Right To Kill - Right to Kill Part 4
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Right to Kill Part 4

She never saw it coming, but the blow to the side of her head crippled her mind.

The sound of duct tape being pulled from a roll brought her back. Struggling to stay coherent, she felt pressure on her ankles, but she couldn't focus.

A bee sting nailed her in the back of her thigh.

He's injecting me.

The next thing she sensed was another intruder racing down the stairs.

Great, she thought, just I what need: another dickhead joining the party.

Would they rape her right now, or wait until later?

She hardened her resolve, telling herself she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her sob and beg for mercy. Wishful thinking. Every human had a breaking point and a good interrogator always found it. It was only a matter of time. She'd been through interrogation-resistance training, but that was a joke compared to what was coming.

Then she heard a man yell, a guttural roar of anger.

Glen?

They'd found him.

She began an all-out struggle to free her feet, thrashing around like a gaffed fish.

Glen yelled again, louder.

She looked up and saw an impossible sight.

Glen wasn't being dragged down the stairs; he charged down them.

Her assailant tossed the syringe aside and tried to pull his MP5.

Too late.

Glen body slammed him to the floor. Her husband wasn't a large man, by any means, but he'd been a championship wrestler in college.

"Run, Glen, get out!"

The gunman's face ended up near her bound feet and she kicked out with all the force she had.

And missed.

Her attacker smashed his elbow into the side of Glen's head, but her husband didn't let go. In admiration, she watched Glen sink his teeth into the outside of the guy's shoulder and shake his head like a dog trying to tear a chunk free.

The gunman growled as the two of them became an entangled blur of flailing arms and legs. Linda used the opportunity to curl her legs tight to her chest. She needed to loop her bound wrists over her feet so her hands would be free in front of her body.

Her bruised thigh erupted with fresh agony, and her stomach followed suit.

She blew out all the air from her lungs to make more room and kept forcing her feet toward her body. She clenched her teeth as the dual throbbing reached a crescendo.

Needing more than courage to get this done, she allowed anger to flood her thoughts, embracing it for what it was.

For the first time in her life, Linda Genneken experienced absolute rage. Like a cattle brand, the emotion scorched her soul.

She pulled her legs in harder, screaming like a warrior.

Just . . . one . . . more . . . inch . . .

Success!

Her hands were now in front of her. She twisted to her knees, grabbed a steak knife from the countertop, and quickly sliced the tape binding her ankles.

There was no way she could break or sever the plastic handcuffs without a tool, but she'd practiced hand-to-hand combat with bound wrists many times.

She heard it, then: the unmistakable claps of a suppressed handgun.

Three quick shots, as fast as a trigger can be pulled.

Something sprayed her face.

In the bluish light from the microwave's clock, she couldn't see much detail, but she knew the spray had to be blood. And if Glen was on top . . .

Oh, please, no.

Her fear became reality when a black stain rapidly expanded around torn holes in the fabric of Glen's T-shirt.

The bullets must've punched through Glen's chest and exited out his back. Despite the mortal wounds, Glen tried to keep his forearm around the gunman's neck, but his strength seemed to be gone. Her husband did his best to stay on top but quickly lost the battle.

The gunman pistol-whipped him on the side of the head. Glen's mouth formed an O shape, but no sound emerged.

As cold as the thought was, she hoped one of the slugs had pierced his heart. If so, he'd be losing consciousness within the next fifteen seconds. At least his death would be quick, and he wouldn't have to watch her being tortured.

That's a nice, cheery thought, Genneken.

Stop, she told herself. She was far from beaten. She wouldn't allow her husband's sacrifice to be in vain. Glen had bought her the precious seconds she needed with his life and she intended to cash them in.

The gunman aimed his pistol at her.

She rolled toward the oven.

This could be it.

The bullet missed, puncturing the refrigerator.

Her attacker adjusted his aim for another shot.

Hating herself for doing it, she kicked Glen's body. Her husband grunted in pain, but she got the effect she wanted. Like a billiard shot, the energy of her kick transferred through Glen into the gunman, jarring his aim. Again, the bullet missed; glass from the oven's door rained onto her head. She closed her eyes and shook her hair, dislodging the biggest pieces.

The gunman cursed and shoved Glen aside. When he tried to line up on her again, Glen somehow found the strength to grab at the man's forearm.

She gained her feet before her attacker could fire a third shot and felt a piece of glass puncture the sole of her foot. Ignoring the stinging pain, she kicked her attacker in the face.

The man's head slammed into the cabinet.

She followed up by stomping on his gun arm and felt the ulna and radius bones snap. The pistol skittered away on the floor, and she saw it was her own weapon.

Seeing the man's exposed groin, she delivered a solid kick.

The air rushed from his lungs like a punctured beach ball.

She bent over and whispered, "Welcome to my world. You should've taken my offer." She reared back and kicked him in the groin again, this time hard enough to rupture his nuts.

