He stood for a moment, chewing his lower lip. The two outbuildings might offer some good intel, but they were dark and still, so almost certainly wouldn’t be where Rose was held. Assuming she was even here at all, even on the island, let alone this complex. But if she was anywhere, the large metal building made the most sense.
Crowley crept along in the shadow of its wall, watching carefully where he put his feet. Everything was still and quiet, no people moved anywhere. As he approached the small door he heard voices and froze. But the voices resolved into music and he realized it was a radio playing somewhere inside. That was good. It would help to conceal his approach.
He moved forward again, and pressed himself to the cold metal wall right beside the door. It was painted wood with a standard door handle and keyhole arrangement, and two small glass squares about three quarters of the way up. He leaned forward to peek in.
A large open space presented itself. At the back he could see the edges of shipping containers, closed up. A wooden staircase climbed over those to a kind of mezzanine level with several offices along the back wall of the warehouse. Two of those were brightly lit, light spilling out of their mostly glass fronts to illuminate the concrete floor below. In front of the containers was a wide open space, desks and machinery around the edges, and a dentist’s chair right in the center.
Crowley stared for a moment, confused by the incongruous sight. Then he made out loops of rope around the top of the chair. Its back was to him, so he had no idea if anyone occupied it, willingly or tied in place. He would have to go in to find out. He allowed himself a small smile. It was an ideal candidate for Rose’s place of imprisonment.
He moved around the door, carefully scanning the whole interior. It seemed empty but for the voice on the radio, now a host chattering away in Swedish. If there were any thugs here, they were likely up in the offices. It would be sweet if he could slip in, free Rose, and they could both slip out again, unnoticed.
Still scanning carefully inside, he let his hand fall to the doorknob and turned it painfully slowly. His smile widened as the door popped quietly open. He pushed it only far enough to allow him entry, then crouched and quickly closed it again. He listened, tried to filter out the radio and see if any other sounds reached him, but none did.
He snuck forward, staying low, keeping his eyes on the windows of the lit offices above and to his left. He rounded the dentist’s chair. It was empty. Someone had been here, the bindings were cut, but whoever it was had gone. Surely it had to have been Rose. Unless these guys regularly abducted people and tied them up. That was entirely possible.
Suppressing a curse, Crowley looked around. A half-smile returned when he spotted a patch of dark brown on the pale concrete not far from the foot of the chair. He knew dried blood when he saw it. He guessed someone had been dropped there, bleeding heavily from a nose or mouth. Maybe even from a small stab wound.
Good girl, Rose, he thought to himself. He had to believe she’d been the one to draw blood, and that he was getting closer.
He would have to sneak up to the offices and see what he could find. And that almost certainly meant a confrontation with whoever was up there. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled free a small knife. It wasn’t much, and right about now he would much prefer a firearm, but traveling around Europe with a gun wasn’t possible. He was handy enough with a knife if he could engage on his own terms, get close enough. He took a deep breath and crept to the stairs.
“Hey!”
Halfway between the dentist’s chair and the stairs, exposed in the wide open concrete space, Crowley froze and looked at the door he had entered by. A man stood there, eyes wide. He had a grocery sack under one arm and was trying to reorganize his load to reach inside his jacket, no doubt for a shoulder-holstered weapon.
He yelled out in Swedish but Crowley was already on the move. As the man’s hand came free of the jacket, Crowley dove forward toward the man and rolled. The man tried to track him, fired once and the slug bit up a spray of concrete from the ground right beside Crowley as he came back to his feet and drove the knife at the man’s chest. The grocery sack fell, cans of beer hitting the hard floor. Some split, hissed and spun as they sprayed white foam across their feet. The man got an arm up to deflect the deadly thrust of Crowley’s knife, but Crowley’s other arm was already looping around. His fist cracked into the thug’s jaw and the man fell limp. Crowley went down with him, snatched the gun from the man’s slack fingers, and rolled instinctively away as more gunshots rang out and more chips of concrete flew.
Feet thundered across the landing above and Crowley tried to estimate how many as he tucked in against one of the shipping containers for cover. At least two, maybe three. Well, this had certainly turned bad incredibly quickly. The feet came down the metal stairs, ringing in rapid succession, and Crowley dove out to roll quickly across the open space, firing as he went.
His aim was good, but the movement and not knowing quite where his enemies would be made the move a little too random. One of the men yelped and spun away, clutching his upper arm, while two more ducked for cover behind another shipping container. Crowley used the moment of panic to run behind the dentist’s chair and in behind some metal cupboards on one side wall. At least now he had all the enemies in front of him, but he was still outnumbered three to one. The man he had punched groaned and rolled onto his hands and knees. Make that four to one.
Crowley was in no doubt of the trouble he was in and needed to even those odds. He drew a bead on the punched man and, as the thug rose groggily to his feet, Crowley fired twice. The man’s chest blossomed scarlet and he fell backwards and lay still.
More yelling in Swedish and rapid footsteps hitting concrete behind the containers. There had to be enough space behind them for the enemy to move around them, trying to gain Crowley’s flank. He was pinned down against one wall. He had a closer look at his weapon. Standard automatic, fifteen rounds. He’d just cleared two. Time to start counting. Three enemies and thirteen rounds. Those odds were good, but only if he had time and space to engage. Which was exactly what he lacked.
Memories of raiding houses in Afghanistan came back to him, scared faces huddled in corners, insurgents with furious eyes running madly to attack. Suddenly, Crowley himself was the trapped local. The men moving around him operated like he had with his squad, outnumbering and outmaneuvering. He did not like being on this side of the arrangement.
These guys were pros. He could feel their pincer movement closing in and knew he had little time. From this side of the warehouse he now saw that two cars were parked in the opposite far corner, near the big roller door. If he could get between them he’d be able to move more freely, create better lines of fire. And if he was lucky, one might have keys in it and he could ram-raid his way out of this trap.
He ducked his head out for a quick look and immediately gunfire punched through from the front. Crowley fell back, one hand going instinctively to his head, feeling for blood. He’d felt the passage of at least one of those slugs. He put his hand out, blindly squeezed three quick covering shots and, hoping like hell the guy had ducked from his blind fire, ran for the two cars. He made it halfway before more gunfire boomed in the large space, so he dove sideways and rolled. A line of fire grazed his left calf and he barked a curse, but made it between the cars. No time to check his injuries, he rose over the hood of one vehicle and squeezed off three more shots in the direction of the last attack. Seven shots left and no one else taken down yet. His odds were rapidly dwindling.