what might be to their rear.

  That distraction probably wouldn’t last for long.

  By tracking the voices, Tom determined that they were behind the fourth crate, which was one of the cover positions filled with a three-deep row of sandbags.

  The next crate—the fifth—was a false position.

  But Tom was behind the first crate, which was false cover as well, so he needed to get to the second crate before engaging them.

  And while he was confident that Stella would recognize the difference between the sound of her attacker’s 5.56 fire and his .45 fire—this was the reason for his not having taken one of the automatic weapons from the fallen men upstairs—he needed to be positioned behind actual cover in case she mistook him for them in the confusion of battle and opened fire with her .357.

  Tom had only one option, and in the confines of the basement, it was a risky one.

  One that would cost him.

  But it was a sacrifice he had to make.

  Removing the grenade from his belt, he held it and the SureFire light in his left hand—the light pinned to his palm by his pinky and ring fingers, the grenade grasped firmly by his thumb, index, and middle finger.

  He grabbed the circular pull pin with his teeth, separating it from the detonator, then spit the pin out.

  The grenade and light in his left hand and the Marlin in his right, he made his move, running from the first crate toward the second.

  The sound of his motion was more than enough to expose his presence to the two men.

  In the darkness he was blind, but he knew where they were and immediately released the grenade’s safety lever.

  The standard fuse delay of an M67 was between four and five seconds, and it would take maybe a second for the grenade to reach them once he tossed it, so he paused for the duration of one breath before lobbing the device in their direction.

  For Stella’s benefit, he said, “Grenade.”

  Though she and the girl were safe behind the reinforced cinder-block wall, protected from the countless fragments that were about to fill the air and spread out at a high velocity, the sound of the explosion, as well as the concussive force it generated, could be devastating to the unprepared.

  Tom was certain Stella would hear his single word and grab Valena, pull the girl’s head close to her chest and enclose her arms around her as she covered her own ears.

  With a few steps remaining between him and the second crate, he shifted the SureFire in his hand until he achieved a functional grip.

  Then he aimed the light at the men, flipping the power switch on.

  Six hundred lumens of white light lit the dark basement like a camera flash.

  He briefly saw the two men—saw them by the fourth crate, turning to face him.

  He saw, too, that their night-vision goggles were in place.

  The sudden bright light would overwhelm the night-vision system, temporarily blinding the two mercs.

  Tom could tell by the reaction of these men that this was exactly what he had accomplished.

  Quickly switching the light off, he reached the cover of the second crate and crouched behind it. He did his best to brace himself, but his Marlin was in his right hand and the SureFire in his left, and there wasn’t even time for him to drop them, so all he was able to do was cover his left ear with the heel of his left hand.

  His right ear would have to bear the effects of a grenade going off at point-blank range.

  An experience that was all too familiar.

  The metallic sphere had made no sound when it landed on the dirt floor, but the commotion of the men scrambling to save themselves was confirmation that his aim had been true.

  Their frantic motion was audible for maybe two seconds, certainly not more, and then the grenade at their feet detonated.

  Twenty-Nine

  Tom was semiconscious, his lungs voided to the point of near collapse, and despite the last-second placement of his left hand, both ears were ringing sharply.

  He had felt his legs go out from beneath him when the shockwave hit like a gust—that was the last thing he could remember, in fact, being hit by compressed air as dense as a wall that caused his internal organs to shift and force the air from his lungs.

  Now he was flat on his back and staring up into a darkness that he could not at first understand, gasping for air but unable to draw it in.

  His location unknown to him, he was looking for stars, his eyes searching for something—anything—resembling light.

  He was desperate for it, maybe more so than he was for air to breathe.

  There was no light, however, and the panic triggered by the seeming lack of air around him brought him back to reality.

  He knew where he was, what he had done, and what he now needed to do.

  All he had to do was get up, but he could barely lift his head off the dirt floor for longer than a few seconds.

  It was as he was struggling against gravity that he felt someone touch him.

  A hand on his arm.

  His mind focused on the nature of that touch—gentle but firm.

  He could see nothing, hear nothing, but the hand moved down his arm to his hand and pulled something from it.

  Tom realized he had still been clutching the SureFire.

  Within seconds of the flashlight being taken from him, there was at last something for his eyes to find.

  Light was above him.

  So, too, were Stella and Valena—Stella wearing her plate carrier vest, Valena all but lost in Tom’s.

  Keeping the bright light out of Tom’s eyes, Stella illuminated his face.

  She was studying him for wounds, feeling his head with her free hand and saying something, but Tom could only hear the ringing.

  And even if he had been able to hear her speak, he simply had no air with which to voice a reply.

  When Stella realized Tom was gasping, she quickly handed the flashlight to Valena, then placed both hands on Tom’s solar plexus and pressed down, holding the pressure on his diaphragm for a moment before releasing.

