The Rogue Agent (The Agent Series) Read online

  Tom envisioned his friends—any or all of them—coming for her, then watching over her as she was transported to Cahill’s safe house in Connecticut.

  A place Tom knew well, having once been held captive there for a night.

  If he had to stand his ground somewhere, or hide for a prolonged period of time, the old tavern wouldn’t be a bad choice.

  Tom needed to see that clearly in his mind, had to know that Stella would do her part so that the men he trusted could do theirs and get her to that stronghold.

  Clarity as such was necessary if he was going to take the risk that was required of him now.

  Thirty

  Dropping to his right knee, Tom shouldered the Marlin, placing his left elbow on his left knee for added stability.

  The man holding the knife to Grunn’s throat was large, as big as a doorway, so his head was higher than Grunn’s.

  Though his face was visible, Tom’s intended target—the area between the man’s helmet and chin—was just five by five inches.

  Added to that was the fact that the man was fifty feet away.

  At that distance, a variance in Tom’s aim of one-sixteenth of an inch would translate into a miss of six inches.

  A fraction of an inch too high or to the right or to the left and he’d completely miss.

  A fraction too low and he’d put a bullet into Grunn’s head.

  But the hard truth was, either way she was dead. Once they got what they wanted—Valena—any survivors would be terminated as unwanted witnesses.

  What mattered—what could only matter—was buying Stella and the girl as much time as he could.

  Tom let everything but the front sight become a blur.

  He moved his index finger into the trigger guard, doing so carefully so as not to affect his aim.

  He focused his mind, shutting everything out but the front sight, allowing the target beyond it to go out of focus.

  Taking a breath and letting it out slowly, he placed the pad of his index finger on the trigger, poised to gently squeeze it.

  But he had forgotten the first rule of combat.

  He had traded in situational awareness for tunnel vision.

  All he could see or think about was the target he was determined to hit.

  So by the time he heard the sound behind him—the sound of motion, of something being swung through the night air by someone—it was too late.

  Tom abandoned his shot and turned, but did so only in time to see the man standing over him.

  He was wearing tactical gear like the others, but with one significant difference.

  His face was hidden behind a mask.

  All Tom could see was the depiction of a grotesque human skull.

  The telescoping baton in his left hand struck the side of Tom’s head.

  Falling backward and landing on his back, Tom raised the Marlin toward his attacker, but the man was just too fast.

  He moved in, parrying the carbine to one side, and knelt over Tom.

  He lingered there for a brief second.

  Only his eyes were visible, locked with Tom’s.

  But there was something about them.

  Something . . . familiar.

  Then the masked man raised his baton and struck Tom again.

  The next thing Tom knew, he was being dragged across grass.

  At some point the grass ended and he was on gravel.

  Someone was holding him by one ankle.

  Finally, the dragging stopped, and Tom rolled onto his back and looked up.

  The masked man was standing above him, staring down at him.

  Tom’s vision was blurred, but he searched for Grunn and in the process spotted a vehicle parked nearby.

  A panel van, its lights on and two front doors open.

  No doubt this was the vehicle in which the masked man had arrived.

  The open passenger door indicated that he likely had a partner.

  Tom understood now why the Algerian and his man had made a show of calling toward the house as if they believed it was still occupied.

  They were stalling, buying time for that newly arrived backup team to make its way around to the rear of the building.

  Just as Tom had been buying time for Stella and Valena.

  He wondered how far away the two women had gotten.

  He’d bought them, what, two minutes?

  So a half mile, maybe.

  Each second that passed, though, got them farther away by a few more strides.

  Every step they took increased their chances of getting out of alive.

  Tom craved that, deeply.

  He realized that the Marlin had been taken from him, but his Colt was still holstered inside his waistband at the four o’clock position on his right side.

  Wedged between his back and the gravel, the weapon’s checkered walnut grip dug into his skin.

  To grab the Colt, he would have to do more than simply reach for it.

  He would have to roll onto his left side or plant both feet on the ground and raise his hips, and either motion would not go unnoticed.

  Another man dressed in tactical gear joined the masked man.

  Tom assumed that he was the masked man’s partner.

  The second man had a pistol in his right hand. He pointed it down at Tom.

  “Is that him?”

  The masked man didn’t speak, simply nodded.

  Tom and he once again locked eyes.

  The second man asked, “Should I kill him?”

  Before the masked man could answer, the Algerian appeared beside him. “Not yet,” he said. “We need the girl first.”

  The Algerian knelt beside Tom.

  Tom looked up at him.

  Now it wasn’t just Cahill who had seen his face.

  Tom made a point of memorizing every detail he could.

  “Where is she?” the Algerian said.

  The man holding Grunn moved to stand behind the Algerian, so Tom could see her.

  His knife was still at her throat.

  Tom and Grunn made eye contact.

  Her face was bloodied, her hair matted by sweat. By the nature of her cuts, she had been punched multiple times.

  The injuries were focused on the right side of her face, so whoever had beaten her was left-handed.

  Tom looked again at the masked man. He knew those eyes, but from where?

