Right To Kill - Right to Kill Part 24
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Right to Kill Part 24

CHAPTER 21.

At the top of the stairwell, Harvey turned to LG and whispered, "Same thing as before. We'll clear the hall room by room."

Harvey cracked the door and saw an empty corridor. No cameras were visible.

"Stay here and leave the door open a few inches. You should be able to hear if anyone enters the stairwell. You've got my six."

LG nodded.

As below, the office doors weren't locked but, unlike the second floor, these rooms didn't even contain furniture. The men's restroom was on the left side and he stepped inside. Sitting in the middle of the floor, a six-foot A-frame ladder sat directly below an open roof hatch. He reported his find to Delta Lead, returned to the hallway, and continued checking doors. Near the halfway point of the corridor, he heard something.

A man's laughter from somewhere ahead, probably the next door on the right.

Who would be laughing at a time like this?

Gun up, he approached the door and heard jazz music emanating from within.

A thin line of light spilled under the sill.

He leaned in and placed an ear on its surface. More laughter erupted and he pulled back.

Incredible. Either that was a recording, or whoever was inside had no clue what had happened below. Granted, all the weapons were suppressed and the sound of breaking glass hadn't been all that loud. If illegal activity were taking place in there, it made sense to have the room somewhat soundproofed.

Clearly, then, someone had tipped off Bustamonte by phone. He'd obviously abandoned the other poker players, leaving them behind as sacrifices. Pretty cold-blooded.

Just above the doorknob, there was a slot for a cardkey, like hotels used.

Moving slowly, he tried the knob.

Locked.

Harvey was tempted to kick it open, but knocking might be a better approach. Better yet, the man they'd intercepted probably had a cardkey to get back in.

He whispered into his boom mike, "Kilo Three, double-time down to the exit corridor and check the briefcase guy we intercepted. Search him for a cardkey, like hotels use. I'll maintain position here. Don't worry about being stealthy, just get down there and back as fast as you can."

"On my way."

He admired how LG never questioned orders or hesitated. Despite being recently traumatized and years into retirement, she'd proven herself to be a valuable asset. Her gaffe on the stairs had been her only tactical mistake. Not bad at all . . .

His thoughts went out to Nate, and he hoped his friend wouldn't get too reckless in his pursuit. Reckless? he mused.

"I found a cardkey in the guy's shirt pocket," LG said. "On my way back up."

He clicked his radio.

Twenty seconds later, LG showed up and quietly hustled down the hall to his position.

"We're going to rush into this room simultaneously. I'll tell everyone to freeze and show me their hands. If anyone makes a threatening or sudden move, they get a bullet. I seriously doubt Tomas would've abandoned his sister, but we need to be certain she's not in there. If you see a woman, use nonlethal force on her."

"I'll do my best."

Knowing Delta Lead could hear every word he said, Harvey chose his words carefully. "Kilo Three, do not use deadly force on any females in the room."

"Understood," she said.

He slipped the cardkey into the slot and lifted it out quickly.

The lock mechanism clicked and the tiny light blinked green.

Bustamonte's handgun reports echoed off the buildings. Nathan had no idea where the bullets had gone, but the gravel didn't erupt.

Caught in no-man's-land, Nathan sprinted for the control box.

Problem was, he couldn't see the source of the shots. The muzzle flashes had come from somewhere on the far side of the lowrider, he knew that much.

The hand cannon's staccato booms ended at eight shots. Nathan logged the info.

Seeing no movement at the lowrider, he ran in a crouch to its punctured form and used the front end for cover, keeping his feet protected by the wheel.

He looked along the tracks and caught a lucky break: a glint of light next to a Expo line power pole. There and gone.

There it was again.

Whoever hid behind the pole was sloppy, exposing his hands as he reloaded the weapon. Bustamonte?

Nathan had his answer.

His prey stepped out from the pole and fired three more shots. The bullets slammed into the lowrider, making it vibrate.

He peered over the hood, saw Bustamonte hop the rail line's fence and run away, heading west again.

Your little surprise party failed, Boosty. The next time you pull your phone, you're getting a bullet in the ass.

This was the closest Nathan had been during the chase and he didn't intend to allow the gap to grow bigger. He estimated less than one hundred feet separated them.

Nathan took off in pursuit, angling across the intersection. He saw headlights down the street, but they were distant. Not a factor.

Time to get serious.

Based on the eight shots and deep booms, he was fairly sure Bustamonte had a 1911 in .45 ACP. Heavy bullets, probably 230-grain full-metal jackets with a muzzle velocity of 850 feet per second. Subsonic, but packing lots of energy. The high-gloss nickel plating on Boosty's gun might look impressive at indoor shooting ranges, but in a combat situation, it might as well glow in the dark.

