Right to Kill

  The dining room chairs had fairly solid backs. If she stretched her body across the far row of them, she’d be far less visible but also less mobile. She decided to risk it because she didn’t think the intruders would be expecting anyone to hide like that.

  Staying low, she moved across the dining room to the far side of the table. The chairs felt cold against her skin and caused a shiver, but she got herself into a horizontal position across the top of them easily enough.

  Now it became a waiting game.

  Like a spider anticipating prey, she merged with the furniture and remained focused on the stairwell’s landing.

  Nothing happened.

  Patience, she told herself.

  Her wait wasn’t long. Something thumped down the stairs.

  And it wasn’t footsteps.

  CHAPTER 3

  Her ears . . . she couldn’t cover them in time.

  She lowered her head and closed her eyes.

  One-one-thousand . . .

  Two-one-thousand . . .

  The device detonated.

  A blinding red glare penetrated her eyelids.

  Unprotected, her hearing took the full force of the explosion and she nearly cried out. The banger did its job flawlessly, making all of her senses scream in protest. She felt, more than heard, two gunmen thump down the stairs.

  This was it.

  Survival or extinction.

  As before, the footsteps stopped short of the landing.

  She aimed her Beretta at the corner where the gunmen would appear.

  A pair of NVGs slowly eased out from the corner.

  It took all the self-control she possessed to resist squeezing the trigger.

  If she shot the first gunman before getting eyes on the second, her job grew in difficulty by a factor of ten.

  The goggles looked down at the dead man, came back up, then slipped behind the stairwell’s corner.

  Patience. He’ll be back. Wait him out . . .

  Her eyes felt dry and raw. She blinked a few times.

  Lying here immobile, she felt terribly vulnerable. Now wasn’t the time to second-guess herself. She’d chosen this spot and she’d make it work.

  Any second now.

  As if on cue, the goggles reappeared, followed by the gunman’s body.

  He slinked around the corner and took a knee, crouched at a forty-five-degree angle to her position. A second gunman came into view, looked in her direction, and froze.

  Time seemed to stretch as the second gunman swept his TASER back and forth through the dust and smoke, the green line of its laser plainly visible in her NV scope.

  Linda projected herself into her opponents’ perspective again. They obviously knew their prey was down here somewhere. The dead man at their feet was all the proof they needed. They had to be nervous, knowing a bullet could come from any direction at any second. They also had to be considering abandoning the fight. Four of their teammates had gone silent, presumably dead, and they didn’t want to be the next casualties.

  The second gunman stayed put and pivoted toward the living room. Without standing, the first gunman lined up in the opposite direction, covering his friend’s back.

  Then they both froze and their lasers went dark.

  Was she blown? Had they seen her?

  She held her breath and squinted in concentration. The angle she had on the second gunman wasn’t ideal but better than nothing.

  Should she wait or shoot?

  The pressure to nail the first guy felt agonizing.

  Risking everything, she decided to delay a few more seconds.

  And was glad she did.

  The second man eased to the left of his comrade, giving her perfect lines of sight on both of them.

  She’d never get a better chance.

  She began a gradual increase of pressure on the Beretta’s trigger, giving it about half what it needed. Part of her felt pity for them, but she reminded herself of what could happen.

  Tied and bound while they took turns.

  That’s not happening. Not tonight. Not ever.

  She increased to three-quarters pressure and squinted in concentration.

  Now.

  She activated the laser, painted the second gunman’s cheek, and executed a controlled tug of the trigger.

  Her pistol bucked.

  The bullet flew true.

  It slammed home, jolting the guy’s head sideways. The blood spatter on the wall confirmed the kill.

  The lead gunman reacted quickly. Caught in the open, he used his collapsing comrade as a shield and brought his TASER up.

  With no clear shot to his head, Linda fired twice at the man’s thigh and scored two hits. The guy grunted in pain but kept bringing his TASER up.

  Have it your way. She fired twice more, aiming slightly lower.

  Following a string of Spanish obscenities, the gunman dropped the TASER, shoved his human shield aside, and pulled a semi-auto pistol from a hip holster.

  Before he could line up on her, she drilled him in the face.

  Cartilage, bone, and brains were no match for high-speed, copper-jacketed slugs moving at nine hundred feet per second. Another spray pattern decorated her wall. She’d put a nice picture frame around it, then sign and date it.

  Instinctively, she kept a tactical tally. Eleven total shots fired. Ten rounds left in her weapon. And six stiffs. Not a bad evening’s work so far.

  Time to reposition.

  Moving slowly, she eased off the dining room chairs and crouched, facing the living room.

  The radio on the counter came to life at the same time the glass window behind her shattered inward.

  Shit. SHIT!

  Before she could turn to face the threat, she heard the pop of a TASER and knew what would follow.

  The tiny prongs stabbed her flesh just below the nape of her neck.

  Oh, crap. That’s a bad location.

  Fifty thousand volts coursed through her like hundreds of wasp stings.

  The result was hideous.

  Her body went stiff as every muscle contracted. She’d only been zapped once during her training, but it had seemed far less painful then. All her voluntary functions—such as remaining on her feet—instantly short-circuited.

