Map of Sanguine Springs

  Sanguine Springs

  Lukas and Dieter passed through the ruined door into the first house's basement. Fuel oil spread along the floor in a slick, viscous puddle. The men crabwalked out from behind the perforated fuel tank, rifles swiveling to clear the room. Using hand signals, Lukas directed Dieter to mount the stairs while he covered their tail. It made sense—Dieter was lighter on his feet than Lukas. The younger man nodded, then quietly led the ascent. Their heavy boots tracked a thick layer of fuel oil with each step, leaving slick, dark footprints on the dusty wooden treads. The sharp, overwhelming stench of petroleum hung heavy in the air, a scent that tasted of death and bad decisions.

  Partway up, Dieter felt a hand on his back. Pausing, he turned to see Lukas, his hand raised in a command for silence. He tilted his head, listening. Above them, he heard the faint scuff of feet on the main floor. The target, or one of her protectors, was directly above their heads.

  Lukas reached into his pocket, withdrawing one of his scrounged grenades. Without a word, he shoved the cold metal into Dieter's hand. "Just in case," he whispered. Dieter nodded, holding the explosive carefully, like a priceless egg or holy relic, before sliding the grenade into a loop of MOLLE on his chest rig.

  Lukas gave an upward nod. Time to move. Slowly, quietly, the two men continued up the stairs, ready to fulfill their capture-kill mission.

  Dieter reached the top step. His boot touched down on the landing. He reached out, pushing the door wide, and flowed into the first floor, his Remington 870 at low ready.

  Hadn't we left that door open? Lukas wondered, a moment too late.

  The gun blast was deafening in the enclosed space.

  Dieter fell sideways, slumping out of view. The 870 hit the floorboards with a secondary clatter. Lukas crouched, his SIG Sauer MCX centered on the doorway. Who was up there? He listened with bated breath. Heard a groan, heard the distinct click of a pistol pulled from its Kydex sheath. Dieter was still in the fight.

  The enemy's shotgun roared again. The unknown shooter closed the distance, his form breaking into view, filling the doorway. A man in workout clothing limped across the floor, carrying a double-barreled shotgun of his own.

  Lukas adjusted his point of aim, following the gunman's head. A second to take the shot. His finger pressed the trigger—then stopped.

  He blinked. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  Then the second was over, the gunman passed..

  "Still alive? Good," the shooter said from somewhere close by. "Why are you here? They told me I would be left alone." He was talking to Dieter.

  He didn't know Lukas was here. Lukas held his breath, white-knuckling his rifle. He took the next step gingerly, hugging the wall to avoid detection as he surveilled the room.

  The shooter stood over Dieter, shotgun cracked open at the breech. He withdrew a fresh shotgun round from his training shorts and fed it into the breech.

  Despite the thin athletic attire, he exuded a professional presence. Tactical stance. Controlled breathing. The confident posture of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.

  Because he had—most of it at his side.

  Matthias.

  The target package had said nothing about armed security. Yet here he was. It was the only possible explanation.

  "Now, last chance," the former commander said, holding the shotgun inches from Dieter's face. "Why am I being targeted?"

  "You're not."

  Matthias whirled, the shotgun rising as Lukas stepped through the doorway. He kept his rifle at low ready. A gamble, but he had to talk to his brother—to prevent his death and uncover any more surprises in this deceptively deadly snafu of a mission.

  For a long, silent beat, neither man moved. Two brothers. Two guns. A chasm of years and choices between them.

  "Lukas." There was no surprise in Matthias’s voice. Just sadness. His double barrel shotgun dipped an inch.

  Lukas held his support hand up, palm towards his brother. “Walk away, Matty. You’re not on our radar. Whatever she’s paying you, it's not enough.” he cocked his head to the side. “You know, I really thought you would leave this all behind. If any of us could, it was you.”

  “Who the teufel are you speaking of?” Matthias’s shotgun drooped lower. "Lukas." His eyes flicked to the still form on the floor, then back up. Hard. Accusing. "What is are you doing, bringing a kill team against my town?"

  "You thought family loyalty would be enough to protect her? That we wouldn’t find her?" Lukas kept his voice level, professional. " It's over. You can't—"

  "Who are you talking about?” Matthias stepped back, bringing the shotgun back on line.

  Lukas fought to keep his face neutral. He kept his MCX low, focusing on the details at hand. His brother’s limp, his clenched teeth, the spreading bloodstain on his shirt. Change of tactic. “Matty, please. You’re hurt. Stand down, drop your gun, I’ll see you patched up. You couldn’t know that this Allison was—”

  A noise came from below. Dieter shifted on the hardwood floor, his legs sticking at odd angles.“I can’t—I can’t feel my feet.” The younger man's breathing came fast and shallow, his wide eyes darting between the two brothers. With a trembling hand, reached for the cylinder hanging from his chest rig.