This time, immediately after Boosty finished looking over his shoulder, Nathan stopped running, carefully raised his Sig, and squeezed off a shot, purposely aiming below the belt.

His target jerked.

Looking like half of a two-man potato sack race, Bustamonte limped around the corner of an industrial building.

Nathan initiated a burst of speed and reached the corner about five seconds later.

He stopped short and took a quick look.

The bullet arrived simultaneously with the flash, but Nathan had already pulled his head back. The slug slammed the corner and knocked a chunk of concrete free. Another crackling boom echoed around the neighborhood.

Nathan figured they had to be at least a mile from the dealership at this point. He hoped the police would converge to this area, buying time for Harv and LG to clear the dealership.

"Give it up, Bustamonte!" Nathan yelled. "Stop running or I'll drop you."

He stole another look and saw his prey limping through the landscaping strip next to the building.

He's persistent, I'll give him that.

Gun up, Nathan pivoted around the corner and eased along the wall. If Bustamonte turned to shoot again, Nathan might have to kill him. The separation was inside seventy-five feet and it wasn't dark enough to remain unseen. The streetlights looked like small suns in Nathan's NV. He was tempted to shoot them but decided to conserve his ammo. Based on everything he'd seen tonight, he couldn't discount the arrival of more mercenaries or gangbangers.

He took advantage of a waist-high hedge and ran in a crouch. At this point in the game, Nathan needed to maintain continuous eyes on his prey. If Bustamonte tried to duck around the corner of the building up ahead, Nathan would drill him before he got there, then do his best to stop the bleeding.

He decided it was unwise to advance this close to the wall. If his mark managed to turn and shoot, the bullet could skip off the wall and find him.

Nathan stayed in the shadows of some trees and diverted over to the street where a smattering of cars were parallel parked. He stepped off the curb, entered the street, and used the line of cars to advance.

When he looked along the building, Bustamonte was gone.

The guy couldn't have reached the far corner of the building in the time it took Nathan to divert over here. No possible way. Bustamonte could barely walk, let alone run.

His prey must be hiding in the landscaping. There were several hedges growing perpendicular to the street.

Nathan darted to the next parked car and stayed low. Wounded men can, and often do, act recklessly. Losing eyes on Bustamonte didn't spell disaster, but it put him at considerably more risk. Nathan didn't think he'd been seen, but he wasn't certain. Even for the best marksman, an iron-sighted pistol shot in low light was a tough assignment.

A single boom announced Bustamonte was still in the fight.

Nathan ducked when the rear window of the vehicle exploded. A second shot broke more glass.

Time to relocate.

In a crouch, he paralleled the street and found cover behind the next vehicle, a pickup truck. Although his NV worked great, it was a line-of-sight visual device and Bustamonte still couldn't be seen.

Nathan pulled the thermal imager from his waist pack, powered it on, and gave the landscaping a quick scan.

Got you.

The device picked up Bustamonte's heat signature easily. Glowing like a ghost, his prey lay in hiding behind the second perpendicular hedge.

"Give it up, Bustamonte. It's over!" He fired a suppressed shot over Bustamonte's head, which whistled off the wall beyond. "That's a warning shot. The next one won't be."

In response, the man fired twice more, the slugs pounding the pickup's bed. Apparently, Bustamonte had tracked his relocation.

Have it your way.

Making good on his word, Nathan fired into Bustamonte's thigh.

What happened next could only be described as berserk.

His prey came up from the hedge and hobbled toward the truck, firing as he came. The bullets thumped and clanged into the sheet metal, forcing Nathan to duck for cover.

Screw this, he thought. Cantrell's not getting a live prisoner after all.

The wail of an approaching siren, coupled with the suicidal charge of an utter nutcase, became the deciding factors.

He fired three rounds into the center of Bustamonte's chest.

The result was immediate.

Bustamonte collapsed to the grass and rolled onto his back. In a pitiful display, the man tried to sit up, but couldn't.

Nathan sprinted over and kicked the pistol from Bustamonte's hand. As suspected, it was a nickel-plated 1911.

What the hell . . . ?

This man wasn't Tomas Bustamonte.

CHAPTER 22.

"I'll take the left," Harvey whispered. "Clear your right corner as we enter."

In a fluid movement, he opened the door and rushed inside. Scanning the room from left to right, he focused on a scene few people ever saw.

Seated around an oval table, four men looked at him with shocked expressions-all but one. His expression reflected anger, not fear. Harvey zeroed in on him.

"Hands where I can see them!" he yelled.

Angry Face either didn't speak English, or was trying to be a hero because he dropped his right hand below the table.

Harvey nailed him in the middle of the chest with two quick shots.

The expended brass clinked away on the stone floor.

Angry Face became Pain Face.

The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a strained uhhhh sound. Whatever discomfort Pain Face felt would soon end.

Harvey spoke calmly. "Anyone else?"