This wasn't over. The gunman who'd nailed her with the TASER must still be outside. Why hadn't he attacked? Maybe McBride was already here.

Wishful thinking, LG. You need to pretend McBride's not coming and fight your way out of this.

She took a few seconds to listen for sound. All she heard was Glen's raspy breathing, growing more strained and weak with each passing second. He'd be gone inside a minute.

The only other sound in the house was the muffled baying of her dogs.

Her husband's voice startled her.

"Linda, I'm sorry . . ."

"Breathe, Glen, just keep breathing."

"Our dogs . . . Get them out . . ." He coughed up blood.

He's dying and he's worried about our dogs?

"Love you . . ."

"I'm calling an ambulance." It was a white lie she could live with. Calling 911 wouldn't save him.

How could this be happening? A few minutes ago, she'd been asleep in her bed. Now, Glen bled out on the kitchen floor. She'd doled out her share of death, but she'd never been on the wrong side of it so personally. It felt so brutal and unfair, Glen being murdered for something connected to her past.

Another wave of anger swelled, but she couldn't grasp the feeling with much force. She ought to be able to tap its red energy and use it to harden her resolve, but it slipped away.

The Ketamine.

Stay focused, Genneken.

What were her options? More gunmen remained. At least two more. She thought it unlikely any of her neighbors had heard the flash bangs, given the rainy weather, the distance between the houses, and the fact that the detonations occurred inside. And even if they had, the sounds could easily be dismissed as kids playing with fireworks. Smart idea, her attackers choosing New Year's Eve for their assault.

She found another set of disposable handcuffs in her attacker's backpack and secured the guy's hands behind his back. She then took a dish towel and gagged him, tying it tightly around the back of his head.

To her horror, a wave of warmth grabbed her.

No. Not yet . . .

CHAPTER 4.

Nathan felt it, the butterflies of mortal combat. This wasn't a video game where you morphed back to life. This was the real deal.

Real bullets.

Real death.

Understanding the danger allowed adrenaline to do its vital work, preparing him for battle.

He wished he could advance through the canyon more quickly, but he had to keep clearing his surrounding area. If the enemy got eyes on him first, the result wouldn't be good. Even if his vest stopped a bullet, he'd be in a bad way.

At the base of the vertical bluff below her backyard, he took a few seconds to listen and swore he heard the faint pop of suppressed handgun fire.

He moved west along the cliff over to the stairs. A small locked gate guarded the landing, but he easily hopped it.

Nathan kept his Sig Sauer nine millimeter in his hand and tested a step. The wood didn't creak and he began his ascent.

Near the top, he slowed and peered over. Detecting no one, he hurried up the last seven treads and ran over to a line of oleander bushes along the fence, screening Linda's pool from prying eyes. Beyond the fence, groups of patio furniture sat on the concrete deck. He used the NV to scan the house and saw a shattered French door. Other than that, things looked undamaged. He caught the faint odor of burned power, probably left over from the stun grenades. He reached into his waist pack for his thermal imager, but didn't find it. Crap. In his haste to get up here, after seeing Linda's windows ignite, he'd forgotten to grab it.

Way to go, McBride.

Without warning, the entire ground floor of Linda's house flashed at the same instant he heard the thump. At least if the intruders were still deploying bangers, it meant they hadn't killed or captured her yet.

Nathan estimated her house stood a good fifty yards away from his current position. He considered making an all-out sprint, but without knowing how many gunmen he faced or their locations, it could be the last thing he ever did.

He paralleled the oleander bushes, working his way toward the western boundary of the property, where an eight-foot stucco wall separated her place from the neighbor's. Planted along the wall, a row of citrus trees offered him a good way to advance toward the house with some cover.

He looked at the shattered French door and froze when he heard a suppressed pistol shot from somewhere inside. His night vision picked up more flashes from suppressed shots, followed by several more. In Spanish, a man yelled a crude string of words about LG's mother. Nathan didn't hear a sixth shot over the hollering, but his NV registered the flash. The foul language ended.

Linda was likely alive and, from the sound of things, engaged in a handgun battle.

The next thing he heard was glass breaking and a different kind of sound. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like a TASER. A distinctive pop-like sound, quite different from a suppressed handgun. If the intruders were using nonlethal grenades, it made sense they'd also be using nonlethal handguns, with the intent to take her prisoner.

Thirty feet ahead, the pool fence changed direction and ran north toward the house. Fortunately, the oleander bushes followed the fence. If anyone were inside the pool area, the bushes gave Nathan good concealment.

He'd been about to dash over to the line of citrus trees when he sensed immediate danger. Call it intuition, or ESP, or just dumb luck, but something made him look to his left.

Good thing he did.

On the expanse of grass, Nathan saw the faint outline of a man running toward the shattered French door. Nathan knew the gunman had spotted him because the guy stopped and didn't fire. The man needed a few seconds to determine whether Nathan was a friendly.

A costly delay.