  As Tom’s sternum rose, he gulped in air, filling his aching lungs.

  It was then that he smelled the cordite.

  More than smell it, he could taste it.

  Stella said something to Valena, and together they worked to get Tom to his feet. It wasn’t easy going; he weighed as much as the two of them combined, and his legs were still weak. But he did his best to help them, and once he was up, they each moved under an arm and wound it around their necks, propping Tom up like a pair of crutches.

  Tom noted that the Marlin was still clutched in his right hand. Pointing it in the direction of the fourth crate, he muttered, “Light, there.”

  He couldn’t hear his own voice, but he didn’t let the loud ringing trick him into shouting.

  He kept his voice even and low.

  Valena shined the light on the two men lying on the dirt floor.

  Blood was everywhere; they were either dead or unconscious and mere moments from dead.

  That was all Tom needed to know.

  He said, “Okay. Stairs.”

  Stella and Valena spun him, then maneuvered him around the first crate and toward the stairs.

  Without being instructed to do so, Valena aimed the light at their destination.

  Tom could tell Stella was looking at the side of his face frequently, watching him and trying to gauge his condition.

  He kept his eyes on the stairs, though, his Marlin raised as high as he could manage.

  They reached the bottom step, and Valena aimed the light at the door at the top.

  Tom did the same with the Marlin.

  No one was there.

  He asked Stella what she heard, then looked at her.

  She shook her head from side to side.

  Tom watched her lips and saw her mouth the word, “Nothing.”

  Tom nodded. “Okay.”

  The steps were t
oo narrow for the three of them to stand side by side, so Stella instructed that Valena get behind them, then helped Tom up one step at a time until they reached the open door at the top.

  Tom scanned the room, then nodded toward the breached back door.

  The ringing in his ears was still present, but he could hear other sounds now, too.

  His own breathing, their footsteps, sporadic gunfire outside.

  A few shots, a few more, then silence.

  But the silence didn’t last too long.

  It was broken by the sound of voices.

  Male voices barking commands.

  Halfway through the kitchen, Stella stopped.

  Tom looked at her.

  He could hear the voices outside but not the words being spoken.

  Stella had not only heard the words but also heard something that alarmed her.

  Her face showed terror.

  Tom said, “What?”

  She spoke, but he didn’t hear her, nor could he read her lips.

  She put her mouth close to his ear.

  “Someone is telling us to come out or they’ll burn us out,” she said.

  Tom leaned back to see her face.

  “He has an accent,” Stella added.

  “What kind?”

  “French or something.”

  Tom remembered what the Colonel had called the man he had been seeking for decades.

  The Algerian.

  Stella leaned close again. “Who is he?”

  But there wasn’t time for Tom to explain.

  Nor was there time for him to act, because something came crashing through the front window of the restaurant.

  Tom grabbed Stella and the girl, pulled them down with him as he ducked.

  Almost immediately after that, something came crashing in through the kitchen window, landed on the floor, bounced once, then rolled to a stop just a few feet away.

  Tom was looking at a canister, identical to the one he’d seen clipped to the vest of the fallen man upstairs.

  An incendiary device, it was now between them and the breached back door.

  Tom rose, pulling the women with him, and said, “Go!”

  His legs were back, for the most part, anyway, and he turned Stella and shoved her toward the basement stairs, Valena in front of her.

  Stella got the girl through, then Tom got Stella through.

  And just as he pulled the door closed behind, the device ignited, scattering a spray of white-hot phosphorous into the air.

  Tom felt the wooden door heat up instantly.

  It was almost too much to bear.

  Stella and Valena were running down the steep stairs. Tom followed. He was barely halfway down when the door caught fire.

  Tom said, “The coal chute.”

  They crossed the basement to the maze, wound their way through it, stepping over the two dead men by the fourth crate.

  Valena was in the lead, using the flashlight to guide them to the barrier wall, which was pockmarked with dozens of scars from the grenade’s fragments.

  Making their way around the wall, Stella and Valena stopped at the bottom of the coal chute.

  Tom hurried passed them, climbed the narrow, slanting chute to the steel hatch at the top and unlatched it.

  Behind them, it was beginning to rain fire—the balls of phosphorus had burned through the wooden floorboards and were dropping like hailstones into the basement.

  The planks and posts and beams, aside from a few recently replaced by Tom, were close to ten decades old. The entire place and everything it contained would be engulfed within minutes.

  They had to move fast.

  Above the ringing in his ears, Tom heard his own grunts from the effort of pressing open the heavy steel hatch.

  He heard Stella instructing Valena to climb the chute first.

  Tom was heartened by this.

  If he could hear, he could fight.

  If he could fight, he could save them all.

  But what he wasn’t hearing right now was a problem: the absence of gunfire coming from the front of their building, and the fact that the voice Stella had heard was likely the Algerian’s, meant that Grunn and her two men had been defeated.

