Meanwhile, an automatic rifle fired from outside. Bullets tore through the home, up at chest height. Olivia hunched to avoid a stray bullet. A lacework appeared in the wall, and the old fellow grunted.
Olivia was peering up, mouth agape in shock, when she felt hot red blood spatter her. The old man went down. Sommer broke her barrel open and the two spent shotgun shells ejected. She was reaching into the folds of her dress on her lap, trying to grab some hidden shells to reload, when someone bolted through the door.
It was a man in black body armor and a helmet. The back of his jacket said S.W.A.T. in yellow letters. He lunged into the door so quickly that he rammed head-first into Bron's mother before she could reload. The air rushed from her lungs with a whoosh, and she crumbled to the floor. She tried to struggle but the man atop her was too strong.
Bron leapt to his feet, but only got a few steps toward his mother when a woman stepped through the door and leveled a machine gun at his chest. Liquid fear oozed over Olivia's skin as she watched the red dot from the laser sight slide over Bron's heart.
"Stand down!" the woman shouted. She wore a helmet and night-vision goggles.
For an instant, Olivia was confused. Could these people really be the police? Their outfits were convincing.
Out behind the house, Olivia heard the hounds growling and barking, rushing toward them, when suddenly there was a blast of machine-gun fire, and both dogs yelped. Their voices fell silent.
Bron just stood, frozen with indecision. He raised his hands in surrender.
A helmet and goggles hid the face of Bron's captor, but the line of her jaw was smooth and flawless, suggestive of surreal beauty.
That alone confirmed to Olivia that she was dealing with Draghouls.
Olivia shouted, "Run, Bron. Draghouls!" but there was nowhere for him to go. Olivia leapt up from her chair. She wasn't a fighter, and felt that her only chance was to flee. A man rushed into the cabin and slammed the butt of his rifle into her face.
She fell back into her seat with a thud, struggling to remain conscious. Even bloody and battered, she called upon some instinct and managed a high kick that put a heel right into her attacker's face. He flew across the room, and in the blink of an eye, Olivia bolted through the open door and dove off the porch, into the dark waters.
She dove deeply, afraid that she'd hit mud or weeds, and was surprised that she made it safely. She held her breath and swam underwater until her lungs burned, and she reached the weeds on the far shore. She carefully lifted her head from the water.
"Si ji!" someone shouted at the cabin. They began firing down into the water; bullets rained, splashing her face.
Weeds formed a wall before her, and though Olivia could see into the shadows of the trees ahead, she could not find a way to safety.
Chapter 28
Lord of the Bayou
"I have never liked killing, but I have a talent for it."
Bron realized that this was his last chance to escape. The only way he could stop this Draghoul from firing at Olivia might be to knock him into the swamp.
The gunman who was shooting at Olivia stood in the door frame. Bron's captor glanced toward the shooter.
Bron seized the moment, dodged to the left, so that the laser sights were no longer on him, then shoved the shooter. The man lurched toward the railing, nearly plunged into the swamp, and lost his weapon.
The woman who'd held Bron at gunpoint slugged his neck. He saw a blue flash, heard an electric crackle, and it felt as if Thor's hammer knocked him to the floor....
The gunfire stopped momentarily, and Olivia heard a splash in the water behind her. A Draghoul was coming for her.
She caught her bearings, saw a place far ahead and across the pond where some willows hung over the water. She hoped that she'd be able to find cover there.
She dove and swam toward the willows, guided only by memory. She could not judge how fast she was swimming or how far she traveled. She'd never swum like this in her full clothing before. She didn't dare come up for air early. Right now, she was like a submarine, hidden in the depths, and she could not risk exposure.
So she kicked and swam until her lungs felt as if they would burst, and then she kicked some more. She reached some weeds, pushed on through, and pulled herself along the bottom for a moment.
At last she surfaced, timidly, and struggling to breathe. She had over-shot her mark, and found herself deep beneath the willow's hanging fronds. A small inlet hid here, a waterway that looked as if it might have been dredged away, and it led inland. She gasped, dove, and swam deeper into the swamp.
She had no gun, no knife, and no idea where she might find help. For the moment, she hoped only to escape.
They have Bron, she realized. They must have followed us.
How could they have done that?
She wondered if her phone lines were secure. Had the enemy been watching Monique? Or had they somehow trailed Bron from home?
She couldn't imagine how they'd been found. Nor could she see any way to escape.
When Bron woke, he groaned and fought to recall what had happened. He remembered the sharp sensation of bolts blowing through him. He felt like he'd been hit by lightning, more than once, and as he struggled to recall what had happened, it was like trying to wade through tar. He could make no headway.
He dimly became aware that he was sitting. He had two people holding him, and they had wrestled him onto a wooden chair. His arms were wrenched behind his back and strapped together with duct tape. He could hear tape unzipping, and felt pressure on his legs.
Bron lolled his head up, tried to see. Everything was a blur. His right eye felt swollen, nearly closed, and he wondered if someone had beaten him or if he had fallen.
For several long seconds, he let his eyes adjust, even as his captors finished taping him.
"That should hold him," one man said as he stood.
Bron pulled hard, but the tape only seemed to draw back against him.
Three people were in the room with him—the woman who had first caught him, and a pair of men. They all wore S.W.A.T. outfits, but Bron realized that they couldn't be real police. He'd never heard of policemen who carried fully automatic weapons.
The woman removed her visor, and Bron saw that he was right. Hers was the face of a supermodel, with sparkling green eyes, silky blond hair, and opalescent skin that was absolutely flawless.
She was beautiful, yet she did not look like a masaak. Her eyes were too bright green, her hair too light, her skin tone too white. Though she did not look like a Draghoul in coloration, everything about her warned of danger. She did not smile or show any other emotion. There was a toughness to her that defied description.
She's not tough, Bron thought.She's... murderous. She's a Draghoul in hiding. All it took was contacts, bleach, and a little skin cream.
"What... do you want with me?" he asked. Speaking brought an unexpected pain. His lip had been split.
The woman slapped him so hard that spittle flew from his mouth. "You do not ask the questions," she said. Her accent sounded Eastern European—perhaps Russian.
She slipped into some foreign language then, began scolding masaaks around her. The men cringed like dogs with each harsh word.
From the other room, Bron's mother called groggily, as if rousing from sleep, "Bron?"