Patience. He'll be back. Wait him out . . .
Her eyes felt dry and raw. She blinked a few times.
Lying here immobile, she felt terribly vulnerable. Now wasn't the time to second-guess herself. She'd chosen this spot and she'd make it work.
Any second now.
As if on cue, the goggles reappeared, followed by the gunman's body.
He slinked around the corner and took a knee, crouched at a forty-five-degree angle to her position. A second gunman came into view, looked in her direction, and froze.
Time seemed to stretch as the second gunman swept his TASER back and forth through the dust and smoke, the green line of its laser plainly visible in her NV scope.
Linda projected herself into her opponents' perspective again. They obviously knew their prey was down here somewhere. The dead man at their feet was all the proof they needed. They had to be nervous, knowing a bullet could come from any direction at any second. They also had to be considering abandoning the fight. Four of their teammates had gone silent, presumably dead, and they didn't want to be the next casualties.
The second gunman stayed put and pivoted toward the living room. Without standing, the first gunman lined up in the opposite direction, covering his friend's back.
Then they both froze and their lasers went dark.
Was she blown? Had they seen her?
She held her breath and squinted in concentration. The angle she had on the second gunman wasn't ideal but better than nothing.
Should she wait or shoot?
The pressure to nail the first guy felt agonizing.
Risking everything, she decided to delay a few more seconds.
And was glad she did.
The second man eased to the left of his comrade, giving her perfect lines of sight on both of them.
She'd never get a better chance.
She began a gradual increase of pressure on the Beretta's trigger, giving it about half what it needed. Part of her felt pity for them, but she reminded herself of what could happen.
Tied and bound while they took turns.
That's not happening. Not tonight. Not ever.
She increased to three-quarters pressure and squinted in concentration.
Now.
She activated the laser, painted the second gunman's cheek, and executed a controlled tug of the trigger.
Her pistol bucked.
The bullet flew true.
It slammed home, jolting the guy's head sideways. The blood spatter on the wall confirmed the kill.
The lead gunman reacted quickly. Caught in the open, he used his collapsing comrade as a shield and brought his TASER up.
With no clear shot to his head, Linda fired twice at the man's thigh and scored two hits. The guy grunted in pain but kept bringing his TASER up.
Have it your way. She fired twice more, aiming slightly lower.
Following a string of Spanish obscenities, the gunman dropped the TASER, shoved his human shield aside, and pulled a semi-auto pistol from a hip holster.
Before he could line up on her, she drilled him in the face.
Cartilage, bone, and brains were no match for high-speed, copper-jacketed slugs moving at nine hundred feet per second. Another spray pattern decorated her wall. She'd put a nice picture frame around it, then sign and date it.
Instinctively, she kept a tactical tally. Eleven total shots fired. Ten rounds left in her weapon. And six stiffs. Not a bad evening's work so far.
Time to reposition.
Moving slowly, she eased off the dining room chairs and crouched, facing the living room.
The radio on the counter came to life at the same time the glass window behind her shattered inward.
Shit. SHIT!
Before she could turn to face the threat, she heard the pop of a TASER and knew what would follow.
The tiny prongs stabbed her flesh just below the nape of her neck.
Oh, crap. That's a bad location.
Fifty thousand volts coursed through her like hundreds of wasp stings.
The result was hideous.
Her body went stiff as every muscle contracted. She'd only been zapped once during her training, but it had seemed far less painful then. All her voluntary functions-such as remaining on her feet-instantly short-circuited.
She wanted to curse the triggerman but all that came out was a teeth-clenched yelp. Like a poisoned insect, she curled into the fetal position, willing the agony to stop.
It didn't.
He'd given her a full dose: five seconds' worth.
Somewhere in the red haze of consciousness, she fought to keep some sense of awareness. If she could keep them from pouncing on her, she might have a fighting chance.
She'd thrown off most of the electrical disruption to her brain, but her large muscle groups wouldn't respond. She could form a fist, but her arm wouldn't obey. She could wiggle her foot, but her leg wouldn't move.
How could she have been so careless and not cleared her six? A costly mistake that would cost Glen his life. With her out of the fight, they'd search the house and find him. An overwhelming feeling of rage surfaced, but she forced it aside. Now wasn't the time for a meltdown.
