Page 103 of The Wolves Come at Night
Focus. Find the shooter.
She slowed as she drew closer to the bottom. The shooter had the advantage, that was clear. All she could do was lay down fire to clear her path or explode into the space and hope like hell she didn’t get popped before she could locate and neutralize the threat.
The second option seemed like the best one. She controlled her breathing, which might be for naught; surely he could hear her coming, then gave herself a go, go, go countdown and launched herself into the space.
It was dark, thank goodness. And she didn’t get shot. She rolled to her feet and duckwalked slowly forward, toward the nose of the plane, to what Angelie had said was the bedroom. A step forward. Another. She heard something move and two decades of instinct had her dropping to her stomach just as a barrage of bullets pummeled the couch where she’d been standing.
Damn it. Heart racing, she crawled forward using her elbows and boots to balance. Another shot, right above her head. She didn’t have a choice now. She rolled to her right into the clear space and got off three shots just as the door in front of her closed.
Okay, okay. You’ve got this. Now he’s the one who’s trapped.
She inched ahead, moving as soundlessly as she could. She reached the door. She could see the puckered spots where the bullets had hit—the door was lined with steel or Kevlar, something. She supposed a sheik couldn’t take any chances.
She put her hand on the latch, praying it was unlocked, counted off again, and flung it open.
Darkness.
She took a step into the room, then a second. Strained to hear anything. Sense anything.
It was still. Too still.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, a frisson of energy spiked down her spine.
There.
The fist came out of the darkness and Taylor ducked just in time. It hit her shoulder instead of her jaw, and she spun around, slapping at the wall for a switch. She could smell him now, acrid and angry, but he’d retreated into the gloom. She could just make out a second, smaller room off the first as the door slammed. She lunged for the door, twisting the handle before he could get it locked, using her weight and momentum to smash it open.
She tumbled through, rolling to her knees. A bullet whistled past and she hit the deck, marshaling her breath. If she’d been standing she’d be dead. But the shot gave away his position. She could see something—someone—tucked into the corner.
A shadow, which became a man.
A man who was holding a gun to the head of another, smaller shadow.
A man who snarled, “Send that French bitch down here, or the girl dies.”
Taylor didn’t think. She didn’t stop to wonder if she was making the right decision. She didn’t harangue herself, or debate with her conscience. She didn’t stop to ask if it was right, or wrong.
Taylor Jackson pulled the trigger. Once, twice, thrice.
The man-sized shadow collapsed to the ground with a thump.
There was a startled cry from the girl, who scrambled away from her captor.
“Get the lights,” Taylor said, and when she heard the click of the switch, shut her eyes for a moment against the sudden glare. When she opened them, a mellow lamplight filled the space— a bedroom, she realized—and soft sobs filled her ears. The girl was dirty, her shirt bloody, her eyes luminous and terrified.
“Carson? Are you Carson Conway?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” A deep, soul-cleansing sigh. “No, I’m not. Not really.”
“Good. Go upstairs, right now,” and the girl disappeared without a word.
Taylor approached the target. The man wasn’t dead yet. She’d shot him as she’d been trained, heart and head. But it seemed he was wearing body armor, expecting her to come in guns blazing, and had turned, or ducked, when she moved. The headshot had caught him in the neck, below the ear. He was bleeding heavily, she must have nicked the artery, but he was still alive and conscious.
She inched forward carefully, ready for him to spring to his feet and attack her. He didn’t. She kicked away his weapon, eyes locked on his, anticipating his next move. His arms were splayed out to his sides unnaturally, and she realized the bullet must have either hit his spinal cord or flown close enough that the swelling was paralyzing him.
