“Grena—” he managed.
Then the place erupted. Deadly shards made them all hit the ground; the concussive sound blasted their eardrums and their senses at the same time. Hayden recovered fast, Smyth and Komodo doubly so, but then all their assailants burst out of cover.
Behind Smyth, the single Irishman capered and shot his gun off in all directions, performing an actual Irish jig, but only for a moment. When his comrades appeared he fired at an angle, effectively trying to stop Hayden and the others from hitting them.
“They’re the worst kind of enemy,” Komodo groaned. “Trained fucking madmen.” He rolled behind the large crate, joining the others as a bullet whizzed off the framework, narrowly missing his bulk. In that instant Kinimaka’s cell rang.
Hayden stared at him, suddenly lost in the past.
Kinimaka frowned and dug the unwieldy object out. “My fault,” he said. “Should have switched it off. Ah, shit.”
Komodo glanced over. “Who is it?”
“Kono. Sister who’s probably madder at me than all these Irishmen put together. Oh, well.” He turned it off. “Hayden? You okay?”
The ex-CIA agent struggled to speak. Her mind had been transported back many months, to a time when she fought alongside young Ben Blake. Ben often received and took phone calls in the midst of a battle, usually from his mom or dad.
All gone now.
Hayden swallowed drily, hearing the click in her throat. It wouldn’t do to lose focus at this point. She ignored the guys and rolled to the other side of the crate, still struggling. But then Dudley’s manic voice cut through her melancholy.
“Yer really think yer can stop us? The 27-Club are back, bitch, and yer country is our amusement park.”
Hayden peered around just in time to see a rocket launcher settle over the madman’s shoulder. From across the huge vault his brother broke down into fits of laughter, literally falling to his knees. Dudley’s men darted around him, unable to conceal their glee, their lust for blood and lunacy.
“Goodbye,” Dudley intoned.
Hayden called a warning, and shot out from behind the crate, firing blindly to stop the Irishmen taking potshots. She needn’t have worried. They were too busy tracking the missile to watch the damage it caused. When the RPG struck the huge crate the four SPEAR members were sprinting away; when it hit they were suddenly flying away — airborne, meters off the ground, lit by an expanding fireball and twisting amidst debris and planks of timber and metal fastenings. Hayden felt the whoosh of air and the unstoppable force, helpless, crawling through thin air and then coming down hard, slapping into the ground with her shoulder and then her skull; her hip and then her shins. Sliding across the floor for a moment and then she lay still, ears throbbing, ringing, body screaming to be left alone.
But what was Dudley going to do next? A sane man would use the opportunity to escape. This guy…
Hayden fought every nerve ending, every warning signal, every impulse from her brain, and forced her body to turn over.
There he was, sniggering, still talking, standing right over her. And over his shoulder, now pointed down, he still held the rocket launcher.
“Always wanted to do this to a feckin’ cop.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Horror made Hayden’s eyes widen, her face turn white. Staring up at the rocket launcher she momentarily froze.
Surely he realizes he would die too?
Maybe, maybe not. Truth was he didn’t care. To this man it was all a deadly game, a boy’s day out, and each successive high intoxicated him to try the next. Her vision, her world, was filled with metallic death and a wide drooling grin.
“C’est la vie, bitch,” he drawled.
His finger tightened on the trigger. Hayden couldn’t look away. The missile shook slightly. And then the rocket struck.
But it was a rocket of hard flesh and bone, an enormous man-made rocket called Mano Kinimaka, and he smashed into Dudley hard enough to snap him in two. The rocket launcher tumbled away and then hit the ground and fired — its unstoppable missile speeding toward the rear of the vault. Kinimaka tripped over his own blurry feet, falling and rolling. Dudley coasted helplessly into the air at least six feet, then came down on his back, stunned. Komodo was on his knees, lifting a rifle.
Dudley’s boys laughed hard as they closed in behind him.
One leapt at Komodo, taking advantage of the soldier’s befuddlement, and added to it, striking him in the face. Another started kicking at Kinimaka, dancing out of the Hawaiian’s reach and then darting back in. Two more lifted Dudley, unable to stop from cracking unintelligible jokes. That left two surplus and Dudley’s brother, who now sat near the shelving, finishing off with the camera.
“Best get goin’, lads,” he said. “Backup’ll be here soon.”
Most of the men complained, enjoying their fun.
“Ach, I don’t mean this minute,” the brother drawled. “Kill the feckers first.”
A shout of pleasure went up. Hayden rolled away from her attackers, seeing the world spin at least three times. Nausea rose within as a sharp kick connected with her spine. Damn, they were at such a disadvantage here. It was then that she thought of Ben again, and her father’s sacrifices, and so many others — all that they had lost — and a feeling of pure anger rose within her.
What the hell am I doing here? Curling up into a fucking ball?
At least she was still alive to live out her hopes and dreams. Ignoring the discomfort, the vertigo and the heavy pounding, she kicked back, using the momentum to jump to her knees. The world turned violently, but she thrust it away, focusing on the men before her. One came at her with a knee, which she deftly palmed aside. Now she spied her Glock to the left. A second attacked with a rush and she fell under him, risking a roll and paying dearly for it. Again the world turned, her head screamed and she threw up. But her attacker sprawled in her wake, smashing his head to the floor.
Hayden reached out for the Glock.
To her left Komodo wrestled with another Irishman, looking stronger with each passing second. The initial concussion was wearing off, the soldiers were trained to fight through it. Smyth, flat out and groaning until now, suddenly sat up and there was a machine pistol in his hands.
An Irishman kicked it away, then collapsed as Smyth punched his thigh. Hayden grabbed the Glock and aimed it at her nearest attacker.
“Hey now, lassie, hey now. It’s all just a bit of fun.”
He backed away. His compatriot jumped up, grinning. “Time we got the feck outta here.”
They rushed her. Hayden squeezed a shot off, winging one, but got a knee to the face for her trouble. Blood flowed. She fell backwards again, groaning, but used the fall to twist her body around so that she now faced their fleeing backs.
“Stop!”
She could stop them, wound them, but her team needed her more than her mission. Without pause she whirled once more. Smyth had thrown off his attacker; the man was already in flight. Komodo threw his to the floor. Kinimaka had caught a boot intent on breaking his ribs and was now twisting an ankle.
“Let ‘em go,” a voice rang out, Dudley’s brother. “And we’ll let yer live. Can’t do fairer than that.”
Hayden evaluated their position. Three machine pistols were pointed at them — one by a dazed Dudley. Kinimaka, Smyth and Komodo were starting to get the best of the other four attackers, though there were no guarantees in this fight. Quickly she raised her Glock, nodding at the same time.
“Go,” she said. “Get the hell outta here. We’ll see you soon.”
Her team was bruised and battered, like her. This deal was as good as it was going to get.