Page 134 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
Ryan checks his watch. “Exfil in twenty.”
We share another look.
The Army’s Special Operations Aviation Regiment arrives within a thirty-second window. We have to be in the extraction point exactly on time. Which means I don’t have long.
Ryan says, “I got her, and I’ve got your six. Go get some.”
“Get some” doesn’t mean to a soldier what it means to civilians. When I hesitate, not wanting to leave Tabby’s side, he repeats more forcefully, “Go!”
I squeeze Tabby’s arm and then leap to my feet and follow the trail of blood to the mouth of the tunnel.
I know I’m getting close when someone takes a shot at me.
“Where the fuck did you learn to shoot, numbnuts?” I mutter, ducking back around a corner of the tunnel. Not that I’m complaining, but that shot was wide by a mile. After a few seconds when I chance a look around the corner, I can see why.
Two guards are dragging a third man—who must be Killgaard—between them. He’s hopping on one bare foot, barely able to stay upright, his arms slung around their shoulders. One of the guards is looking back, moving forward while shooting to the rear.
I take a knee, take aim, and take him out.
When he falls, the other guard spins around, dropping Søren in the process. The guard lifts his rifle and points it at me—
And then he’s dead too.
I’m in a loping run before he even hits the ground. When I’m about three meters away from Søren, I hear the noise.
It’s a wet, wheezing, sucking noise, like nothing I’ve ever heard.
He’s on his hands and knees, looking at the ground. His breathing is labored. There’s something wrong with one of his feet—it’s black and blue and looks a bit flat.
Slowly, I move around in front of him. When he lifts his head and looks at me, I realize what the strange noise is. The man has the hollow metal part of a pen sticking out of his bloodied throat.
I snort. Guess he got a close-up look-see at Tabby’s temper.
He falls to one side, drags himself to the tunnel wall, props himself up and glares at me. I left my NVGs behind, but thanks to the LED strips spaced every few feet a few inches from the floor, I have enough light to see that the front of his white dress shirt is no longer white, but dark, garish red. He’s disheveled, drenched in sweat, and his skin has the waxy pallor of a water-logged corpse.
“So this is the infamous Søren Killgaard,” I muse aloud, studying him. “I gotta say, you look like a bag of smashed asshole. And that”—I motion to his neck—“looks like it hurts.”
When he just stares at me, his eyes full of fury, I say, “Oh—forgot to introduce myself. I’m Connor Hughes.” I add deliberately, “Tabby’s man.”
His lips slowly peel back over his teeth.
The feeling is mutual, you piece of shit.
“Since it appears you can’t talk, I’ll keep the conversation short. I’m under orders from the United States government to bring you in alive if I can. The ‘if I can’ part being the important one.”
I let it hang there. We stare at each other. He glances at the rifle one of his guards dropped, only a few feet from his right hand. His gaze jumps back to me. I can see him trying to decide.
Pick it up, I think. Do me a solid and pick it up.
A cricket chirps nearby. Another one takes up the song. Somewhere in the tunnel ahead of us, a bullfrog croaks, adding a bass line to the chorus.
Then Killgaard snatches up the rifle and points it at my chest.
But this time he isn’t the one who’s a few steps ahead of the game.
His head snaps back as the bullet rips through his brain. It leaves a perfect, round hole right between his eyebrows. The rock wall behind him is painted in blood.
Slowly, his blue eyes still open, he slides sideways and slumps over, dead.
