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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

T he gunshot was still echoing when Callan swiveled and bolted toward the cabin.

He didn’t care what anybody else was doing.

He was going to rescue Peri and Alyssa if it killed him. Which it just might.

“Drop the bag,” Grant said in his ear.

Right. The guns and ammo he’d brought, just in case.

He did, in stride, pulling out his own handgun.

“Down! On your right!”

The words were huffed by Bartlett.

Callan hit the ground, feeling the whoosh of a bullet too close. He saw the gunman running for cover and aimed. Before he fired, the guy went down.

Bartlett crouched beside him. “You hit?”

“No. Did you?—?”

“Yup.”

“Thanks.” He started to get up, but Bartlett gripped his arm.

“You can’t help them if you’re dead. Move slowly and keep cover.”

Right. He was right, of course.

Together they continued toward cabin number eleven, keeping out of the moonlight.

Enemies were streaming out of nearby beach houses.

And going down, one at a time, though neither Bartlett nor Callan ever had a chance to take a shot.

Grant, Gavin, and the scuba team were picking off enemies one by one.

No doubt the terrorists were going to lose this battle.

But would Alyssa and Peri survive?

More miracles, Lord. Please.

They were creeping behind the neighboring beach house when the tiny sliver of light coming from the window widened a second before the lamp inside went off.

A man leaned out the window. Saw them. Aimed.

Callan took the shot.

The man disappeared inside. Hit?

Callan didn’t know.

Either way, they’d been seen. They were out of time.

“Going around front.” Callan made his way toward the space between the beach houses. The ground was sandy and made the movement slow. But muffled his footsteps.

He spoke low. “Emerging from the west of the house.” He needed to alert allies that he wasn’t an enemy.

“You’re covered,” Grant said. Then, as Callan stepped out, “Got you. Shooters inside.”

Yeah, well. He knew that. But so were Alyssa and Peri. Someone had to breach the door.

“No activity at the first window,” Grant said.

From here, he had a view of the beach side of the little house.

A person lay in front of the door. Face down. Dead.

She wore a uniform. A state cop who’d also served in combat.

She’d taken the first bullet.

They’d decided to send her to the door because they figured Ghazi and his people wouldn’t fear a woman. They wouldn’t consider her a threat.

The sight of her corpse made it all feel very real.

She was dead.

A woman who’d worked with them, plotted with them, helped plan this whole thing.

Dead.

Don’t think about it.

Because though it was definitely the cop’s body lying there, Callan saw Peri. And Alyssa. And both of them.

Lifeless.

Not helping.

Forcing himself to focus, he crouch-walked to the space beneath the window. When he pushed up on the glass, it rose easily. The question was, how hard would it be to get past the plywood that’d been nailed to the inside?

He was about to find out.

Grant said, “He’s in position.”

Talking to Bartlett, since Callan couldn’t exactly speak. No idea who was on the other side.

A gasp came from inside, then a thump that had his stomach flipping.

Like a fist against flesh.

Then a door. A curse word.

“I told you to kill her.”

Ghazi.

“She knocked the gun away.” That was Benson.

“Take care of it… Whoa.”

A door slammed.

Callan was out of time.

He pressed against the plywood, and it gave, not enough for him to push all the way through. He squeezed into the gap.

The scene flashed like an image from a horror movie.

Ghazi wasn't there.

A man at a computer stayed focused on the screen as if nothing were going on behind him.

Benson had straddled Alyssa, who wasn’t fighting at all. The man was looking at something out of Callan’s line of sight.

He pushed on the board more. And saw… Peri.

His little girl was holding a gun, aimed at Benson. Eyes wide, terror-filled.

Benson caught movement and shifted, seeing Callan in the window.

He should’ve raised his hands. He should’ve backed away from Alyssa.

But he didn’t. He gripped her neck and squeezed.

Callan fired.

Benson collapsed on top of her.

She didn’t move.

Peri screamed.

The guy at the computer turned, took in the situation.

And launched himself not toward the door, but toward Peri. Maybe thinking to hide behind her. Or use her as a hostage.

Same thing.

Callan fired again.

The man fell.

Callan pushed on the board so he could get in. “I got them. Two down. Ghazi’s in the house.”

Somewhere. Callan had definitely heard his voice. He must’ve left when he saw Peri with the gun. The coward.

Peri was still screaming.

“It’s me, Peri. It’s Daddy.” Callan put his handgun into his pocket and shoved against the plywood with all his strength. It gave, and he angled his head in the gap between the wood and the window jamb.

Peri was still holding the weapon.

Fear and adrenaline thumped through his veins. An enemy was in the house somewhere. He needed to get inside, find Ghazi and take him out. But first…

“Put the gun down. It’s Daddy.”

She blinked.

The wood budged.

He forced it aside and levered into the room, landing on the end of a twin bed.

His daughter was staring at him. The gun dangled from her hand. She looked shell-shocked. Terrified. As if she didn’t know who he was. Or what was happening.

“It’s me, sweetheart. It’s Daddy.” She still didn’t move, so he pushed off the bed and scooped her into his arms, sliding the gun out of her little hand. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

She melted against him, sobbing. “He killed her, Daddy. She’s dead. She’s dead.”

