No One Left to Tell (40 page)

Raven knew now—
the bastard lied.

Not knowing what was happening on the other side of the room, she took a chance. To find another way out, she'd have to risk exposure. Do the unexpected. And with the diversion across the room, this might be the only time to do it.

"You stay here," she whispered to the priest, her voice raspy. "But when I call, you follow my voice. I'm gonna try to crawl over the top. Give you a hand up."

She stood and drew fire. Pellets whizzed by her head and pummeled her back. She ignored the painful bruising of the attack and held her breath from the fumes. One foot wedged into a niche in the burlap sacks. She raised her hand above her head and dug into the barricade for a grip. The structure felt sturdy enough to support her weight, but situated at an odd slant, the wall made it difficult to hoist herself up.

Finally, she took a step up, clinging to the burlap. Her arm wedged into it. But as she reached to pull herself over, her hand recoiled in pain.

"Aarrrggh!"

A chill shot across her skin. In her shock, stars spi-raled through the darkness, assaulting her eyes. Something sharp had pierced her hand, shredding flesh as she slid away. Blood drained warm down her arm, the cuts deep.

Thud!
Another round struck the back of her neck, dousing her. She fell to the cement floor, hard. Her hand stung as the alcohol mixed with blood, the wound swollen and throbbing.

"Damn it!" She groaned, tucking her hand against her waist, applying pressure to the cut with her other arm. "Oh. God. Won't do that again."

"What happened?" The priest knelt by her side.

"Nails, glass, something up top. It'll cut us to pieces if we try to scramble over."

"Are you hurt?"

"Not much, Father," she lied. "Come on. We gotta move." She gestured for the priest to follow.

Now, no other choice remained. She had to pool her resources with whoever else was involved in the fight. By sheer numbers, they might muscle their way through the labyrinth. But she knew the risk. In the heat of battle, would the other target of McBride's men allow her to get close enough to explain—or would they kill her on the spot as the enemy? In her mind, there was only one way to find out.

Another pellet whizzed by Christian's head as he ducked against a small barricade. Without having a clear shot, the men above had curtailed their steady barrage, for now. He and his strange companion had already taken out two men. They lay unconscious at their feet. He felt the obstacle of their body mass, even in the dark.

"The advantage I spoke of earlier?" The mysterious Asian woman whispered and tugged at his sleeve, pulling him toward a more massive obstruction. She placed his hand onto it. "We are on the back side of the barricade. We shall have full access to the scaffolding above .. . and to his men." With another gesture, she indicated the stairway to the left. "I will take the other side. Do not keep track of me; I will stay clear of you."

She drew a hand to his cheek. He hadn't expected it. Never saw it coming. Christian flinched at her familiarity. Apparently, his reticence amused her.

"May we both live to fight another day." After a soft chuckle, she added, "And I do hope we meet again. I believe you will find we have much more in common."

What the hell did that mean?
The woman had a fondness for being cryptic. Christian said nothing in return. He suspected sentimentality would appear trite to this woman. She left his side to hunt on her own. He preferred it that way, too.

From the sound of it, she drew fire. The pellets pumme led the floor to his left. But soon after, he became a target again, hearing the chemical-loaded ammo zip by his head. He evaded much of it. But the alcohol vapors grew stronger, screwing with his sense of smell. Much more of this, and he wouldn't be able to trust his perceptions.

From their sniper positions above, the men could hold out for a long time, bombarding pellets from their aerial perches. As the woman advised, he would take his fight to them, eliminating them one at a time. Closing his eyes, he listened for a consistent blast from above and a soft creak in the metal grating, acquiring his next target. Imagining the staircase configuration, he would move to where he believed steps to be. But first, he prepared himself.

Deep breath.
Shutting his eyes, he found his center and searched for his quiet inner voice.
Now let it go . . . slow.
The familiar mantra calmed him. His heart slowed.

Just like the war room,
he reminded himself. It helped to believe that. Then a new image replaced the old and familiar.

Raven Mackenzie.
Ever since he'd met her, she'd never strayed far from his heart. Now would be no different.