  "Dieter, stand down," Lukas ordered, not taking his eyes off Matthias.

  Dieter didn't stand down. Didn’t stop moving. The mission was shot to hell. His legs were shot to hell. And now their team leader was talking to the hostile like they were—

  The pin clinked against the wooden floor.

  "Dieter, NO—" Lukas reached out, too late

  Dieter's arm flopped forward. The grenade tumbled, rolling to a stop at Matthias's feet.

  Time compressed. Lukas saw everything in perfect, horrible clarity: the grenade's dull green body, the spoon already flying free, Matthias's eyes widening in recognition, the tick-tick-tick of the fuse mechanism.

  "RUN!" Lukas screamed. Not at his fallen teammate.

  At his enemy. His own brother.

  Lukas didn't think. He kicked, combat boot connecting with the grenade. It skittered across the wooden floor like a loose puck on the ice, bouncing off the kickplate of a cabinet before tumbling back down the stairs toward the fuel-soaked basement.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Bending, Lukas grabbed Dieter’s plate carrier by the drag handle and tossed the younger man onto his shoulder. He charged at a rear window like a linebacker, breaking the glass with Dieter’s armored back, and leaping from the house.

  They landed on the deck, stumbling. Somehow, Lukas kept his feet, kept moving. running for the trees, and for safety. Wood steps clattered as he thundered from the deck to the needle-strewn dirt, headed for the trees, and for safety.

  Where’s the boom? Lukas wondered. Maybe the grenade was a dud, or some collector’s inert curio.

  The house’s few remaining windows blew outwards.

  The world turned white.

  Then orange.

  Then it roared.

  Brad barreled down the hill, boots skidding raw patches through the loam, the MK18 clamped to his chest. The sky above him was still alive with afterimages, the supernova-white blast blinking out the stars for miles. He ran hard enough to tear something, lungs burning, knees popping in ugly little explosions. Past the stumps and boulders, leaping over fallen logs. The world tasted of blood and woodsmoke, and he couldn't tell if the salt collecting at his lips was sweat or tears.

  Halfway down, he saw the remains of the deck—or what had been the deck. Below it, Jake's house—his brother's house—was canted at an angle, the logs shorn like bones after a chainsaw massacre. The roof was gone, just a tangle of blackened beams. Flames licked out the shattered windows and vanished in the wind, embers speckling the air like a blizzard in hell.

  No one could survive that.

  He stumbled across a stretch of charred grass, ignoring the bitter sting as embers spat across his hands and forearms. A shape lay in the ruined yard.

  Allison. I’m so sorry.

  A flash of white—someone's T-shirt, scorched but visible. He shouted her name and got a hard, ragged cough in return.

  Not Allison.

  Matthias. Alive, but unmoving. Smoke rose from his trainers, his bare legs singed smooth by the inferno's heat. He’d nearly died in the effort to save her.

  Brad closed the distance, dropping to his knees beside Matthias. The German's eyes were open, pupils dilated, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Burns covered his legs, the fabric of his shorts fused to blistered skin in places.

  "Hang on," Brad said, reaching for Matthias's shoulder. "I've got—"

  The crack of rifle fire split the night.

  Brad's head snapped up. Close-range rifle fire, from this side of his own house—and getting closer. Multiple weapons. He saw them. Three men, executing a hasty cover and move in their direction. A retreat, but from what? Had Tony driven them back? Maybe Allison was with him.

  The bullets landed around him. They were coming his way.

  C'mon, Brad, he thought, checking his unconscious neighbor's vitals. Retreat or not, you won't win any consolation prizes if you get caught in a stampede.

  The three-man team advanced, their covering fire sweeping through the smoke and chaos like wolves pushed from one kill toward another.

  Things were getting intense.

  Brad started to rise, bringing the MK18 up.

  CRACK!

  The impact hit him center mass, a sledgehammer blow that erased thought. His plate carrier caught the round—300 Blackout, subsonic, heavy—but the kinetic energy folded him backward. He hit the scorched earth hard, ribs screaming, lungs locked. The MK18 tumbled from his grip.

  Can't breathe. Can't—

  Boots crunched through ash and debris. Closing in. Flashlight beams now, cutting through the smoke, sweeping across the blasted earth, across Matthias's prone form, finding Brad.

  Another shot snapped past his head, kicking up a spray of dirt. Then another. They weren't aiming carefully—they were bracketing, walking fire across the killing ground, looking for confirmation.

  Brad rolled onto his side, gasping, fingers clawing toward his rifle. Four feet away. Might as well be four miles.

  A figure materialized from the darkness, weapon raised. A voice, jittery, trying and failing to remain professional: "Target down. Confirming—"

  Thwack. The wet thud cut him off mid-sentence. The rifle slipped from the operative's hands as he fumbled for the black handle still quivering in his neck. With a gurgle, he slipped to the ground like two hundred pounds of wet laundry.