  She wanted to curse the triggerman but all that came out was a teeth-clenched yelp. Like a poisoned insect, she curled into the fetal position, willing the agony to stop.

  It didn’t.

  He’d given her a full dose: five seconds’ worth.

  Somewhere in the red haze of consciousness, she fought to keep some sense of awareness. If she could keep them from pouncing on her, she might have a fighting chance.

  She’d thrown off most of the electrical disruption to her brain, but her large muscle groups wouldn’t respond. She could form a fist, but her arm wouldn’t obey. She could wiggle her foot, but her leg wouldn’t move.

  How could she have been so careless and not cleared her six? A costly mistake that would cost Glen his life. With her out of the fight, they’d search the house and find him. An overwhelming feeling of rage surfaced, but she forced it aside. Now wasn’t the time for a meltdown.

  All she needed was a little more time to recover.

  It didn’t happen.

  A gunman charged into the dining room from the direction of the library.

  He put a knee on her back and leaned in close. She felt his hot breath on her neck as he said, “The boss is going to have a good time with you, Little Peach, and I’ll be joining the fun. We all will.”

  Little Peach? Only one person in the world had ever called her that. She felt her skin tighten. Oh, dear God, not him. Had she been able, she would’ve pointed her weapon at her own temple and pulled the trigger.

  Instead, she tried to whip her head and smash the man’s nose, but her body didn’t answer the call.

  He yanked her hands behind her back and used disposable handcuffs to bind her wrists. The buzz of the cuffs locking overshadowed the barking from ups
tairs. At least the dogs were still alive.

  Taking his time, her captor ran his hands across her breasts and made an Mmmm sound.

  She hated the thought of this greasy maggot having his way.

  If only she’d let her dogs out. They might’ve given her the precious seconds she’d needed.

  Her arms working now, she tested the plastic bindings. No good. They wouldn’t budge.

  “Save your strength,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”

  “If you walk away right now,” she shot back, “I’ll spare one of your balls.”

  The gunman laughed. “How generous of you.”

  His hands continued down her stomach and stopped at her groin.

  She played possum until the last second, then tried to knee him in the face. She made contact but struck only a glancing blow.

  He backhanded her across the face.

  Without good motor function yet, she did the only thing she could think of.

  She spat a bloody wad.

  The man stood, backed up a step, and wiped his eyes. A look of pure malevolence took his expression, evident even through the black face paint.

  He reared back and kicked her torso—hard enough to rupture organs.

  The result was blinding. Nauseating and sharp.

  He performed a ballet-like pirouette and offered a prolonged yell of “Goooaaaal.”

  What an asshole.

  She supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t kicked her in the mouth. No doubt, they’d work on her face later.

  It came on suddenly. There was no stopping it. The contents of her stomach spewed.

  “Disgusting,” her attacker said. He walked to the sink, filled a glass of water, and dowsed her face. “Better?”

  “You’re really tough against a helpless woman.”

  “That comes later. Right now, my colleagues are going to find your husband and peel his skin off in front of you.”

  “He’s not here.”

  He smiled with an expression of nice try.

  Part of her hoped the guy had perforated her intestines or stomach with that kick. With a little luck, she’d be septic within twelve hours and dead a day later. But thirty-six hours could be an eternity. Somehow, someway, she’d find the strength to endure whatever they had in store for her. She’d never been tested like McBride, and she wondered how she’d hold up.

  McBride.

  He was still coming. All she had to do was buy some time. But the only way to do that was through pain. She had nothing else left to barter with. The question was, how?

  Think, Genneken, think. What did most Latino men treasure? Their macho self-image. And she knew how to tear that down to size.

  “Tell me something,” she said in Spanish. “Was your mother drunk?”

  “What?”

  “You know, the pig in the pink dress. How old were you the first time? Was she passed out or did your brothers have to hold her down?”

  “You’ve got quite a mouth. You’ll be taught how to use it later.”

  “I’ll bet you couldn’t get it up, even with all your sisters working as fluffers.”

  He just stared, then said, “Keep it up and I’ll sew your lips shut with a fishhook and sixty-pound line.”

  “I’ve got something to tell you, but you might have a hard time accepting it.”

  He stared for a few seconds, then spoke into his collar mike, updating his comrades.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, you’d just kick me again. Cowards like you get off hurting women. It’s a shame, though. It’s really something your boss would want to know.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “What would my boss want to know?”

  She smiled. “The best part of you ran down the crack of your sister’s ass and left a wet spot on the dirt floor.”

  She watched the man’s expression change from amused to angry. She unclenched her teeth just in time. He kicked her in the thigh hard enough to create a bone-deep bruise. The impact spun her head into the island, face first. Her vision grayed as her nose took the force. Blood began flowing, its distinctive taste far from new.

  He leaned in close again. “You’ll be begging for death, but you won’t get your wish. My boss is going to keep you alive for a long, long time.” He reached into his backpack, produced a nasty-looking syringe, removed the cap, and plunged it into a vial. “Here’s some Special K to keep you manageable, but don’t worry: I’ll make sure you’re fully awake when the fun starts.”

