Page 118 of Defending You

By the time Iowa woke up—if he didn’t bleed to death—this would be over.

Asher reached the back door—heavy steel being held open a crack, thanks to a brick wedged between it and the jamb. Whispering into the comm, he said, “Here.”

“Hold.”

Asher did, counting seconds. Ten passed before Grant said, “Alyssa. Cut power.”

“Three seconds. Two. One.” She answered with zero drama, as if she’d been there all along.

There hadn’t been any lights on outside, so there was no indication she’d done it, but Grant said, “Rhodes, move. Meet you inside.”

Asher eased the door open wider, the sound barely a whisper.

Lifting his night-vision goggles, he stepped into a cavernous space lit by emergency lighting that bathed everything in a bloody glow. The room was filled with all manner of machinery.

No enemies in sight.

The smell hit him. Oil, rust, and something stomach-turning—the metallic scent of fresh blood.

A body lay a few feet away, crumpled and spent.

Cici!

But it wasn’t her. This was a man, shot in the head. Second glance told Asher it was Pretty Boy. Mendez.

Back at the accident site, he’d been terrified when he’d discovered Asher’s body wasn’t there. Seemed he’d had good reason to fear.

Why come back here? What kind of power did Gagnon hold over these people?

Asher slipped past him, his weapon drawn. The factory floor stretched before him. Overhead, a catwalk ran the perimeter of the building, disappearing into shadows.

Though he saw nobody, he sensed he wasn’t alone.

Using the massive machinery as cover, Asher crept deeper into the factory.

A door opened on the far side. Asher ducked behind a rusted conveyor belt, raising his weapon.

Grant entered, moving with practiced silence, followed by Bartlett.

Asher caught Grant’s eyes across the industrial wasteland, and Grant lifted a finger and signaled upward, then took aim.

A catwalk above was metal grating, so Asher could see the man who stood there. Grant had him in his sights.

One upstairs. Maybe one or more down here, though he hadn’t seen them yet.

Another man materialized on the catwalk to his left, rifle trained on Grant.

Asher had no choice.

He fired, the shot echoing through the cavernous space like thunder.

The guard pitched forward, caught on the railing, but his weapon clattered to the factory floor thirty feet below.

Grant took out the other guard.

Asher had expected chaos to erupt. He expected more guards to come out of hiding, to start shooting. But they didn’t.

It was weird.