To the Limit (43 page)

"But those were awfully big guns those guys had," Tiffany said.

Yeah,
Eve thought.
Big guns.
She tossed Miriam a box of slugs for her shotgun.

"Load up. That's an autoloader," she said, glancing at Tiffany.

"You sure you can handle it?" Miriam asked, glancing up from her gun.

In answer, Tiffany pulled back the bolt handle, dropped a shell in the receiver, then expertly depressed the bolt release and dropped four shells into the magazine.

"Guess that answers
that
question," Eve said with an approving grin. "It's gonna be a bad day for the bad guys," she added, her smile encompassing Miriam as well. "OK. Here's the plan. Tiffany, you stand on the left side of the door. If they manage to get to us, when that door flies open, you'll be behind it. The door's made of plywood and it's old and brittle. Just fire like crazy right through it and you'll load 'em up with buckshot and splinters. Ought to do the trick, right?"

"Right," Tiffany said, and moved where Eve directed. "Eve," she said haltingly.

Eve smiled. "It's OK, sweetie. We'll square things with each other when this is over, all right?"

For the first time, Tiffany smiled at her. She nodded and did what she was told.

"Miriam, if they make it down here, they're going to come in blasting dead ahead and to the right because it will be the first thing in their line of sight. I want you to stand next to Tiffany and fire off as many rounds as you can manage as fast as you can manage."

"Why don't I stand on the right of the door?"

God love a brave woman. "Because I don't want you getting hit by friendly fire."

"And where will you be?" Miriam asked.

Eve had spotted a small table loaded down with a box of empty canning jars. She tested the tabletop—it was a good inch and a half of hardwood with a thin metal sheet tacked on the surface. "I'll be behind this bad boy."

She quickly moved the box to the floor, tipped the table on its side, and dragged it a little left of center and to the right of the door and ducked down behind it. When she was satisfied with her positioning and theirs, she set the box of ammo beside her on the floor.

Then she walked to the small window. Rain peppered the glass, washing dirt from the outside window well over the pane. The window provided the only natural light in the room. At least there would be light until sunset. She checked her watch. They had a little over an hour, if she remembered right from the past two nights.

"We need to cover this all but a crack, so they can't see in and only a little light enters the room. Any ideas?"

Miriam raced across the room and dumped the jars out of the cardboard box. They clattered on the stone floor, some of them breaking on impact.

"Gonna need your table," Miriam said, and together they righted it and moved it under the window so they could reach it to cover the dusty and cracked windowpane.

"Perfect," Eve said, and moved the table back into position on its side. "Anyone comes down but our men and we fire, understood?"

Both Tiffany and Miriam gave definitive nods.

"I'm going to turn the light out now."

Tiffany looked terrified.

"It's OK. It won't take long for your pupils to adjust and you'll be able to see—but the bad guys with the big guns won't. We'll have the immediate advantage if they break in, and that's what it's going to take to get the drop on them. OK?" she asked Tiffany.

She nodded, her lips tight.

"Good girl. Here goes. And we need to keep quiet. No matter what happens. Don't talk; don't scream; don't make a sound unless I say it's OK."

Determined nods from both Tiffany and Miriam.

Eve flipped the lights, moved behind her makeshift bunker, and waited for her eyes to adjust.

She'd done everything that could be done to protect them. She hoped they wouldn't need it. And if they did, she hoped like hell it would be enough.

Up above, all was quiet.

Up above, McClain, Jas, and Billie may be dead.

McClain. Dead.

A weakening flood of dread eddied through her.

He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. Or critically injured and dying. She refused to let herself think that he might be. Refused to let the hammering of her heart goad her into a fear that she knew would disable, disengage, and ultimately leave the three of them defenseless.

She breathed deep, controlled the adrenaline, and concentrated on what had to be done.

And still she jumped involuntarily when the distant sound of firearms split the silence.

Across the basement room she heard twin gasps.

"It's good," she whispered to calm them. "It's a good sign. Means they still have someone to shoot at. Which means our guys are hanging in there."

At least that's what she hoped it meant.

Truth be told, she was beyond hoping. She was praying like she hadn't prayed in a very long time.

Chapter 28

The clouds had opened up the same
time as the AK-47s. Rain poured like a pulsing showerhead. Fast, furious, and full of force. Only the wind affected its downward path and bent it in sideways sheets that peppered the house along with the bullets.

The initial and unrelenting volley from the AK-47s had ended several minutes ago. All three of the invaders must have emptied an entire thirty rounds. In its wake glass splinters were scattered across the cream-colored carpet of the Campbells' living room. Now wind freely whipped the curtains, but the room was pretty much protected from the rain by the vast front porch.

Mac sneaked a look outside. The rain was so heavy, he could no longer make out Edwards's prone form lying in the drive. Neither could Mac determine if the three black figures intent on blasting everyone in the house to kingdom come were still flanking the black SUV, which he could see—but barely. He didn't know if that meant they'd moved or he simply couldn't see them as darkness approached, to add another element of difficulty.

After the initial round of shots, the gunfire had been sporadic and without warning. He got the feeling, however, that those rounds had been fired from different directions. Some from the left, some from the right of the house.