  The Algerian said, “Is the girl dead, or did she make it out?”

  Tom played the only hand he had to play.

  “She’s dead.”

  Two more men appeared, but this pair was casually dressed, not clad in tactical gear.

  One of them dropped something onto the gravel next to Tom’s head. It was the communication gear he and Stella had shed at the back of the building.

  “There are two sets of tracks in the grass,” the man said to the Algerian. “Fresh. They lead to the field to the south.”

  “You’ll never catch them,” Tom said.

  “That’s why you will tell us where they are going,” the Algerian said. “If these men have to chase them down on foot—chase them through fields and woods—they will be angry. And when they find them, which they will, they will act on their anger. Tell us where they are going, and unnecessary violence will be avoided. We will kill them quick, I promise.”

  Tom said nothing.

  “Perhaps you would prefer it if these men were to demonstrate on your bodyguard here what exactly they will do to your woman and the girl, should you require them to exert themselves?”

  Tom met Grunn’s eyes again. She shook her head once, side to side.

  The Algerian watched Tom for a moment. “You killed those men, no? The four sent in. And the shot fired from above, that was also you, correct?”

  Tom remained silent.

  When he got no reply, the Algerian nodded and said, “I see now why he fears you as much as he does. I see why he wants you dead. I, too, want you dead. I dislike loose ends as much as he. But before I get to kill you,
I need you to give me the girl. How you die hinges on what you do right now. How everyone dies hinges on that. So I need from you now more than your silence.”

  “Fuck you,” Tom said.

  The Algerian stood and ordered his men to get Tom up. They pulled him to his feet.

  The masked man held him while his partner placed the muzzle of his pistol behind Tom’s ear.

  The casually dressed pair stepped back, ready to assist, if needed.

  “Check him,” the Algerian ordered.

  The masked man’s partner patted Tom down, quickly finding his Colt and pulling it from its holster. He handed it off to the man who had informed the Algerian about the fresh tracks in the grass.

  But the masked man snapped his finger, then extended his hand, making it clear that he wanted the weapon.

  Tom took note that the hand the masked man had extended was his left.

  And that the man was making a point not to speak.

  The man with the tracking skills handed the Colt to him, and he slid it into his belt.

  “Put them face-to-face,” the Algerian said.

  Tom was turned and positioned so he was facing Grunn. There was barely two feet between them. The Algerian reached into the pocket of his peacoat and removed a pistol.

  A Walther PPK.

  And though he’d gotten only a glimpse of its Bakelite grips, Tom saw engraved on them a gothic eagle, its wings spread and head turned to the left.

  Even if he hadn’t been a student of history, he still would have recognized the symbol of the Nazi Party.

  “I am told that you are a man who has served his country,” the Algerian said. “That you are descended from men who have served as well. Navy men, every one of you, all the way back to your country’s founding. I never knew my father, so I do not know from whom he and I are descended. And I have no country to serve, so my cause is myself. My loyalty is to the man who pays me, so it is loyalty born of necessity, from the desire to survive, not pride. You would, I think, have been better served had you chosen a different path than that of loyalist. If you had, perhaps, been more like your father.”

  Tom didn’t understand what the Algerian meant by that, but that was the last thing on his mind right now.

  The Algerian pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Grunn’s temple.

  “The choice is yours, Tomas Sexton. She is already a dead woman, there’s nothing that can change that. You are a smart man, so you know this. But she can die quickly by my hand, or she can die slowly by the hand of my man here. She can die by drowning in her own flowing blood, while you watch helpless, or she can go as quickly and as easily as switching off a light.” The Algerian paused. “So tell me right now, where is your woman taking the girl? I need something the girl has. Do you understand? Answer me truthfully and everyone dies easy. Don’t answer me at all, or lie to me, and your woman won’t die for days. None of them will. I won’t ask again. Where will we find the girl?”

  Tom saw fear in Grunn’s eyes. And yet, like she had done a moment before, she shook her head from side to side.

  A small but unmistakable gesture of defiance.

  Then she braced herself.

  Tom couldn’t bear this, was ready to say anything to spare her from suffering.

  He was ready to plead for her life.

  But then he spotted something behind her. Movement in the trees surrounding the two dumpsters.

  Someone had emerged from that concealment, only to move to another position and disappear from Tom’s sight again.

  A second later, that person was in motion yet again.

  The Walther PPK was a double-action pistol, so the Algerian thumb-cocked the hammer and pressed the muzzle even harder against Grunn’s head.

  His finger was on the recessed trigger.

  Tom said, “Let her go, and I’ll tell you.”

  The Algerian opened his mouth to reply, though the expression on his face was one of doubt mixed with contempt.

  But before the man could utter a word, the bright floodlights overhead suddenly went dark.

  This was followed by a series of popping sounds from inside the restaurant. Compromised by the fire, the old-style fuses were exploding, the electrical systems failing. The only illumination now was from the fire as it consumed Tom and Stella’s world.