He spun to face Alyssa.

Benson’s lifeless body lay atop hers. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to.

She still hadn’t moved. Wasn’t even trying to get out from under him.

Outside the window, a man screamed, the sound visceral, nearly inhuman.

But it was human.

It was the sound of a father who knew he’d failed to do the most important job he’d ever be given.

To protect his child.

Alyssa. Beautiful, talented, brilliant Alyssa. She’d given her life to protect Callan’s child.

A debt he could never, ever repay.

* * *

Think.

That was what Alyssa had told Callan. That he had to think.

Bartlett entered through the window and sat at the desk. “I’m at the control. Weapons are activated. I think I can disable.”

“Do it,” Grant said, his voice demanding. Then, “Callan, enemies are shooting from the door and windows. You gotta flank ’em.”

“Right.” He kissed his daughter on the forehead and, going against every fatherly instinct, set her on the bed. “My friend will protect you. Trust me.”

She gripped his hand. “Don’t leave.”

It killed him to walk away. It killed him.

Bartlett swiveled. “I got her.” To Peri, he said, “We’re the good guys. Just stay there.” He was already back at the system.

Callan let her go. Praying he wouldn’t leave her an orphan.

But if Ghazi got away, his whole family would pay the price.

He crept to the door and was about to open it when one of Grant’s men slipped in through the window, face painted black, armed and ready.

Peri gasped, but the soldier smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

Bartlett glanced over his shoulder. “This is Jon. He’s also a good guy."

Jon was a friend and former teammate of Grant’s. Former Green Beret and obviously far more experienced than Callan, who exhaled a little of his fear, thankful that he wouldn’t have to do this alone.

He opened the door, staying out of the gap.

No gunshots.

He got low and peeked.

Nobody was there.

“Door across the hall is closed.”

“I’ll clear it,” Jon said. “Head to the front. Stay low.”

They moved into the hallway.

Callan crept toward the main room of the house. There were no lights, and with the windows boarded up, it was dark as pitch.

Right behind him, a gunshot told him Jon had taken out the enemy.

In front of him, a shout in Arabic. They’re here.

“Do not move from your post.” That was Ghazi.

Two windows flanked the front door. A man near one window nodded in the darkness ahead. His weapon was aimed outside.

Callan fired.

The shadow went down.

As the blast of the gunshot faded, the silence was stifling. Nothing but the sound of his breath and that of Jon behind him.

They reached an open doorway, probably another bedroom. Callan should clear the room, but all he cared about was stopping Ghazi. Nothing else mattered. Nobody else mattered.

He bent low and bolted forward.

A bullet whizzed over his head.

Jon took out the shooter. Now, the only enemies left were in the cabin's front room.

A dark-haired man peeked around the doorway at the end of the hall.

Callan was still aiming when the man went down. Jon was fast.

Callan hurried forward, took aim and shot a second gunman, who’d been stationed at a front window.

As he ducked back into the hallway, he caught sight of Ghazi.

A bullet ricocheted off the wall beside him, but Ghazi had fired a second too late.

“It’s over, Ghazi,” Callan said. “You lost.”

“Wright’s daughter is dead.”

The words were as painful as any bullet could be. Callan flinched, imagining her lifeless body.

The grief and fury only strengthened his resolve.

“Your child will never be the same," Ghazi said. "The drone strike cannot be stopped. I win.”

“Maybe you’re right, but we’ve got some pretty smart people working on it. Either way, you’re finished.”

“She is avenged.”

The girlfriend. “I wonder what Fatemeh would think?—”

“Do not say her name!” Another gunshot, as wasted as the last one Ghazi had fired.

“Would Fatemeh be proud of you for the innocents you killed? Or horrified. Not that you’ll ever find out. There’s a special place in hell for people like you, a place I assume your girlfriend will never have to see. But if she could speak to you now, what would she say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, but it does. Because I think…I think she’d hate you. Put the gun down.”

Callan squatted very low and checked around the corner.

Ghazi fired, but the shot was high and late as Callan retreated behind the wall again.

Callan hadn’t expected him to surrender, nor did he want him to.

He was about to try again when Jon gripped his arm, nodding to the front door. He whispered, “Friendly.”

How did Jon know?

It creaked open. A figure moved into the gap.

Callan peeked at Ghazi in time to see him swing the gun toward whoever was coming inside.

Callan took aim at the man who’d tried to kill Peri—and thousands of other souls.

Who’d tracked the Wrights and a double-agent across continents on his quest for revenge.

Who’d ordered Alyssa’s murder.

Who was, after all, just flesh and blood.

Callan fired.

And that flesh-and-blood enemy went down.

Prepared to shoot him again, Callan crossed the space and stood over Ghazi. The bullet had ripped through his chest, and blood oozed, turning his gray shirt red and shiny.

He was still alive.

Callan grabbed a towel and pressed it to the wound. Not that he wanted to save him, but the man’s life belonged to God.

Ghazi glared at Callan, nothing but hate in his expression. And then his eyes dulled.

And he was gone.