Storm Warning (Security Specialists International Book 4) (6 page)

Keely clapped her hands. The low rumble of conversations ceased. “Gentleman and ladies.” She smiled at the two waitresses, who also were armed and stood behind the counter. “The doors and window shields should hold. If they don’t, do what you feel you need to do. Earl has room for all of you in the safe room. Don’t be heroes on my account.”

“Keely, we haven’t had a good fight around here in a coon’s age,” one burly man who looked like a lumberjack yelled back. “You gals do your thing. We’ll defend Nick’s booze supply.”

“And his ma’s baked goods,” another man who had biker patches on his leather jacket added. “No thieving assholes are stealing her cupcakes and cookies.”

“Or her sour cream cake,” a red-haired giant also in biker leathers added. “Love that cake. I’d fucking marry that cake.”

The other men laughed, and one guy punched the cake-loving man in the arm.

DJ chuckled, then looked at Callie, who stood behind Keely. “Are they for real?”

Callie nodded, a wry twist to her lips. “Nick’s mom’s baked goods are worth killing for. I’m especially fond of her carrot cake.”

The former model’s expression turned dark. “Unfortunately, SSI makes a lot of enemies. So, since Ma’s is a place we’re known to visit, Nick and the locals have gotten used to the attacks. Ren paid for the security upgrades on this building after Keely had frequent cravings for Ma’s food during her pregnancy.”

“Nick makes some damn good chili, but don’t tell Scotty. I love his chili, too.” Keely handed DJ a headset, an AK-47 assault rifle, and a smaller zippered bag. “The locals really like the action. Says we keep their survivalist skill sets up to snuff. You know, in case there’s a zombie apocalypse or an alien invasion.” She nodded at the zippered bag. “Extra mags for the rifle, and there’s some ammo in there for your Beretta. Let’s get to the roof and assess the situation.”

DJ put on her headset as she followed the other two women and then pulled her wool cap over it. She clicked it on. “What channel we using?”

“Channel 9, for now,” Keely said.

DJ set the channel and then checked over the rifle as she kept pace. Clean, well-oiled, and a full magazine—exactly what she’d expect from a woman who was taught to shoot and care for a weapon by a Marine.

At the end of the hallway, Keely stopped to unbolt a door. Callie turned to the side to give Keely more room and DJ caught a side view of Callie’s profile. “You’re pregnant. Maybe you should stay in the safe room.”

“You’ll need my sharp-shooting skills.” Callie’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if taking part in a potential gun battle with mercenaries was business as usual. “I’m good—better than good. Trust me.”

“I know you’re expert-rated with long and hand guns.” When Callie raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, DJ added, “Loren and Paul told me. I was just … concerned.”

“DJ … pregnancy isn’t a handicap,” said Keely as she held the door open and waved first Callie, then DJ up the stairs. “Our men know that also.”

“Maybe Ren does, but Risto is still balky some days,” muttered Callie as she climbed. “But he’ll get over it. Plus, he’s on an op, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She shot a glare at DJ over her shoulder. “And you’ll never tell him any details.”

DJ frowned. “No ma’am. But I won’t have to, will I? The other SSI operatives will.”

“Yes, dammit,” Callie responded. “But we gals stick together. Got me?”

“Got it.”
Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Female solidarity.

As Callie opened the door, the all-familiar buzz of adrenaline swept over DJ’s body at the thought of seeing action again. Yeah, shit could happen, but she and these two exceptional women would do what they could to avoid such a consequence. She and Keely followed Callie out onto a wind-swept and snow-covered roof.

DJ looked around. The roof was basically flat, but from what she could tell, under all the snow, it angled slightly downward from the center toward the roof edge. There would have to be drains that dumped the water runoff into the building’s gutters and down spouts. There was a four-foot-high wall which edged all four sides of the roof with cut-outs every meter or so. The gaps would make perfect shooting positions without sky-lining the shooter.

“SSI suggested the wall around the roof, right?” she asked.

“Yep. Ren wanted us to be able to lock down Ma’s and defend until help came.” Keely sighed. “The bad guys seem to think we women are the weak links at SSI.”

DJ snorted. “Not from the stories I’ve heard from your family.”

Keely grinned. “Eventually, the word will spread and the smarter asshats will stay away.”

“But there’s so many more dumb ones,” Callie said, “that we’ll probably more than get SSI’s money’s worth out of these security add-ons.”

Keely nodded, then hunched over and moved to the front of the roof. Once there, she dropped to her stomach and aimed her rifle through the gap. “So, where were the mercs going to wait for us? There’s no one at the pumps.”

The snow came down steadily, the wind blowing the flakes around. Visibility was about two hundred meters, give or take a meter. DJ knee-walked through several inches of accumulated snow to come up on Keely’s right side and then dropped to her stomach. Callie mirrored her movements on the left.