Scanning through her night-vision binoculars, Jasmine located her targets, eavesdropping on their candid whispers with a boom mic. Two men stood near the railing of the catwalk, their paintball guns aimed below, carrying handguns in thigh holsters. No doubt smug with their lofty advantage, they didn't hear her come up behind them. These men were isolated from the rest. Easy pickings. Jasmine reached into her vest pocket and withdrew the flash bang canister. She formulated her attack and visualized every detail in preparation. She would have only seconds to take them out before they reached for their guns.

She initiated the canister and tossed it at the first man's feet, then ducked for cover. She kept her eyes on the target until the very last second. It bounced twice, clacking to a stop inches from the man. By design, the sound drew the attention of both men.

One second.
She covered her ears and hunched against a nearby wall, waiting for the blast.
Two seconds.

BOOM!
Blinding white light seared the dark. A glowing ball of fire radiated like a shock wave in all directions, followed by a billowing stench. Being in closer proximity to the detonation, the men were shoved to the walkway with its thunderous force. The blast resonated along the walkway, making the steel hum in vibration.

She knew from experience that the fierce image would leave its imprint on the eyes of the men. The white light would hang suspended in darkness, then splinter into spangles, blurring the vision of anyone looking directly at it. In a daze, the men would have minimal hearing, registering only muffled sounds. She had only seconds to gain advantage.

Jasmine leapt from cover and grabbed the collar of the first man as he sprawled on his back, yanking him off the scaffold. In a practiced maneuver, she thrust the knife across his throat, severing cartilage. Warm blood doused her clothing. The sound of it pattered her vest like rain. The man screamed, but the sound warped into a moist gurgle.

Then silence.

The second man rolled to one side, reaching for her. Jasmine sprang to her feet and kicked his elbow, hyperextending it. She heard it crack with the force of her foot. As he writhed in pain, she rolled him onto his belly. Yanking a clump of hair, she flexed his head back to expose his neck. Within seconds, it was over.

Two down.

Jasmine tore off the headgear of the dead men, shining a dim light onto slack faces. McBride was not among them. She cleaned off the blade of her knife, wiping it across the chest of one of the dead men. A commotion caused her to look up. She heard the rumble along the scaffolding. Others were coming. Jasmine scrambled for cover down the grated steps, wedging her small frame inside a crate she had modified at the base of the stairs behind the stockade. Even if Logan's men strafed her location with night vision, she would appear invisible. As long as the room lay in darkness, she would snipe their positions without detection. It was a good plan. But what of Nicky's son?

No!
She had only one target, and taking on someone else's fight could get her killed. Besides, the police would soon overrun the place. This was not her fight.

The police. She grimaced at the thought of their intrusion. She needed a shortcut to ID McBride.

Jasmine reached for her binoculars and stuck the earpiece to the microphone into her ear. Rising from her hiding place, she scanned the remaining men. Across the floor of the warehouse, within the confines of the stockade, one man stood out from the rest. He directed the others with sweeping gestures rather than verbal commands. It had to be McBride.

Then she heard the roar of another flash bang from above. Its piercing light cast elongated shadows on the brick walls for an instant, then it was gone. Taken off guard by the explosion, she felt a jolt of pain slice through her brain as the bright light blinded her. But the echo of the blast lingered long after the light faded, resounding off the brick walls.

When her vision cleared, she swept her binoculars across the room and into the rafters, looking for her comrade in arms. Curiosity or concern? She made no distinction. Locating her target, she marveled at his sensory skill . . . then smiled.

Jasmine loved a man who understood the finesse of a kill.

But soon, her attention shifted back to McBride. He moved out from cover. And so did she. Yet from the direction Logan headed, Nicky's son would not be pleased.

Christian plugged his ears against the blast, tightly closing his eyes to retain his night vision. The metal scaffolding vibrated under his boots. After the smoke blew past him, its smell dissipated in the chilly air. He listened for any sound of the men taken out by the detonation.

A moan. The rustle of fabric. A hand gripped the tail of his coat. He had to move quickly.