All she needed was a little more time to recover.
It didn't happen.
A gunman charged into the dining room from the direction of the library.
He put a knee on her back and leaned in close. She felt his hot breath on her neck as he said, "The boss is going to have a good time with you, Little Peach, and I'll be joining the fun. We all will."
Little Peach? Only one person in the world had ever called her that. She felt her skin tighten. Oh, dear God, not him. Had she been able, she would've pointed her weapon at her own temple and pulled the trigger.
Instead, she tried to whip her head and smash the man's nose, but her body didn't answer the call.
He yanked her hands behind her back and used disposable handcuffs to bind her wrists. The buzz of the cuffs locking overshadowed the barking from upstairs. At least the dogs were still alive.
Taking his time, her captor ran his hands across her breasts and made an Mmmm sound.
She hated the thought of this greasy maggot having his way.
If only she'd let her dogs out. They might've given her the precious seconds she'd needed.
Her arms working now, she tested the plastic bindings. No good. They wouldn't budge.
"Save your strength," he said. "You're gonna need it."
"If you walk away right now," she shot back, "I'll spare one of your balls."
The gunman laughed. "How generous of you."
His hands continued down her stomach and stopped at her groin.
She played possum until the last second, then tried to knee him in the face. She made contact but struck only a glancing blow.
He backhanded her across the face.
Without good motor function yet, she did the only thing she could think of.
She spat a bloody wad.
The man stood, backed up a step, and wiped his eyes. A look of pure malevolence took his expression, evident even through the black face paint.
He reared back and kicked her torso-hard enough to rupture organs.
The result was blinding. Nauseating and sharp.
He performed a ballet-like pirouette and offered a prolonged yell of "Goooaaaal."
What an asshole.
She supposed she should be grateful he hadn't kicked her in the mouth. No doubt, they'd work on her face later.
It came on suddenly. There was no stopping it. The contents of her stomach spewed.
"Disgusting," her attacker said. He walked to the sink, filled a glass of water, and dowsed her face. "Better?"
"You're really tough against a helpless woman."
"That comes later. Right now, my colleagues are going to find your husband and peel his skin off in front of you."
"He's not here."
He smiled with an expression of nice try.
Part of her hoped the guy had perforated her intestines or stomach with that kick. With a little luck, she'd be septic within twelve hours and dead a day later. But thirty-six hours could be an eternity. Somehow, someway, she'd find the strength to endure whatever they had in store for her. She'd never been tested like McBride, and she wondered how she'd hold up.
McBride.
He was still coming. All she had to do was buy some time. But the only way to do that was through pain. She had nothing else left to barter with. The question was, how?
Think, Genneken, think. What did most Latino men treasure? Their macho self-image. And she knew how to tear that down to size.
"Tell me something," she said in Spanish. "Was your mother drunk?"
"What?"
"You know, the pig in the pink dress. How old were you the first time? Was she passed out or did your brothers have to hold her down?"
"You've got quite a mouth. You'll be taught how to use it later."
"I'll bet you couldn't get it up, even with all your sisters working as fluffers."
He just stared, then said, "Keep it up and I'll sew your lips shut with a fishhook and sixty-pound line."
"I've got something to tell you, but you might have a hard time accepting it."
He stared for a few seconds, then spoke into his collar mike, updating his comrades.
"Maybe I shouldn't tell you, you'd just kick me again. Cowards like you get off hurting women. It's a shame, though. It's really something your boss would want to know."
"Tell me," he said. "What would my boss want to know?"
She smiled. "The best part of you ran down the crack of your sister's ass and left a wet spot on the dirt floor."
She watched the man's expression change from amused to angry. She unclenched her teeth just in time. He kicked her in the thigh hard enough to create a bone-deep bruise. The impact spun her head into the island, face first. Her vision grayed as her nose took the force. Blood began flowing, its distinctive taste far from new.
He leaned in close again. "You'll be begging for death, but you won't get your wish. My boss is going to keep you alive for a long, long time." He reached into his backpack, produced a nasty-looking syringe, removed the cap, and plunged it into a vial. "Here's some Special K to keep you manageable, but don't worry: I'll make sure you're fully awake when the fun starts."
Ketamine.
Not giving him an easy target for the needle, she began struggling against her cuffs.