  Brad sat up, sucking precious air into his throbbing lungs. He needed to move, needed to drag Matthias to safety. But for a moment, it could wait. He needed to breathe.

  Jael was here.

  He watched as his neighbor flowed among the trees, a ballerina made of smoke and death, seeming to melt from shadow to shadow without intervening frames. She was more athletic than he'd ever noticed, with dexterity he hadn't seen since sparring in a mixed martial arts gym back in the service. Another blade flashed in her hand—she must have picked them from the ground back at the machine gun—and a second man went down, clutching his inner thigh where the femoral artery pulsed its last.

  An enemy rifle barked.

  The operative appeared from behind the trunk of a fallen lodgepole. He fired blind, stitching rounds across the darkness. Jael called out in pain. A grazing round. Blood drawn. It leaked, crimson trickling down her forearm. In the light of the burning house, it looked tribal, primitive. Violent.

  Just like the night had turned out.

  Jael faltered, then charged, weaving, toward the rifleman.

  Brad shook the cobwebs from his own head. She didn't need to do this alone.

  He grabbed for the fallen rifle. Saw the trio of stylized letters inside a halo. SIG. An MCX. Same manual of arms as his MK18. He pulled back on the charging handle, verifying a live chamber, then tugged the magazine. It held firm. Satisfied with the truncated inspection, he brought it up, welding cheek, shoulder, and support hand in one practiced motion. Time to lend a hand.

  The operative's form weaved in and out of the reticle. Brad squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. controlled shots chewing bark from the lodgepole, forcing the rifleman to duck and stay pinned.

  Jael used the support to her advantage.

  She moved, coming in low from his flank, catching the attacker below the waist. The operative tried to swing his weapon around but she was already inside his guard, the next blow already inbound. They went down together in a tangle of limbs and desperation. Jael swung down, driving the bony ridge of her hand into his neck. He reached for a combat knife sheathed to his plate carrier. Jael drove her knee into his hand, grinding down hard with her kneecap. She grabbed him by the NODs, wrenching the helmet from his head.

  The man beneath was young—barely older than Allison. Pale skin waxy by firelight, wide brown eyes full of terror and regret. She pulled the knife from his armor, raising it high like an ancient priest, ready to drive home the sacrificial blow.

  "Wait!" Brad called out, pushing himself upright. "Don't!"

  The knife stopped, suspended at the peak of its arc. Jael's head snapped toward him, eyes wild in the firelight. "Why?"

  "We need him." Brad limped closer, the MCX still covering the downed man. "Who sent you? Why are you here?"

  Jael held position for another heartbeat, then shifted her weight. She reached down, yanking a pair of zip cuffs from the operative's plate carrier. With practiced efficiency, she rolled him onto his stomach and secured his wrists behind his back, pulling the plastic tight enough to bite. While she worked, she stared at the hole in Brad's own carrier.

  "You hit?" Her accent was more pronounced than ever. Thick, sonorous, but with an edge.

  "Plate caught it," Brad said, grateful to feel air back in his lungs.

  "That's what they're for."

  Brad gestured back to the form on the ground. "I have to get Matthias stabilized. Away from the fire."

  "Is that him? Why's he dressed like Richard Simmons?" Jael asked. She reached for the MCX. "Here, I'll cover you."

  "Who are you?"

  "What, immigrant and sous chef isn't good enough for you?" She raised an eyebrow. Brad remained stone-faced. "Fine," Jael sighed. "Mossad. Retired."

  "Retired, huh?"

  She shrugged, a half smile playing almost impishly on her lips. "Well, I thought so."

  Brad nodded, handing Jael the MCX. "Challenge any targets before engaging. Tony might still be alive. I don't want a blue on blue."

  "And your niece?"

  "She was in the house. No one survives that."

  Jael studied him for a moment. "Then we save this one first," she said, gesturing to Matthias. "You get him clear. I'll cover. Until then, don't give up."

  Brad moved back toward Matthias. The German hadn't moved, his breathing shallow but steady. Jael took a knee, shouldering the MCX, as Brad knelt beside his neighbor. He worked his arms under Matthias—one behind the shoulders, one beneath the knees. The German groaned but didn't wake.

  Brad lifted. His ribs screamed. His lungs burned.

  Didn't matter.

  He carried the unconscious man towards Jael. Every step away from the wreckage was a step away from the house.

  Away from Allison.

  His niece. Jake's daughter. The only family he had in the whole world—and he'd gotten them both killed.

  Find her. The thought hammered against his skull. Drop this and FIND HER.

  But he kept walking. Kept carrying Matthias to safety.

  Training was a bitch like that. You never leave a man behind. Even when every fiber of your being is screaming to do exactly that.