“They pulled to the far side of the gas station,” DJ glanced at Keely and found a mostly composed facade. The only sign of tension on the younger woman’s face was the tightness in her jaw as if she clenched her teeth. “I expect they’ll make a move to attack the restaurant soon, since you haven’t hit the road. They wanted to reach their base before the roads got bad.”

Keely muttered, “We’re on the wrong frick-fracking roof.” She wiggled backwards on her stomach like a snake, then shoved up to her knees, all the while cradling her rifle. “We need to disable their vehicles. I promised Ren he’d have people to question.”

DJ voiced her thought. “If they used their GPS to get here…”

“…then we can get coordinates to their local hidey-hole,” Callie finished.

“And grab whoever might be at the base,” Keely added. “Whatever intel we gain, Tweetie and I can use to track back to the big boss, if the pecker-headed asswipe isn’t in Idaho.”

DJ eyed the gas station roof. The buildings weren’t far apart, maybe a bit less than two meters. The other roof was also flat, but didn’t have a wall around the perimeter. “I can jump the gap. Y’all stay here. Once I take out the trucks from above, the mercs aren’t gonna be happy. If they attack…”

“We’ll handle it.” Keely frowned. “You sure … about the jump…”

“I’m sure.” DJ grinned. “I’ve got longer legs than you. Plus, I’ve jumped gaps bigger than that on ops in Afghanistan.” Then she bit her lip. Keely would have the clearance to know all about her SOCOM missions, but did Callie?

Loose lips, Dahlia Jane!

“Forget I said that, okay?” DJ directed the words at Callie.

“No need. I’ve seen your classified files, so has Elana.” Callie patted DJ’s arm. “All analysts at SSI have the same clearance as Keely and Tweeter. Most of our work is NSA, NCS/CIA, and Defense Intelligence Agency related.”

Well, that’s a relief, but—

“My momma doesn’t know about the classified ops. She thinks I only flew VIPs and search-and-rescue missions.” DJ looked at both women. “And I don’t want her to know.”

“She won’t hear it from us,” Keely promised. Callie nodded.

“Thanks.” DJ stood, then turned and eyed the gap between the two roofs once more. She slung the rifle over her back and hooked the ammo bag onto the rifle strap, then moved to the back edge of Ma’s roof. She took several breaths then ran. She used the wall to launch and then propelled herself, using the techniques she was taught in mountaineering school to jump crevices. She cleared the space with a half a meter to spare. Her landing, while not picture perfect since she lost her balance and ended up on her ass, was good enough. She wasn’t injured and her equipment all survived the leap. She sat in the snow for a second and caught her breath as adrenaline galloped through her bloodstream.

She grinned. Damn, she’d missed the rush—the living on the edge her service in the Army had provided. Working for SSI would be a blessing in more ways than one.

“DJ…” Keely’s voice came over the headset. “You okay?”

“Fine.” She chuckled softly. “More than fine.” She rose to her knees and repositioned her rifle more comfortably across her back, then she got onto her stomach. She belly-crawled to the far side of the gas station’s roof. Removing her rifle, she cradled it in her arms and took a look over the side, then quickly pulled her head back.

“In place,” she muttered into the headset microphone. “Three men still in trucks with engines running. They’re fricking listening to some kind of salsa music. One guy, stationed at the front corner of the building, is armed with an assault rifle. Have me some easy engine shots. Is it a go?”

“Go to Channel 6. The guys want to join the party. You might hear some bossy-assed comments. Ignore them.”

“Roger that.” She reset her headset. “What’s their ETA?” DJ repositioned her rifle and looked over the side to sight both shots, then pulled back and played them out in her head.

“Tweeter and Vanko were already in the air on they way home from Lewiston, so ten to fifteen minutes,” Keely said. “Ren, Trey, and Price are coming by road from Sanctuary and are still a half hour out.”

“Sit rep.” A deep, unruffled baritone came over the headset. The background noise was the familiar and welcome sound of a Black Hawk.

The copter noise settled in her belly, making her happy. The male voice shot a tingling awareness straight to her core.

Now, what was the question?

Head in the game, Dahlia Jane. Sit rep.

“In position to disable two vehicles belonging to four armed Hispanic men. Trucks are parked too close to the building to take out the tires from my position. Waiting on the go ahead to take out the engines instead.”

“Are they armored?” The same male voice asked.

“Plain old Dodge trucks,” DJ replied more calmly than she felt. “Who’s this?”

“Tweeter Walsh. Welcome to Idaho, DJ.”

Andy and Dev’s baby brother’s voice was as smooth as the finest Kentucky Bourbon. But its kick was like that of moonshine straight out of the still—it threatened her composure in ways she’d never experienced with any other man before.

She shoved the disconcerting fact to a dark corner of her mind and packed it in ice. She’d pull out the strange reaction later and examine the singularity when shit wasn’t about to explode all around her.