The sound of heavy breathing drew him in, giving him a target nearly waist-high. He reached for the man's collar and tugged him forward, ripping the night-vision gear from his head. Disoriented, the mercenary swayed as he tried to stand. Christian balled his fist and punched, connecting with the man's jaw. He felt it give way on the second blow, then finished with an upper-cut. As his target lost consciousness, he released his grip and let the body tumble to the grating in a heap.

But too much time had elapsed. The disorienting effects of the flash bang had worn off.

A second man grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. A fist buried deep into his ribs, lifted him from the catwalk. Another blow nearly took his head off. He stumbled back, shaking his head to clear the fog. It didn't take long for him to recover.

Both fists up in defense, Christian lowered his chin and launched his attack, pummeling the man with combination punches to the body. He stepped toward the aggressor, beating him senseless. His opponent teetered back on his heels. Focusing his intensity, he spun to his right, ramming a kick to the man's gut. The mercenary fell against the metal railing, the air forced from his lungs. But to his surprise, the man remained standing.

No time for fair play. Without mercy, Christian lowered his center of gravity and hoisted the man up, shoving him across the railing.

Christian suspected the hurdle would do damage, but little else. The top of the barricade below would break his fall. His objective had always been Raven's safety, not to kill. But when the body dropped to the burlap barrier, he heard a bloodcurdling scream. The pitiable cry echoed through the emptiness until the body toppled to the cement floor with a heavy thud. Then utter stillness.

What the hell happened?
Why did he scream like he was being ripped in two? Christian dropped to a knee, peering through the darkness as if sight were possible. He sensed death below, smelled the blood. And another thought gripped his heart.

Raven was in greater danger. He just knew it.

She had no idea what was going on.

A battle raged above. Without knowing the players, Raven avoided the crossfire. Seeking shelter for her and Father Antonio, she hunkered next to a stockade wall. She recognized the flash bang detonations from her training with tactical.

Even through all the chaos, a tinge of hope survived.

The men of Logan McBride were falling one at a time. It
had
to be good news.

Father Antonio gripped her hand, his palms damp. An occasional whisper escaped his lips, but despite her rules about not talking, she let him be. His prayers were welcome.

Raven cursed the never-ending emptiness. She closed her eyes, resting her head against the barricade. Her thoughts turned to the rhythm of the priest's prayers, finding comfort in the act. And she joined him, a tear of acceptance rolling down her cheek.

But the quiet didn't last.

A faint scratching to her right. The sound gripped her, conjuring a revolting image in her mind.

A frenzied screech. The irregular patter of small feet scurried toward her. With all the commotion, the rat population had been disturbed. She heard it coming. More than one hairy rodent headed by her. Raven gasped, unable to avoid a reaction. Not wanting to make a sound, she closed her eyes tight. She hugged her arms around herself and drew her knees to her chest.

"Holy mother of—" Apparently, Father Antonio had no great fondness for God's lowly creature. Slowly, Raven forced herself to move, raising a hand to the lips of the priest to silently warn him to be quiet.

Repulsed by the filthy vermin, Raven trembled. Beads of sweat layered her body and dampened her clothes, a contradiction to the chill in the air. Her stomach wrenched with nausea. A rat bumped her hip. The nails of its feet scraped her pant leg as it started to climb.

Her skin prickled, an unforgettable chill. She jabbed an elbow and shoved the damned thing, its weight branding her memory.

But as the creature slithered away, she instinctively turned the other way. A new presence fueled her panic, looming overhead. And without the benefit of her eyesight, fear overwhelmed her. She scooted against the wall. Her arm clutched Father Antonio.

Someone stood above them. She felt it.

Gritting her teeth, she steadied herself for a fight. She pictured Logan McBride—gray dead eyes. The feel of his fingernail skimmed the surface of her skin, sending the chill of revulsion down her spine.

She'd been in the dark far too long. The deprivation and the strain played tricks on her mind. Cruel images jutted from memory like a drug-induced hallucination, a torturous strobe effect. Gruesome images of past murder cases flickered before her. The glazed eyes of the dead hurled out of the shadows until—