Right To Kill - Right to Kill Part 2
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Right to Kill Part 2

In addition to the TASER, a suppressed MP5 hung across the gunman's chest, probably set to its three-round-burst mode.

She lined up on his form, saw body armor, then adjusted her aim to the man's face. He hadn't spotted her yet.

Linda activated her laser.

In the green image of her NV, a bright star blossomed on the man's nose.

She squeezed the trigger in a controlled pull.

Her weapon bucked and the expended casing clinked off the wall.

The man didn't move.

Had she missed? No way. She'd drilled him for sure.

Then the gunman shuddered as though a chill raked his body. He tried to stay on his feet but collapsed to the floor.

One man down, fifteen rounds left. She always kept a bullet in the chamber, giving her an extra shot.

Contrary to how Hollywood portrays it, her suppressed pistol wasn't silent, even with subsonic ammunition. The report sounded like two Bibles being slapped together. To a combat vet, it was an unmistakable sound.

She pivoted to the opposite side of the stairwell and scanned the library.

There!

Another gunman lurked in one of the bookshelf alcoves.

And, like his fallen comrade, he hadn't seen her.

He definitely knew someone had fired a round, but he didn't know where it had come from. The man was looking for movement, hoping to locate the source of the shot.

Linda intended to give him movement, in the form of 124 grains of 9mm copper and lead traveling at three football fields per second.

She bench-rested her M9 against the wall, painted the laser just below his NV goggles, and pulled the trigger.

The gunman's head jerked and his arms went stiff.

The man fell sideways and began a death spasm, something she'd seen more times than she cared to admit.

Me or them, she reminded herself.

Two down, fourteen rounds left.

Time to relocate.

She entered the kitchen and sandwiched herself between two bar stools that served the island. The French door from the kitchen into the backyard was also shattered, but she didn't see an intruder.

Then she heard the crunch of glass.

Someone was already in the kitchen.

Directly opposite her position, a gunman had to be crouched on the far side of the island. He must've ducked for cover when the shooting started.

Linda had a huge advantage by knowing the contents of the island; if she fired through the cabinet at a precise height and location, her bullet would penetrate the panels and exit the other side. With a little luck, the bullet would have enough energy left to do some damage.

Worth the risk.

Eighteen inches below the granite countertop's height, she aimed the pistol for a level shot. At the same instant she pulled the trigger, she lowered her face to avoid taking any splinters to her eyes.

The wood veneer ruptured and she felt something smack the top of her head.

She heard a grunt of pain and seized the moment to circle the island.

A single gunman lay on his side, clutching a wounded shoulder. He reached for the TASER, but she stomped his forearm.

With his bloody hand, he tried to unsling his MP5.

Yeah, right. She finished him with a single round through the back of his neck, just below his helmet.

Three men down, twelve shots left in her pistol.

She held her position and listened for several seconds but heard only the muffled tirade of the dogs. At least if they were barking, they were still alive. For now, Glen was safe in the closet, but that could change.

She reached up to her head, where a piece of the cabinet had grazed her scalp, and felt blood, but it wasn't too bad. If it began dripping into her eyes, she'd have to deal with it. Staying low, she grabbed the dish towel hanging on the trash compactor's handle and stuffed it into her waistband.

Hearing nothing, she took a few seconds to evaluate her dead opponent.

Black face paint hid his facial features, but she got the distinct impression he was Hispanic. A closer look revealed a collar mike and earpiece, a digital-camo uniform, and all the trimmings of a Special Forces soldier. Had she been targeted by her own government? No way. And his camo didn't look like a US Army or Marine Corps digital pattern. Besides, if CIA Director Cantrell wanted her to come in, all she had to do was ask.

Not knowing whether the gunman's helmet employed a micro camera, she stayed out of its sight line, reached down, and turned the gunman's head to the side, facing away from her. She set her NV scope down and quickly searched the man. He carried no wallet, had no rank insignia, or any other discernible characteristic that allowed her to identify his country of origin. No surprises there.

The dogs erupted again.

Directly above her position, their muffled barking reached a new fury.

One or more gunmen were in the master bedroom.

Would they kill her dogs? She hoped not. Putting herself in their mind-set, she ran some scenarios through her head. To shoot the dogs, they'd have to open the door a crack or blindly fire into the closet, but they wouldn't risk that if they wanted a live prisoner to interrogate. Cracking the door to shoot the dogs held risk. They could be facing the muzzle of a gun. It was more likely they'd leave someone to monitor the closet while the others continued sweeping the house.

Returning her attention to the dead man in front of her, she unclipped his radio with the intent of taking it, but realized it would give her location away without the corresponding earpiece. From the look of things, the wire was routed under his vest. Professionals always secured the wire by tying it to a piece of clothing-like a belt or buttonhole-to prevent the wire from being yanked due to a snag. A tug confirmed her suspicion: the wire wouldn't pull free. Besides, they'd likely be in compromised-radio mode and either go silent or communicate in code.

