Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Alaric Moretti bought the property after the fire that ruined the house. It didn’t completely destroy it, though, and I wonder if that’s why he bought it. He never did anything with it apart from locking it up tight.
No soldiers here. No shots fired. Not yet.
There should be soldiers. “Shit.”
But in the distance, I see something. A blinking of brake lights bright in the black night. Here one moment, gone the next.
“There!” Jet calls out, pointing in the direction I’m looking. I floor it, the SUV’s following me. Everything is pitch-black out here. The house is set so far from the road that it’s impossible to see anything until the attack begins. An onslaught of bullets, a war of them piercing holes in the SUVs, shattering glass all around us as my men split off, breaks screaming, soldiers piling out, weapons in hand. They make barricades of the SUVs and for all the silence of a few moments ago, now chaos reigns all around us.
Brake lights flash again in the distance. I let my men battle the soldiers at the house and floor it to catch up with the car that must be driving off the property through a back exit. I’m too far away, though. I won’t reach them. And when bullets pierce the tires of my SUV, the vehicle comes to a sudden and abrupt stop. Jet and I open the doors simultaneously and take cover as we’re shot at from the upstairs windows.
We shoot back, but we’re sitting ducks out here. Although I only see two cars parked around the back of the house. He must have brought only a handful of soldiers with him. Around the raised patio, a door stands open. It’s a back entrance into the house and it’s my way in.
“Jet!” I call out over the chaos.
He takes aim at one of the upstairs windows and a moment later, a soldier drops from it to the ground.
He turns back to me, a half-grin on his face. “What?” he calls, swapping out his magazine.
I point to the door. “Cover me.”
He nods once, turns back and begins to fire against the upstairs windows. I crouch, hurrying across the garden, grateful that it’s overgrown as I narrowly dodge bullets. My luck runs out when I get to a few feet from that open door. I take a shot to my shoulder. It jerks me backward, my shoulder and upper arm on fire. I’ve been shot before, and I know the fiery pain to come. This is only the beginning.
I drop behind a tree, take aim around the back of the house where the shot came from, but whoever shot me is either gone or hidden so I decide to go for it. Using the last of my bullets, I shoot a continuous streak and run toward that door, not sure what I’ll find on the other side, but unwilling to stop because if she’s here, I have to get to her and if she’s not, I need one man to tell me where he’s taking her. Just one.
By the time I get inside, my bullets have run out, but I hold the Glock at my side as my eyes adjust. My shoulder is throbbing, but the rush of adrenaline is keeping the pain at bay. Inside is almost as dark as outside, but someone dropped a flashlight not too far away because I see the boots of a fallen soldier. I hurry toward the dead man, look at his still open eyes and swap his weapon for mine. It’s an AK-47. I pick up the flashlight and creep deeper into the house.
The only light apart from my flashlight is coming from the broken-out windows, the part of the roof that’s open. It’s an old stone mansion so it’s held up reasonably well. It’s why the fire didn’t devour it, although mother nature is swallowing it back up. Outside gunfire is still going strong. I ascend the stairs and know I’m nearing whatever soldiers were shooting at Jet and so I switch off the flashlight and turn the corner, gun ready. Two men stand at the windows, their backs to me. One is reloading his weapon and over the noise of bullets they don’t hear me come. Once I’m a few feet away, I switch on the flashlight and both men turn, surprise on their faces. I never did believe in shooting a man in the back, not even men like this. The moment they turn to me, I open fire, bullets raining down on them. I watch their bodies reverberate with them, arms flailing, weapons flying as they go down.
The sound of bullets has lessened, but in a distant part of the house they’re still fighting. I look around the room, see the ruined furniture. I notice the ashtray on top of the piano, see the partially smoked cigar in it. That’s recent.