• and there will be more than two, covering the exits. Kitchen door, front porch, someone watching the windows—
Another set of steps entered the kitchen, these hurried and shuffling, but they also stopped. The pair was waiting, either for more of their team or for the assembled S.T.A.R.S. to make a move. David’s thoughts raced independently of him, reflexively con-sidering and rejecting theories and options at light-ning speed.
We get upstairs, pick them off one at a time—
• unless they mean to torch the house—
• so we run straight through them, out the back—
• except they’ve got the firepower advantage, maybe spook eyes and we’d be moving targets, no contest. . .All he knew for certain was that they couldn’t stay where they were. There was no cover for when the thugs got tired of waiting.
There was shuffling movement from the right as Barry’s hulking shadow crouched toward him. Da-vid’s eyes had adjusted enough to see Jill and Rebecca on the other side of the coffee table, both of them crouched and holding handguns. He couldn’t make Chris out, but he was probably still by the hall. Barry’s house was the last on the block, a wooded park just past. If they could slip out, get into the trees—
The thought stuck; even a bad plan was better than none at all, and they didn’t have time to work out alternatives.
“Basement door?” David whispered.
Barry’s gruff voice was soft and strained. “Yeah.” No good, it would be posted. They’d have to get out through the second floor.
“We go through the park,” he whispered quickly. “Jill, get to Chris and prepare to lay cover on my signal. Barry, Rebecca, as soon as we start, hit the stairs fast to an east window, softest jump. We’ll follow. Ready? Go.”
Jill was already moving around the couch, disap-pearing silently into the thick shadows, Barry and Rebecca right behind. David paused just long enough to scoop up the papers that Trent had given him.
He stuffed them inside his shirt, the crinkling pages cool against his sweaty skin. Nothing else in his briefcase would be damaging.
He crept toward the yawning blackness of the opening to the hall, edging to where Jill and Chris were crouched. The entry faced the side of the stairs. To the left was the front door and the foot of the steps. To the right, the quiet kitchen at the end of the long hall where the two Umbrella operatives waited. They go right, I’ll take left, when the shooting begins the rest of the strike force should rush the front door. . . .
David hoped. If the timing wasn’t perfect, they were dead. Away from the faint light from the win-dows, it was too dark for hand signals. He leaned close between Jill and Chris, pitching his voice as low as possible.
“Both right, Jill low and outside,” he whispered. They wouldn’t be aiming for the floor, and Chris could use the wall of the entry as a shield. “I’ve got the front door. Keep it up for—six seconds exactly, no more. On zero, you need to be on the stairs, out of the corridor. On my mark . .. now!”
The three of them sprang into position, Chris and Jill firing toward the kitchen, David whirling to the left. He ran for the front door in a low crouch, the count ticking.
... five... four...
Behind him, Barry and Rebecca lunged for the stairs through the crash of bullets. David trained the Beretta on the darkness in front of him—and was only a foot away from the door when someone kicked it open.
Bam!
His shoulder connected with the heavy wood and he threw himself into it, slamming it closed. He dropped to the floor and jammed his heel against the base.
...two ...
He fired into the door at an upward angle, five shots as fast as he could pull the trigger. There was a strangled scream, the sound of something heavy hit-ting the porch, and he fired three more before rolling to his feet, into the alcove at the foot of the stairs and out of the line of fire. Their time was up. David spun, saw Jill and Chris already on their way up—and as his feet hit the first riser, there was a sound like an explosion behind him. The front door was suddenly a mass of flying splinters, heavy rounds tearing through the wood as the Umbrella team sought to end the battle. If the two Alphas hadn’t killed the men in the kitchen, they were surely dead by now.
Halfway up the staircase, David turned and fired twice more through the rapidly disintegrating door, hoping he’d bought the S.T.A.R.S. enough time to escape.
Ten, maybe twenty seconds before they realize we’re gone.
It was going to be close.
Rebecca stood on the dark landing, her heart pounding almost as loudly as the booming shots that chased Jill and Chris up the stairs.
Come on, come on—
Barry was to her right at the end of the landing’s hall, barely visible by the moonlight that streamed through the open window. Jill was the first to reach the top. Rebecca steered her toward Barry with a touch, Chris following close behind.
Bam! Bam!
The muzzle on David’s nine-millimeter flashed brightly in the darkness on the stairs, and then he was in front of her, materializing out of the gloom like a sweaty ghost.
“This way—“
Rebecca turned and ran for the window, David at her side. Jill had already gone and Chris was halfway out, Barry gripping one of his hands as he struggled to balance himself.
Please God, let there be a mattress, a pile of leaves—
BOOM!
The crash of the front door flying open was fol-lowed by heavy footsteps and muffled male voices, angry and commanding. Chris disappeared through the window and then Barry was reaching for her, his mouth a grim line. She jammed her pistol back in its holster and stepped to the window.
Barry’s warm hand on her back, Rebecca crawled onto the sill and looked down. There were hedges against the side of the house, lush and thick and impossibly far below. She caught a glimpse of Jill, standing on the lawn, aiming her weapon toward the front of the house and Chris looking up at them, his face tight with strain—
• don’t think just do it—
Rebecca slid out the window, Barry’s strong fingers finding her hand. Her shoulder groaned as gravity did its work, Barry leaning out to give her less of a drop, her body suspended in mid-air.
He let go and before she could feel real terror, she hit the bushes. There was small pain, twigs and branches scratching at her bare legs, and then Chris was pulling her out, lifting her easily from the twining hedges.
“Take the back,” he breathed, his attention already fixed back on the window.
Rebecca snatched the revolver out as she stepped onto the lawn, turning to face the shadows that made up the backyard. To her left, a dark stand of trees stood maybe twenty meters away, silent and still. Hurry, hurry. . . .
There was a thundering rattle of bullets inside the house and a thrashing thump in the bushes to her right, but she didn’t turn, intent on her assigned task. A movement, by the corner of the house. Rebecca didn’t hesitate, sending two shots into the thickening of shadow, Barry’s .38 jerking in her hands. The figure crumpled, falling forward just enough for her to see that she’d hit a man clutching a rifle—and that he wasn’t going to get up again.
• never shot anybody before—
“Move!” Chris shouted, and Rebecca jerked her head around, saw Barry climb out of the bushes and stumble toward them. There was a shout from the window, followed by a burst from an automatic rifle. Rebecca actually felt the bullets hit the ground near her feet, tearing up chunks of overgrown lawn. Dirt pelted her legs.
Shit!
David and Jill fired back as they ran for the trees, Chris leading the way. The shooter either ducked or was shot; the dull clatter of the rifle fell silent. As they reached the first of the wooded shadows, Rebecca heard the wail of approaching sirens—followed closely by shouts and running steps across Barry’s front porch. Seconds later, there was a squeal of tires. Rebecca stumbled through the brushy copse, dodg-ing between narrow, gnarled trunks, trying to keep the others in sight. The revolver felt too heavy in her slick grasp and her entire body seemed to be pounding, her legs shaking, her breathing sharp and shallow. Every-thing had happened so fast. She’d known they were in danger, that Umbrella wanted them out of the way—but knowing something wasn’t the same as really believing it, as believing that violent strangers would break into Barry’s home and try to take their lives. . . .