Page 46 of Radar (Iniquus Certified Cerberus Tactical K9 #2)

Xander

Monday

Paris, France

Xander had a backpack on either shoulder and his wheelie in one hand. Elyssa wasn’t looking good. When he tucked his arm around her, she had no energy in her body.

He’d get them to the boat, and she could sleep for the five or so hours that they’d be on the water. Once they arrived in Le Havre, he’d come up with the next steps.

Radar stepped out into the courtyard, and as always, his keen gaze swept the area, his nose went up. This time, his body went rigid.

With his arm outstretched in front of Elyssa, Xander backed up against the wall. “Stay here a sec,” he said. Signaling Radar to his side, Radar rounded into place, but his gaze was unwavering.

Xander slid down to see what Radar had fixed on.

Two men were climbing out of a car. The driver reached under his coat to the back of his waist and retrieved a gun.

He looked directly at the archway into the courtyard, where the single room was situated.

Then, he scanned the street, the buildings, and finally landed back on his cohort.

They locked eyes. Their mission was a go.

How did anyone find them here?

Xander swung his gaze around the courtyard.

They were trapped.

His focus fixed on the wall ladder, a typical feature throughout France. They allowed people onto the roof for repair or snow removal.

“Elyssa,” Xander whispered. “Can you climb the ladder?” If Elyssa could get up the ladder, Radar could climb second, and with his supply pack on his back, they could slip out of sight.

Elyssa looked at Radar, then at the ladder, touched her medical bracelet, and shook her head. The skin on her face looked lax as if even holding her normal facial expression in place was too much.

He pressed her back into the room, moving her as efficiently as possible.

“Two men are coming up with weapons. If they get in, you get into the bathroom and lock the door. Leave Radar in the bedroom. His job is to protect you. You are not the mama protecting your puppy. He is a war dog. If you’re in his way, you only make his job harder. Trust him.”

“Absolutely,” she managed, then put her hand on Radar’s head.

“Radar, guard Elyssa.” With that command, Radar expanded his chest, his ears up and rotating, his gaze keen.

Xander pulled the door shut, tested that it had locked, and was scanning the courtyard for weapons of opportunity—a cast iron chair, a wooden flagpole.

Assessing the usefulness of the ladder and rejecting it as a strategy, Xander’s gaze slid to the archway between the buildings . If it’s good enough for a Bratislavan street thug, it’s good enough for me.

The goons waited on the other side of the street, watching traffic and looking for their break, unaware that they’d been spotted.

Xander pushed his hands into one side of the thick arch and kicked his feet up, pressing them away.

He was surprised by how easy it was to get into this position.

Hand then foot, hand then foot, he bear-crawled up the supports until his back curved with the ancient archway.

The damp cold from the plaster radiated into his palms and up his wrists.

When Xander had been reviewing the effectiveness of this move, back in Bratislava, the goons’ smiles and their uptilted heads had been part of the razzle-dazzle. They had meant for Xander to look up. They meant for him to be confused, for his brain to face something new that needed processing.

The traffic had cleared. The men crossed the street. They slowed on approach, each with a gun in hand, each weapon held in ready position against their chests. These weren’t Bratislavan street thugs; these men were trained.

Just as Xander would do if he was stalking the target, the goons stopped under the cover of the arch to scan the surroundings before moving forward.

But if he was flowing through a narrow passage like this, Xander would stack up with his team.

He’d never do what these guys were doing, which seemed like some tactic they saw in a YouTube video or a poorly written movie scene.

They stood opposite each other, each with their back to the wall, and they were going to peel off in opposite directions.

That might work if it were only Elyssa.

But the hell if it would work with Radar on the scene.

Xander was glad his dog was a silent sentinel. The less they showed their hand, the better. A bark could be easily traced. A bullet could be lined up, and the source of the sound could be eliminated.

For a split second, Xander questioned his decision to lock the door. Radar running onto the scene, evening out the numbers of fighters might feel like a good reflex.

But if they made it past Xander, Elyssa needed a weapon.

No, he’d set things up the best he could.

It was the guns in their hands that scared the shit out of him.

But since they held the pistols to their chests like that, yeah, this might just work.

Xander whistled a light, eerie set of notes.

The men looked up.

As soon as confusion filled their eyes, Xander merely dropped all two hundred and fifty pounds onto them, reaching for the one guy’s head to push him down so Xander wasn’t catching the goon’s cranium in his diaphragm.

Did that. Hated that. Almost died from that.

It was a genius move.

One guy ended up face down with his hands trapped under his body. Xander’s knee was on his back.

Xander shifted his other booted foot to the cobblestone, curling his toes under, ready to spring upright.