  Tom looked past Grunn again, and this time the fleeting movement he had detected was replaced by the sight of a figure carrying a rifle moving steadily from the dumpsters to the shot-up SUV.

  Moving with a soldier’s glide.

  Dressed in jeans and boots, the figure wore a lightweight plate carrier over a Henley shirt. A cap, its bill tilted low, covered the head and obscured the face.

  Unlike the vests Tom had acquired for Stella and himself, the one worn by this person was designed to offer bare-minimum cover in exchange for greater mobility.

  The plate carrier of choice for someone who might need to cover a distance at a sprint.

  Attached to the vest were three magazine pouches, and by the width of the magazines inside them, Tom knew that the ammo contained within them was not the smaller, weaker 5.56 NATO but the more powerful .308 Winchester.

  The figure was close enough for Tom to see that the rifle was an AR-10 with an eighteen-inch barrel, suppressed.

  Mounted to its flattop receiver was a scope, and close to the front edge of the floating rail forend was a folding tripod.

  What really caught Tom’s attention, though, was the shape of the figure.

  The Henley was formfitting, and even partially covered by the plate carrier, it was obvious to Tom that the torso beneath was not a man’s.

  The figure was close enough to the SUV that the flames from the restaurant were bright enough for Tom to see her clearly.

  And then she raised her head high enough for Tom to get a good look at the face the long-billed cap had obscured.

  Tom estimated that the attack had started over ten minutes ago, which would have been just enough time for her to cross the distance between the farm where she rented a room and the restaurant where she worked.

  It was a run that she had practiced nightly since the day she had showed up out of nowhere looking for a job.

  Reaching the SUV and quickly taking a covered position, Krista expertly aimed her rifle, pausing to acquire her first target.

  Tom looked at her and nodded once, indicating that he was ready.

  And then she fired.

  Thirty-One

  Tom bent forward as the .308 round penetrated the base of the bigger man’s skull.

  The bullet exited, blowing out a chunk of the man’s jaw.

  The bending motion allowed Tom to avoid the escaping lead and flying pieces of bone and brain matter, but more importantly, it enabled him to slip out of the masked man’s hold.

  With both arms free, Tom reached up for the knife just as the dead man began to fall.

  Yanking it away from Grunn’s throat, he pried it from the man’s hand, gripped the handle and swung for the man closest to him.

  The masked man’s partner, standing to Tom’s right.

  But the masked man stepped forward to intercept Tom’s arm and stop the blow.

  His partner wasted no time raising his pistol and quick-aiming at Tom’s torso, point blank.

  Before Tom could even react, Grunn moved in beside that man, clutching the top of his pistol’s slide with her right hand and his forearm with her left.

  It took only a small amount of pressure for her to cause the man’s wrist to fold, and then his firearm was pointed safely away from Tom.

  The man was about to counter by pivoting, which would prevent Grunn from turning his weapon to the point where its muzzle was directed at his midsection, but she stopped him midturn with a swift kick to the groin. Grunting loudly and dropping to the ground, he pulled Grunn down with him.

  Tom didn’t see what happened next, because the masked man moved under Tom’s extended arm, driving his shoulder hard into Tom’s ribs.

&
nbsp; It was like a defensive end sacking the quarterback.

  Forcing Tom back a few feet, the masked man suddenly stopped short, leaving a gap large enough for another man to come in and, blindsiding Tom, complete the tackle. As Tom hit the ground, someone else landed next to him.

  It was one of that second pair of men—not the Tracker, the man who had spotted the tracks, but his partner.

  And the condition of the dead man’s skull told Tom that he had been taken out by Krista’s second shot.

  Two men down, three more to go.

  Having wrestled during his years at military school, being on the ground wasn’t a problem for Tom.

  He quickly executed a reversal, putting the Tracker on his back with Tom on top of him.

  But his opponent knew ground fighting as well and wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist, then extended his hips high, keeping Tom at a distance.

  As they struggled for control of the knife—Tom was holding it, the Tracker grasping Tom’s hand and seeking a wristlock—a motion in the far left edge of Tom’s peripheral vision caught his attention.

  The masked man was on the move, escorting the Algerian in the way a bodyguard would, laying down suppressing fire with his own sidearm as the two men ran for the waiting van.

  His rounds kept Krista’s head down long enough for him and the Algerian to reach and enter the vehicle.

  By Tom’s count, the masked man had fired nine rounds before suddenly stopping, indicating that he had likely emptied his firearm.

  Nine rounds meant an eight-round magazine with a round chambered.

  That particular configuration was, with only a few exceptions, exclusive to the 1911 platform.

  He had used Tom’s Colt.

  And he was making off with it.

  Once the masked man’s fire ended, he expected Krista to reposition and open up on the vehicle with her AR-10.

  Even with the suppressor affixed, the sound of the high-speed round exiting the muzzle would make an audible sound, but as the van accelerated in reverse, charging across the gravel lot toward the road, Tom still didn’t hear shots coming from Krista’s location.

  He feared she had been wounded or killed.

  Taking a risk, he shifted his attention from the man he was fighting to the battered SUV where he had last seen Krista.