Page 12 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

Down the corridor, another body hits the ground with a heavy thud. Toby’s second target merely slumps over in the chair.

“Clear,” Mike grits out, his voice crisp in Toby’s ear.

“Clear,” Toby confirms. He pauses to check on the first guy, and Jesus, he’s barely twenty, way too young to die even as he’s gasping out his last breaths, blue shirt darkened where the bullet hit. Toby swallows against the acid taste at the back of his throat. Fuck. He moves on, confirms the guy in the chair is dead, then follows Mike, weapon at the ready—no light on the second floor, doesn’t mean there’s no one there.

Tiny kitchen niche, water boiling in an iron kettle. Around a corner, and Toby arrives just in time to watch Mike take out a door lock with two precise shots that bounce off the bare walls. Toby swings around, his back to Mike, weapon trained on the corridor. “What,” he asks without turning his head, “did that lock ever do to you?”

“It stood in my way.”

“You need therapy.”

His pulse rattles in his ears. A scratch of movement—he tenses, ready, ready, then realizes it’s from inside the room Mike just unlocked. Toby glances back, catches Mike’s eye. They exchange nods, and Toby moves closer, covering Mike’s back.

Mike throws the door open with enough force to have it bounce back.

Dim illumination from a bare light bulb overhead. Two middle-aged men, cowering in the farthest corner of the small, dirty room. Their T-shirts are torn in several places, one sporting a large bruise on his cheek, the other’s hair matted by blood that’s dried to a rusty color. Two blankets and a bucket keep them company.

Paul Weld, Nathan Mettel. Now that Toby knows they’re alive, he’s ready to use names.

“I’ll get them out.” Mike jerks his chin at Toby. “You check upstairs, make sure we won’t get a nasty surprise.”

Works for Toby.

“We’ll get you out of here,” he tells the hostages, what little good it will do to calm them down. Then he slips back into the corridor, no sign of further opposition so far. Three guys, is that really all? He’ll be at a disadvantage going up the stairs, but that’s a risk he has to take.

He pauses at the foot of the stairs. A deep, silent breath, holding the air in his lungs for one, two, three seconds. Exhale. Mike is talking in his ear, voice soft and low, it’s over now, the worst is over, we’ll get you home if you just hold out a little longer, it’s really almost over. It’s a lot of words for someone who doesn’t qualify as talkative, and even though it isn’t meant for Toby, it settles his heart rate. They’ll be out of here in a matter of minutes.

He exhales on another controlled breath. With his next intake of air, he launches himself up the stairs, coiled like a spring.

But no one’s shooting. There is no sign of life upstairs, just one large room spanning the entire floor, empty but for a metal chest, a bed and a nightstand with the Koran sitting on it. Toby checks the contents of the chest and finds two duffle bags. He slings them over his shoulder just as Mike’s voice cuts off abruptly.

The connection is dead.

“Mike?” Toby whispers.

What answers him isn’t Mike’s voice, but the hum of an approaching car, wheels crunching on gravel. The engine cuts off right outside the front door, and fuck, that’s just as bad as a dead comm link. Can Mike hear it back there? Fucking fuck.

“Mike.” Maybe the silence goes just one way. “We got company. Car just stopped out front. Stay.”

No reply. Of course there’s no reply.

Toby ducks down low, silently moving to what is an actual window on this floor. He rises from his crouch just enough to scan the entrance area, counting on the cover of darkness.

Two guys climb out of a white van. One rounds the vehicle to open the rear doors, the other heads for the building.

“Incoming,” Toby hisses, but doesn’t dare hope that Mike will hear him. Checking his weapon on the way to the stairs, he doesn’t pause to consider his options, just lowers himself to the ground and slides down head first—slow and controlled, gun out front.

He’s halfway down when the terrorist finds the dead bodies of his companions in the first room. His muttered curse doesn’t carry; Toby would have missed it if he hadn’t been listening closely. From above, he watches as the guy creeps along the corridor, back to the wall as he’s gripping a rifle with a sawed-off barrel. Too confident or too inexperienced to alert backup? Still, there’s no way Toby can get a clear shot from here.

Wait.

He waits.

He waits until the precise moment the guy has rounded the corner, then straightens and silently pads down the last few steps, one eye on the front room. Clear for now.

Toby is halfway to the corner when someone shouts, “Drop weapon or I shoot him!” Strong French accent. Nervous tremble.

“All right, easy. I’ll put it down.” Mike, no trace of fear in his voice. Toby draws closer. “Don’t shoot, okay? You won’t get money if you shoot him.”

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