“Vanko Petriv here, DJ.” She could detect his slight accent. He was Ukrainian, if she recollected correctly. “Take out the engines. We want to talk to these men.” In other words, wound, not wipe, if they retaliate. “Sounds as if you ladies have it under control.”

“Not handled yet.” All back-to-business, DJ went to her knees and aimed the rifle over the roof’s edge. Guy at the corner had his back to her. So, she took the extra time to eye her shots once more.

Taking in a breath, then letting it out, she placed three shots in each engine. On the next full breath, she placed a second set of three-shot bursts right next to the first—as insurance. She then shifted away from the edge, dropped, cradled her rifle in her arms, and belly-crawled as fast as she could away from the side and toward the front of the gas station.

Less than two full breaths later, a barrage of automatic rifle fire tore up the edge of the roof where she’d been. Probably the guy at the corner; the others wouldn’t have had the time to get out and shoot that fast. A flying chip of cement block hit the side of her face. Ignoring the sting, she crawled even farther out of range, then swiped some snow over the small cut, numbing the pain for the time being.

“DJ?” Keely sounded worried, but her brother’s “Sit rep, DJ” sounded as if he were spitting out nails.

“I’m fine. They’re shooting at ghosts.” DJ propped herself up on her elbows and looked over at Ma’s roof and found Keely and Callie peering through a toothed gap in the wall. She gave them a thumb’s up.

The wild shooting continued along the far side of the station’s roof.

“Go ahead. Waste ammo, you dumb fuckers,” DJ muttered as she kept her head down and turned away from the odd, stray piece of flying roof.

Male grunts and chuckles came over the headset.

“Stay down,” Callie said. “Keely and I will do our job and keep the assclowns away from the restaurant and the vehicles in the parking lot.”

“Roger that.” She brushed some snow away and then rested her head on her gloved hands. “Let me know if I can help.”

“Will do,” Callie said.

DJ turned her head and propped her chin on her folded hands. While eyeing the front parking lot, she took a mental inventory of her physical status. This was her first action in a while.

Breathing?—Controlled.

Pulse?—About fifteen beats over her resting heart rate, due to adrenaline mostly, and recovering with each breath.

Senses?—Fully engaged, not fuzzy. Her Army trainers had always taught the recruits to make the stress hormonal cocktail your friend.
Use it, don’t succumb to it.

No flashbacks to any war zones. Nice to know that four mercs in pickup trucks didn’t trigger her PTSD. Eventually something would and she’d deal with it.

Right now, she was fully in the zone and operational.

Ramping her battle readiness up another notch, she focused her senses on her surroundings. The mercs had ceased shooting. Tweeter and Vanko spoke only to relay ETA and flight approach. The only other sound was the wind whistling over the roof and through the forest that backed up on the two buildings. Her only physical sensations were the cold of the snow beneath her body, the gelid wind and icy flakes hitting her face, and the familiar solidity of the rifle in her hands. She smelled her own light sweat, the damp musk of her shearling coat, and the smell of gun oil. Nothing moved in the front parking lot but snow devils scurrying across the surface.

Then a familiar voice carried on the wind, so amplified she would’ve sworn the speaker—Cervantes—was next to her. “Get the woman and the child. We’ll take her vehicle.”

“Heads up, ladies,” DJ whispered into the headset. “They’re making their move on the front of the restaurant.”

“About frick-fracking time. It’s damn cold up here,” Keely muttered.

DJ smiled. She really liked Dev and Andy’s little sister.

“Blast shutters engaged on all window and doors bolted at Ma’s?” Keely’s brother’s deep voice rumbled over the headset.

DJ’s pulse jumped and her breathing hitched before she could wrestle both back under control.

“First thing we did, Tweetie,” Keely replied. “Civilians not looking for a break in the tedium of their day are in the safe room.”

Tweetie. Tweeter.
No one who had a voice like his should be called Tweeter. His given name was Stuart Allen Walsh. She didn’t think she could call him Tweeter and keep a straight face. Stuart didn’t seem right either, but it was better than a cartoon character name.

The crunch of snow indicated movement on the ground.

“They’re on the move.” DJ angled herself so she had a view of the front corner of the gas station. Since she had no wall to hide behind, she had to be careful not to skyline herself.

“Ready.” The response was so soft and low it could’ve been either Callie or Keely speaking.

The first man around the corner led with his rifle. He moved along the front of the gas station. Just before she was about to lose sight of him, one shot rang out. He was down, hit in the hip.

“He’s down. Still armed and dangerous,” DJ said. “Good shot.”

“Thanks. I love Keely’s Lapua. I’ll keep him and the others pinned down,” Callie said. “They’re not leaving this parking lot.” Two shots rang out. “Took off some brick, right above another guy’s head. Just keeping them honest.” She sounded amused.

It wasn’t a surprise that no one else attempted to come around the front corner.