  Ketamine.

  Not giving him an easy target for the needle, she began struggling against her cuffs.

  She never saw it coming, but the blow to the side of her head crippled her mind.

  The sound of duct tape being pulled from a roll brought her back. Struggling to stay coherent, she felt pressure on her ankles, but she couldn’t focus.

  A bee sting nailed her in the back of her thigh.

  He’s injecting me.

  The next thing she sensed was another intruder racing down the stairs.

  Great, she thought, just I what need: another dickhead joining the party.

  Would they rape her right now, or wait until later?

  She hardened her resolve, telling herself she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her sob and beg for mercy. Wishful thinking. Every human had a breaking point and a good interrogator always found it. It was only a matter of time. She’d been through interrogation-resistance training, but that was a joke compared to what was coming.

  Then she heard a man yell, a guttural roar of anger.

  Glen?

  They’d found him.

  She began an all-out struggle to free her feet, thrashing around like a gaffed fish.

  Glen yelled again, louder.

  She looked up and saw an impossible sight.

  Glen wasn’t being dragged down the stairs; he charged down them.

  Her assailant tossed the syringe aside and tried to pull his MP5.

  Too late.

  Glen body slammed him to the floor. Her husband wasn’t a large man, by any means, but he’d been a championship wrestler in college.

  “Run, Glen, get out!”

  The gunman’s face ended up near her bound feet and she kicked out with all the force she had.

  And missed.

  Her attacker smashed his elbow into the side of Glen’s head, but her husband didn’t let go. In admiration, she watched Glen sink his teeth into the outside of the guy’s shoulder and shake his head like a dog trying to tear a chunk free.

  The gunman growled as the two of them became an entangled blur of flailing arms and legs. Linda used the opportunity to curl her legs tight to her chest. She needed to loop her bound wrists over her feet so her hands would be free in front of her body.

  Her bruised thigh erupted with fresh agony, and her stomach followed suit.

  She blew out all the air from her lungs to make more room and kept forcing her feet toward her body. She clenched her teeth as the dual throbbing reached a crescendo.

  Needing more than courage to get this done, she allowed anger to flood her thoughts, embracing it for what it was.

  For the first time in her life, Linda Genneken experienced absolute rage. Like a cattle brand, the emotion scorched her soul.

  She pulled her legs in harder, screaming like a warrior.

  Just . . . one . . . more . . . inch . . .

  Success!

  Her hands were now in front of her. She twisted to her knees, grabbed a steak knife from the countertop, and quickly sliced the tape binding her ankles.

  There was no way she could break or sever the plastic handcuffs without a tool, but she’d practiced hand-to-hand combat with bound wrists many times.

  She heard it, then: the unmistakable claps of a suppressed handgun.

  Three quick shots, as fast as a trigger can be pulled.

  Something sprayed her face.

  In the bluish light from the microwave’s clock, she couldn’t see much detail, but she knew the spray had
to be blood. And if Glen was on top . . .

  Oh, please, no.

  Her fear became reality when a black stain rapidly expanded around torn holes in the fabric of Glen’s T-shirt.

  The bullets must’ve punched through Glen’s chest and exited out his back. Despite the mortal wounds, Glen tried to keep his forearm around the gunman’s neck, but his strength seemed to be gone. Her husband did his best to stay on top but quickly lost the battle.

  The gunman pistol-whipped him on the side of the head. Glen’s mouth formed an O shape, but no sound emerged.

  As cold as the thought was, she hoped one of the slugs had pierced his heart. If so, he’d be losing consciousness within the next fifteen seconds. At least his death would be quick, and he wouldn’t have to watch her being tortured.

  That’s a nice, cheery thought, Genneken.

  Stop, she told herself. She was far from beaten. She wouldn’t allow her husband’s sacrifice to be in vain. Glen had bought her the precious seconds she needed with his life and she intended to cash them in.

  The gunman aimed his pistol at her.

  She rolled toward the oven.

  This could be it.

  The bullet missed, puncturing the refrigerator.

  Her attacker adjusted his aim for another shot.

  Hating herself for doing it, she kicked Glen’s body. Her husband grunted in pain, but she got the effect she wanted. Like a billiard shot, the energy of her kick transferred through Glen into the gunman, jarring his aim. Again, the bullet missed; glass from the oven’s door rained onto her head. She closed her eyes and shook her hair, dislodging the biggest pieces.

  The gunman cursed and shoved Glen aside. When he tried to line up on her again, Glen somehow found the strength to grab at the man’s forearm.

  She gained her feet before her attacker could fire a third shot and felt a piece of glass puncture the sole of her foot. Ignoring the stinging pain, she kicked her attacker in the face.

  The man’s head slammed into the cabinet.

  She followed up by stomping on his gun arm and felt the ulna and radius bones snap. The pistol skittered away on the floor, and she saw it was her own weapon.

  Seeing the man’s exposed groin, she delivered a solid kick.

  The air rushed from his lungs like a punctured beach ball.