“You think he drowned?” said an asshole.
“Who gives a—”
Bart was in the room then, knives blurring.
The two commandos were leaning against a desk they’d pushed against the wall of windows, elbows resting upon it. One of them had a scope pressed to an eye. The other guy turned as Bart rounded the doorway. That one had a wireless comm set on his head.
There was a computer resting on the table, a blank screen still glowing faintly. A suppressed sniper rifle leaned against the wall.
Bart did not howl, scream, or utter a word.
The man with the headset was first. Bart cut the man’s throat, using his left arm to lock the soldier’s head in place, while he slashed with the knife in his right hand.
There was blood, warm and slick and spouting onto the wall and the floor. Bart struck with his left hand at the face of the other man.
His blade missed, a faint hissing sound as it grazed a void. The guy was quick.
The soldier hit the ground as Bart’s knife bit air, and he rolled to his feet, hands up in a defensive posture.
Bart was right-handed, though, and the blade in his right hand came fast and sharp. The enemy stepped back, light on the balls of his feet.
There was no shit-talking, no pleasant banter between foes.
Bart struck the man with the six-inch blade he held in his left hand, piercing him just below the armpit, thrusting and twisting, and then he stabbed with the knife in his right hand, just below the sternum, merciless, savage. The soldier was dead before he hit the fl
He picked up the sniper rifle, then put it back down.
He needed to move.
He hit the stairway, forcing himself to stay alert, keeping his steps silent. His heart hammered in his chest and his mouth tasted like salt water and blood. He felt alive and terrible and fantastic. He headed for the patio, and the hole in the screen.
He did not hear the shots, but the sound of the television screen shattering over his shoulder was enough. Bart hit the ground, crawled forward.
Son of a bitch. Okay. Corn-fed is here. Stealthy bastard on perimeter security. Hopefully he doesn’t have an uplink. Probably does, though. Where the hell is he?
He crawled ahead on his elbows. A burst from a submachine gun tore through the wall behind him. High rate of fire, suppressed. And I don’t know where he is. Somewhere by the dock. That’s not good. If he calls the team on the other side of the canal, we’re done.
He had his knives, and there was the sniper rifle upstairs. Suzanne and Taylor had to make it. They just had to.
“Hey asshole,” Bart yelled as he crawled toward the stairs. “Ever think that maybe you’re on the wrong team?”
He sprinted for the stairway then, coming fast to his feet. Then slipping and falling as his knee betrayed him, refusing to obey.
Bart twisted, hearing more rounds smack the walls.
He crawled to the stairs, his knee angry and throbbing. The house was dark to his eyes, but corn-fed would be able to see him clear as day.
He waited at the landing for death to come inside.
Suzanne gave the boat a shove. The incoming tide was swift and strong and the boat drifted into it and lugged along. She and Bobby Ray stood at the bow, while Ginnie and Taylor crouched at the stern. Suzanne pushed off from the walls of the canal.
Beowulf whimpered on the floor, never a fan of boats. Taylor consoled the dog.
Each splash was a raging waterfall, every breath a hurricane, as they floated toward the bend. There was the sound of breaking glass across the canal, and shouts. A machine gun equipped with a suppressor. Suzanne jumped at the sound.
The bow got hung up as they turned the corner, the current pushing them into someone else’s dock. Suzanne pushed, along with Bobby Ray and Ginnie, and the boat kept on sliding down the canal, picking up speed now. The boat turned sideways, and there was no way to turn it.
“Almost there,” Bobby whispered.
“Everybody ready?” Suzanne asked. Nobody answered.
“Bobby? Ginnie? You got the bags?”
“Yep.”
“Get ready to jump,” Suzanne said.
“Taylor, baby? You hang onto momma, no matter what, okay? You can swim, and you can float with your vest. Okay?”
“Okay.” Taylor’s voice was brave. “Here it is,” Bobby said.
“Go!” Suzanne said.
The water was cold and dark. She felt Taylor beside her on the surface, and she grabbed the vest Taylor wore and pulled, swimming for the dock.
The second boat was there, as Bobby had said it would be.
Taylor sputtered and swam on her own, resentful of her mother’s protectiveness. She knew how to swim.
Ginnie made it to the dock first, and she helped Taylor and Bobby, and then the dog, up onto the dock. Suzanne came last.
“Okay,” Suzanne said, shivering, watching the Mistress head out into the open bay on the tide. “Let’s dry off and hope Bart makes it.” She looked at her watch.
“She don’t look like much,” Bobby said. “But this is a good boat. Draws nothing. Engine starts every time.”
Suzanne looked at the boat Bobby had promised, there in the moonlight rocking on the wind. It was a sad, decrepit vessel. Twenty-five feet at the most, stinking of dead fish, a center-console craft built for catching fish, not Sunday jaunts. There were no extra seats beyond the coolers fore and aft. No canopy, no frills. It was the right boat.
The fuel tanks were full. The coolers contained water and MREs and weapons that belonged to Henry.
“You did good, Bobby. Thanks,” Suzanne said.
“Pays to know people,” he said.
They removed the lines from the cleats, and Suzanne looked at her watch again, straining to listen for shots, vehicles, splashing in the water.
“Climb aboard,” Suzanne said. “Stay low, like we talked about.”
She felt vulnerable and foolish, and the safety of the Everglades was as remote as another continent.
Something splashed in the water, and it wasn’t a fish.
Bart grimaced at the radiating pain in his knee. He heard glass crunching beneath stealthy feet, patient steps. The enemy operator was in the living room, then at the foot of the stairway. Bart gripped his knives tightly, sitting at the landing, planning and hurting.
He could hear the man breathing.
When the bearded soldier’s face appeared around the corner, a brief shadow against other shadows, Bart struck.
His blade found the man’s eye. The soldier fell backwards and Bart rounded the corner, his knee shooting lines of brilliant, white-hot pain up his leg. The enemy toppled back down the stairs.
Bart gripped the railing and hobbled down. Corn-fed was wounded, rolling over, reaching for the weapon he’d dropped on the way down.
Using his good leg to propel him, Bart jumped the last few stairs. The enemy soldier grabbed the submachine gun.
Bart landed hard on the man, who brought up a knee.
They struggled on the floor, slick with warm blood. Corn-fed scissored Bart with his legs and let go of the weapon, pounding Bart in the ear.
Bart, the wind knocked from his lungs, fought for breath, and with one hand he pinned the soldier’s right arm to the floor. The operative head-butted Bart, a sharp blow to the nose. Bart held on, though. He brought the blade he gripped in his right hand to the man’s neck while corn-fed locked his wrist.
It was a life and death struggle of strength and will, their faces mere inches apart. Bart was losing. He was not as strong as the larger man. He hadn’t been training every day. He felt a thumb bore into his wrist, stabbing at the tiny bones and tendons, and his hand screamed at him to drop the blade. He felt his arm being pressed back to the ground.