The next time they opened up, instead of tucking lower, he took a chance and peeked over the windowsill. He'd been right, he realized, ducking back down. The flash from a single round had lit up like miniexplosions, helping him locate at least two of the shooters.

"They're spreading out," he told Campbell. "How many outside exits from the house?"

Jas was on one knee at the opposite side of the window from Mac. "Front door, side door. Double garage doors and a door into the kitchen from the garage."

"All locked," Billie said from his position on his knees behind the sofa.

"The storm cellar door," Jas said with a hard look at Mac, as if he'd just remembered. Panic flared in his eyes. "It's outside. Lies almost flat against the ground. It's padlocked, but that won't stop a round from one of those weapons they're carrying."

Mac figured he knew, but he asked anyway. "Where does the storm cellar lead?"

Jas's face was grim. "Exactly where you think it leads."

"Directly to where the women are holed up?"

He shook his head. "No. It's on the opposite side of the house. If they were of a mind to search room by room, though, it wouldn't take long to find the women down there."

"Then we just have to make sure they don't get that far." Another round of gunfire peppered the house. Windows to the left and right of them shattered. Glass flew like splintered ice across the room. Mac felt the sting of a flying shard hit him in the cheek. He ignored it, quickly glancing toward the ceiling when he heard the distinct sound of breaking glass and the thud of boots hitting the floor above them.

"Billie," he barked, heading for the open stairway. "Stay low, but move to the far window. Fire some shots every minute or so, just to let them know we've got a read on them. Jas—"

He turned to see Campbell inching the front door open and belly crawling outside, shoving his rifle ahead of him.

The man was no fool. And Mac couldn't afford to worry about him now. He had an asshole to deal with upstairs.

Speed, Mac knew, was his best ally right now. He had to reach the top of the stairs to the second story before the bad guy did or he'd be a sitting duck on the stair steps.

He hit the steps at a dead run—and fell flat on his face when his knee buckled. He bit back a groan, caught the breath the knifing sensation in his knee had stolen, and made himself crawl, using one foot for leverage, up the stairs.

Above him, he heard a low chuckle.

His head snapped up. He was looking directly into the business end of an AK-47.

The big man holding the gun was smiling through the slit of his black hood as he lifted the assault rifle to his hip and aimed.

He'd be damned if he was going to die on his knees. In a lightning move, he reached up, grabbed a booted foot, and jerked. Everything happened at once then. The staccato sound of the AK going off, the searing pain in his left shoulder, the pounding weight of both man and gun falling on top of him, the bone-jarring tumble to the bottom of the stairs.

Where he lay prone on his back. The wind knocked out of him. Unable to move as a shape in all black rose above him, rifle in hand again, and pointed it dead center at his heart.

He jerked when he heard the shot. Waited for the pain, the darkness, the numbing slide into death.

When none of that happened, he opened his eyes to see the black-clad figure weave, then topple like a tree and land like deadweight on the floor.

"You okay?" Billie asked, coming to stand above him, smoke still drifting from the end of his 16-gauge shotgun.

"Right as rain," Mac managed. "Nice shot."

The boy grinned, wide-eyed and a little shocky.

"Help me up," Mac said, and lifted the arm that wasn't burning. Billie's hand was shaking as he reached for Mac's. But Billie stood firm, put his weight behind his pull and got Mac to his feet.

Ignoring both his knee and his shoulder, Mac bent down and touched the fallen man's carotid artery. He was dead.

Mac whipped off his hood. He'd never seen him before, but he'd bet his life this was the guy who'd terrorized Eve.

The definitive sound of a 30/30 firing several rounds rang through the wind and rain. "Come on," Mac said to Billie. "We need to go help your dad."

Even though it felt like an hour, Eve didn't think any more than a few minutes had passed when she heard the sound of footsteps outside the fruit room door.

She lifted a finger to her lips, indicating Miriam and Tiffany should stay silent, stay calm. It took everything in Eve to maintain her own calm. It didn't figure that anyone should be down here. Not yet. Not unless they'd gotten by the men, and she refused to believe that had happened. Not when she recognized not only the sound of the AK-47s above the storm but also the sound of other ordnance.

"Is there a way into the basement other than through the house?" she whispered.

Miriam's eyes flew wide and she nodded. "Storm cellar door," she whispered back, and, shouldering her shotgun, tucked Tiffany behind her. Tiffany wasn't having any of it. She stood tall beside Miriam, the 12-gauge raised to her shoulder.

Eve nodded in approval—and then the world went Technicolor and surround sound. An explosion rocked the room, blasting her back a full four feet and into the wall of canned vegetables. She was aware of a brilliant flash of fire, of the jars rattling and crashing to the floor, of the door to the room blowing off its hinges and flying into the shelves. Glass fragments and globs of tomatoes and beets and beans rained down all over her as she lay there, stunned and unable to move for several seconds.

When she regained her equilibrium, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, felt glass cut into her palms and her S & W dig into her hip beneath her on the concrete floor. The cardboard had flown off the window; dusky light cast the room in an eerie glow through the haze of smoke glutting the small room from the blast.