Page 76 of Lash

We form a single file line that spreads out as we run across the lawn toward the barn, Lorenzo in the lead and Chance bringing up the rear—Chance can plod along at a jog for a very, very long time, but he will never be a fast runner.

Rev falls in beside me. "I don't like this, Lash. Sorry, Nicolae. That's gonna take a minute to get used to."

"I agree," I say. "This feels like a fishing expedition. Mercado is clever. He is usually several steps ahead of his enemies, which includes US intelligence. Something is amiss." I grin at him. "You can call me Nico, if you like. It may be easier."

"Alright then, Nico." He slaps me on the back. "Good to have you back. Gotta say, brother, it's great to see you and Tatiana together. You seem…lighter. I dunno if that's the right word."

I nod. "It is as good as any. I do feel lighter."

A couple minutes later, Sol calls a halt as we near the barn. It's dark, all exterior lights off except one, on a pole near the large sliding doors, casting a wide pool of yellow light on the white gravel. It is too still, too quiet. In a distant paddock, horses cluster together, heads down as they sleep, a couple of them laying down—it's hard to get a good count in the dark from a distance, but it looks like at least a dozen horses, if not closer to twenty. Which means the barn is likely empty—they put all the horses out to pasture to protect them from the anticipated gunfight. We're at the apex of a slight rise, looking downward toward the barn, kneeling or on our bellies as Solomon scans the barn with the scope of his rifle.

"Cameras at the corners," he whispers. "Nicolae—take 'em out."

I spot the cameras, glowing red with infrared.Pop—Pop.

"Advance," Sol whispers.

So far, this has not gone as we've anticipated. My gut roils with unease. There's something we're missing, I just have no way of knowing what until it happens.

And that's how people get killed on ops.

We advance to the side of the long structure, pausing to catch our breath as the rest of the team assembles. Using hand signals, Solomon indicates that half of us should go around the rear, and the other half around the front; I'm with the half hitting the front, along with Chance, Rev, Silas, and Kane, while Saxon, Solomon, Lorenzo, Scarlett, and Tatiana go around the rear.

I take out another camera and then aim my rifle at the smaller human-sized door beside the large double sliders. Chance kicks the door in and swings out of the way.

BOOOM! The blast of a shotgun is a deafening concussion, accompanied by the rattle-sprinkle of buckshot pellets punching holes through the walls.

“Fuck,” Kane snaps, dancing away from the wall, clutching his left tricep.

There's no time to worry about him—it's a minor injury at worst and Kane is tough. I took a few flashbangs as we left the circle—I arm one and toss it in through the open door. I turn away, close my eyes, and plug my ears as the device goes off with a bang deafening even with my fingers in my ears, and blinding even with my eyes shut and my body turned away.

The second it goes off I'm in motion, surging through the doorway, stepping through and then sideways in a low crouching shuffle. I see a figure in the swirling smoke, dazed and disoriented—male, with a rifle.

I drop him with a pair of slugs through the skull, step over his body and catch up the shotgun—an excellent operator-grade Binelli.

He has a bandolier of shells which I also claim and sling over my torso.

I let my MP5 hang behind me and proceed through the gloom of the stable. The pungent smell of hay and manure and horse is thick and close; the lights are off, only the open door shedding light into the interior—all I can make out are shapes. I see the bars of horse stalls on either side, an intersection at the center of the structure faintly illuminated by the red glow of an exit sign. I hear the slam of a door being kicked in, the concussive chatter of an assault rifle opening up on full auto, abruptly cut off.

The five of us make our way slowly and cautiously down the stable hallway, sweeping each stall as we pass them. To the right of the intersection at the center of the barn is the vast, echoing space of an indoor arena. To the left, a short hallway leads to a closed doorway; on the left side of the hallway is an open stall for bathing and grooming the horses, while a darkened room on the right holds the bulky shadows of saddles and tack. More stalls march down the stable beyond the intersection, and large double sliding doors, a smaller human-sized door beside them; the smaller door is open and shedding ambient light from outside. The shadows of our team loom large on the stable floor as they enter the barn and head this way, scanning the stalls as they pass.

Solomon assesses the intersection, and then juts his chin at the arena, glancing at Lorenzo and me. "Check it out."

"Copy," I mutter.

Lorenzo and I move in silent tandem toward the arena; it is not pitch black, having narrow, rectangular windows running the perimeter along three walls just below the roofline. The ground underfoot is soft, fine, dense dirt, compressing silentlyunder each step. I click on the flashlight on my lower rail, indicating with hand signals that Lorenzo should go left while I go right. The arena must be at least ten thousand square feet of open, echoing space; in the middle are the shadowy shapes of dressage and jumping practice elements. Lorenzo and I make a quick circuit of the space, sweeping our beams across the middle, and then return to the team at the intersection.

Solomon eyes the doorway at the end of the lefthand hallway. "Well, I guess we go there."

"I will continue to take point,” I say, trotting to the door.

It is thick metal, windowless, with a numeric keypad lock. I check the knob, just in case, but it is, in fact, locked.

I look at Lorenzo. "I will breach. Cover me."

He nods once, assuming a ready stance, aiming at the doorway from an oblique angle so anyone shooting through the opening will miss him. The others press against the walls, waiting. I thumb a new shell into the Binelli, rack the slide to eject the spent casing, and then blast a round through the lock—crump-BOOM! The lock disintegrates and the door squeals on its hinges. I shoulder it open and pivot to lean against the frame, dropping to a knee as Lorenzo sweeps from the inside right corner across the space to the inside left corner behind the door.

We're in another hallway, this one short and more like an office than a barn, with polished concrete floors and drywalled and painted walls. There are four doors, two on each side of the hallway. First on the right side is an empty bathroom, first on the left is a storage closet; second right leads to a large, industrial kitchen with acres of dully gleaming stainless steel, and opposite the kitchen is a den, with a big U-shaped sectional facing a massive TV. On the coffee table in the center of the sectional's open space is a clutter of empty beer bottles, half-empty liquor bottles, overflowing ashtrays, baggies of cannabis and cocaine,and boxes of ammunition and empty magazines. One of the ashtrays holds a still-smoldering cigarette butt.