Her best course of action was to remain mobile, keep picking them off one by one, and hold out until McBride arrived. With a little luck, all her old colleague would find was a mop-up job.

An idea formed.

She turned the radio's volume down to its bare minimum and began a series of intermittent clicks, mixed with the deepest mumbling sound she could make. Whoever was hearing the broken traffic might think the transmitting radio was malfunctioning.

She heard it then, a short code phrase. "Cambie al bravo del plan." She spoke fluent Spanish: Switch to plan bravo.

Linda pulled the radio's earpiece wire from its jack, cranked the volume to maximum, and set it inside the kitchen sink, where it couldn't be seen. Next, she eased around the island to a location where she could see the dining room, part of the living room, and the stairs' landing.

If these gunmen were part of- Heavy clunking sounds interrupted the silence.

Someone bounded down the stairs in a big hurry.

Could that be Glen? No way, he'd never be that reckless. Or stupid.

She'd have to hold fire until she was certain. If they'd taken him hostage and were using him as a human shield, she'd do her best to avoid shooting him, but bullets were going to fly. Hindsight was always 20/20, and she now wished she'd kept Glen with her.

Whoever descended the stairs stopped at the same place she'd used to nail the first two gunmen. Keeping her laser dark, she lined up at the corner and waited.

Gradually, a pair of night-vision goggles crept into view as the wearer peered around the corner.

A sudden transmission from the radio in the sink startled the arriving gunman. He swept his TASER toward the sound.

Linda lined up on the intruder's nose, and fired her fifth round.

The gunman's head snapped back from the kinetic energy.

A pop echoed through the house as the gunman squeezed the TASER's trigger. The tiny prongs cracked the glass window behind her.

His brain scrambled, the man fell forward to his knees, then plopped sideways. Four men down, eleven rounds left in her M9.

Not enough.

She ejected the magazine, pocketed it, and inserted a full one in its place. Because the chamber already held a round, she didn't need to cycle the slide.

Time to relocate again.

She studied her immediate area with the NV scope and detected no movement. Part of her hoped the others would flee, but the dominant part of her wanted to exterminate them. All she had to do was picture herself bound and naked while they took turns. No, these intruders deserved to die. And she wouldn't stop there: she'd hunt down whoever ordered this assault and kill them as well.

She eased across the front of the oven and took up a new position at the corner of the island. To her left, the dining room table and chairs offered some cover.

The radio came to life again.

"Todas unidades, informen!"

All units, report. Linda was sorely tempted to grab the radio and tell the ringleader what she thought of his mother, his sisters, and his lack of physical manhood. But caution won the moment.

Five voices copied the transmission; meaning she still faced at least six intruders. The ringleader would likely be driving the getaway vehicle-a commander who didn't want his hands dirty. It didn't matter. He'd soon be joining his friends in the underworld.

Decision time.

Wait for the remaining gunmen to come to her, or go on the offensive and take the fight to the enemy? Both held risks, but she decided to fight a defensive battle. Thankfully, they hadn't torched or teargassed the house to force her out. She hoped she hadn't just jinxed herself thinking about it.

The dining room chairs had fairly solid backs. If she stretched her body across the far row of them, she'd be far less visible but also less mobile. She decided to risk it because she didn't think the intruders would be expecting anyone to hide like that.

Staying low, she moved across the dining room to the far side of the table. The chairs felt cold against her skin and caused a shiver, but she got herself into a horizontal position across the top of them easily enough.

Now it became a waiting game.

Like a spider anticipating prey, she merged with the furniture and remained focused on the stairwell's landing.

Nothing happened.

Patience, she told herself.

Her wait wasn't long. Something thumped down the stairs.

And it wasn't footsteps.

CHAPTER 3.

Her ears . . . she couldn't cover them in time.

She lowered her head and closed her eyes.

One-one-thousand . . .

Two-one-thousand . . .

The device detonated.

A blinding red glare penetrated her eyelids.

Unprotected, her hearing took the full force of the explosion and she nearly cried out. The banger did its job flawlessly, making all of her senses scream in protest. She felt, more than heard, two gunmen thump down the stairs.

This was it.

Survival or extinction.

As before, the footsteps stopped short of the landing.

She aimed her Beretta at the corner where the gunmen would appear.

A pair of NVGs slowly eased out from the corner.

It took all the self-control she possessed to resist squeezing the trigger.

If she shot the first gunman before getting eyes on the second, her job grew in difficulty by a factor of ten.

The goggles looked down at the dead man, came back up, then slipped behind the stairwell's corner.