One goon managed to stagger to his feet, bringing his pistol around.

Xander gripped the barrel tightly. As long as Xander squeezed that barrel, the goon could exercise his trigger finger as much as he wanted. He wouldn’t get a shot off.

Twisting his wrist, Xander wrenched the gun from the man’s hand.

In order to heave the pistol up over the roof, Xander had to leave himself open to the goon’s liver punches. Luckily, the goon was standing, and Xander was kneeling on his friend. The angle was shit for a good blast, and the punches landed on Xander’s braced abdominal muscles without much damage.

The gun hit the roof with a thunk, then a skittering as it slid down the slate incline.

It must have caught in the gutter because the gun didn’t clatter to the ground.

Two goons. One gun.

Xander brought his fist back around in a hook, hook, upper cut.

The guy beneath him was squirming, and there was a high risk that Xander would get rolled with an ankle lock.

There was still a gun in play underneath the guy.

Xander pressed his toes into the ground and came to his feet.

In the micro-moment when his knee lifted, the guy shifted to rise.

But Xander slammed his boot against his neck, then drew back and punched the standing goon, who had grabbed a fistful of Xander’s belt, preparing to throw him to the ground.

The punch landed, the goon’s nose squashed flat under Xander’s knuckles.

Blood spurted.

The goon’s head snapped back, hitting the corner where the sides of the arch came together. The crack was hollow and resounded in the courtyard with a nauseating echo.

The man under Xander’s boot had shuffled his knees under him, and he reared up.

This had all gone down in the blink of an eye.

Fluid devastation.

Pain and blood.

A sudden movement out of his right eye pulled Xander’s attention away from the gun that now pointed at Xander’s center mass.

Goon one wasn’t in fact dead from the blow that should have at least knocked him out cold. He drew a knife from his pocket.

The chair and pole that Xander had clocked earlier were behind him.

Xander reasoned that the guy with the knife would come for him. The guy with the gun would pull the trigger only if absolutely necessary. Here in Paris, it would draw all eyes to the scene if there were a shot. The gun was there to incite fear. Maybe. Probably.

They wanted Elyssa.

And Xander had to assume they wanted her dead.

She knew something .

As the man gripped his knife with the blade running along the inside of his arm instead of pointed outward like an amateur, he’d lowered his body for stability and started the rounding tai-chi-like movements that would mask the setup for a strike.

The knife guy had to be seeing double. He had to be fighting with a concussion.

Xander pulled off his coat, wrapping it around his left arm to use as a shield since there were no trash can lids in the garden to readily snatch up.

Xander, too, was on the balls of his feet, keeping himself loose, swaying and curving his arms to-and-fro to hide his tactics. He used his footwork to position himself closer to his weapons of opportunity. A chair in his hand like a lion-tamer of old would be helpful right about now.

The man flipped the knife forward as he thrust out.

Xander skated his foot out to the side at an angle, using his height and the length of his arm to crash a fist into the man’s jaw.

The knife guy staggered to the side.

The gunman stood solid with his weapon at point-blank range.

Xander needed to fight, but his being dead wouldn’t help anyone.

Xander was weighing his options when a fierce roar startled his system, making him jolt.

The next moment, Radar was a streak of energy as he dashed forward, sailing through the air toward the gunman. His jaw clamped on the forearm, making the weapon fall to the ground.

Screams of agony ricocheted around them.

And there was Elyssa, lamp in hand, bulb and shade removed, bludgeoning the knife wielder, who was reduced to a puddle of clothes on the ground.

“Elyssa, stop. He’s out. Elyssa, stop.” He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her into a hug. “Elyssa, he’s out.” She looked up at him, red-faced and sweaty, anger and tears in her eyes.

Xander called Radar off as he made sure that Elyssa was steady, then moved to the gunman. Grabbing the man by the collar, Xander twisted the gunman around until he was wrapped in the crook of Xander’s arm. Xander squeezed his forearm to bicep, clamping down on the man’s artery.

Xander knew the man had skills and could fight his way out of the hold.

But there was Radar, teeth bared, frothing at the mouth, rumbling his chest in warning.

Xander thought he, too, would choose a nap over the bite.

Xander dragged both assailants into the shadow of the corner and piled them up. Breathing. But out for at least long enough that he and Radar could disappear Elyssa.

Standing, panting next to their bags, Xander pulled Elyssa into the crook of his elbow and planted a lingering kiss on her head. “You didn’t listen to me,” he whispered into her hair.

“You’re not the boss of me,” she said, leaning almost all of her weight on him. “And never will be.” She was spent. She’d used everything in her to come to his aid.

“Agreed. Let’s talk about being good teammates later. For now, thank you.”