  Whether that meant they had been killed or captured, however, remained a troubling unknown.

  The coal-chute hatch was at the rear of the building, and beyond the border trees at the southern edge of their property was the farmer’s field across which their attackers had first made their approach.

  His only hope was to get everyone clear of the hatch and run for that field, then skirt the tree-lined edge of it to remain unseen.

  But doing this would mean leaving any possible survivors behind.

  Tom’s mission, though, was to save the two women who were depending on him.

  He thought only of that as he cleared the narrow opening, got to his feet, and quickly scanned his surroundings with his Marlin raised before turning back to the hatch and reaching in. Extending his left hand and grabbing Valena by hers, he pulled her up and out into the chilly night air.

  He told her to get down, and she immediately lowered into a crouch, scanned the area like Tom had, then focused her attention on the corner of the building nearest to them.

  The corner around which danger was likely to come first.

  Tom grabbed Stella’s hand and pulled her clear. Together, they crouched beside Valena, forming a huddle.

  The grenade’s explosion had blown out his communication gear, so he quickly ditched it.

  Stella did the same with hers.

  In a whisper, Tom said, “Make a run for that field. Stay by the trees, though. And be careful, because that’s the direction they came from. Double back if you can, go around and make your way north to Krista’s. If you can’t double back, if you think someone’s behind you, go to the twenty-four-hour gas station two miles past the farm. Call the police, then follow protocol.”

  “You’re coming with us, right?”

  “I’m going to cover you while you cross to the tree line.”

  “We’ll wait for you there.”

  “No, keep going. I’ll catch up.”

  Stella hesitated.

  Tom was certain she knew what he was thinking.

  How could she not?

  Before she had the chance to express her objection, he said, “You know what to do, Stella. You know the procedure. I need you to follow it now, please.”

  Stella looked at him for a moment, then finally nodded and grabbed Valena by the hand, pulling the girl to her feet as she stood.

  They ran across the open backyard, Stella setting the pace and the girl holding it.

  Tom approached the nearby corner and peered around it.

  The front of their property was illuminated by the spotlights Tom had mounted along the roof as well as the fire raging in the dining area.

  It was as good as daylight there.

  Tom saw nothing at first, but then a figure walked into his line of sight.

  A man dressed not in tactical gear but dark pants and a leather peacoat.

  Tom ducked back before the man could see him, watched as Stella and Valena reached the field.

  Within a few seconds, they moved into the line of trees, disappearing.

  Tom hesitated, torn between conflicting duties—catch up with Stella and lead her and the girl to safety, or make an effort to at least confirm whether or not anyone in Grunn’s team was still alive.

  And if someone were alive, he couldn’t just leave that person in the hands of these men.

  Tom looked again around the corner and saw that a second man had joined the man in the peacoat.

  But that second man was not alone.

  Someone was in front of him, being held like a human shield.

  The light from the fast-rising fire inside the restaurant glinted off the blade he held to his captive’s throat.

  Grunn’s throat.

  Tom had yet to be spotted, but he had no doubt that it would b
e obvious to these two men that the rear of the building, which had yet to be consumed by the fire, provided the only avenue of escape for those inside.

  The fact that one of them hadn’t made it around to cover the rear meant that they didn’t want to risk getting into a firefight with whoever had taken out so many members of their team.

  It had to have crossed their minds that there was possibly more than one capable fighter inside.

  Tom was thinking of a way to exploit that advantage when the man in the peacoat yelled, “Why don’t we make a deal?”

  His accent was as Stella had described.

  This was the Algerian, then.

  The dangerous man whom the Colonel and Cahill had spoken of.

  But the Algerian was addressing the building, which meant he believed the occupants were still inside.

  He wasn’t sure why, exactly, they would believe that.

  “One girl for another,” the Algerian said. “That’s fair, no?”

  So they wanted Valena alive.

  Tom said nothing.

  “Or would you rather burn while this one has her throat slowly slit open?”

  It didn’t make sense to Tom that the Algerian assumed they were still inside when the rear of the building, and its already-breached door, was beyond his line of sight.

  And yet the two remaining attackers stood there, showing no concern for the part of the property they could not see.

  As confusing as this was, Tom knew better than to get hung up on that.

  He glanced back toward the trees and saw no sign of Stella and the girl.

  The longer he delayed the Algerian, the farther away the two women would get.

  Stella could run all night if she had to, had been training for this since their arrival here. She had strong legs, powerful lungs, and a standing heart rate of fifty-eight beats per minute.

  The girl at her side had youth.

  And perhaps more importantly, the knowledge of what these men could do—having seen what men like these had done to her mother—caused her to experience gut-deep fear.

  With fear like that came adrenaline.

  Tom’s protocol established that once Stella was safely away, she would contact Carrington, who would alert Cahill and Hammerton.

  If necessary, Cahill would inform the Colonel, who’d move fast to dispatch local law enforcement.