Ricochet (Out for Justice Book 1) Page 3

  “Fucking cops all over the place,” Stevenson muttered, lifting the side of the gun and rubbing it against his own forehead.

  “Puke up the rest of the shit. If Manning finds out, he’ll fucking kill me.” Stevenson clamped down on the back of his neck, forcing his face over the toilet. The gun now aimed at his head.

  “Do it right now. Hurry up!”

  “I can’t,” Noah whined, gagging, his eyes watering. His stomach refused to give up the rest of its contents.

  “God damn it! Get up and let’s go.” His beefy stepfather jerked on the back of his hoodie, and then shoved him out of the bathroom. Noah stumbled out of the room and into the hallway, stuffing a piece of candy into his mouth to get rid of the vile taste.

  “We get out of here, then you cough up the drugs,” Stevenson mumbled, shoving him harder.

  Noah jerked away, almost losing his balance, and straightened his sweatshirt. With his free hand, his stepfather slapped his head and again pushed him forward.

  “And you won’t say a fucking word to Manning.”

  Noah clenched his teeth and shuffled forward.

  “You paying attention, boy?” Stevenson jerked him again.

  Noah nodded, moving ahead of the man as they inched along the hallway. “You better. I risked my ass to come up here and get you.” More likely, Stevenson wanted to save his own ass and use Noah as leverage.

  The grip of Stevenson’s pistol jammed down on Noah’s shoulder. The cold, hard barrel hovered near his ear. The business end of the gun was pointed forward as they crept along the hallway.

  Gunfire erupted much closer, and his stepfather yanked him to a stop. Stevenson’s heaving breath gushed against his ear, and Noah fought back a shudder. He could smell the man’s sweat, and he swallowed hard. His stepfather pulled him down into a crouch. Once they were both hunkered down, Stevenson pulled out his cell phone, and Noah saw a text go to Manning.

  “Police! Drop your weapon!” The man’s deep voice boomed up from the level below, causing Noah to jump and Stevenson to swear. Several shots were fired.

  “Fucking cops better be local,” his stepfather growled.

  Noah’s hope that the hell he lived in would finally be over was dashed. For just a split second, he felt so fucking glad to hear the deep, booming voice of the cop, but then reality hit. The cops were in Manning’s pocket. They’d been the ones to call Manning every time Noah had tried to escape. The times he’d tried to approach the police were too numerous to count. They had to have known what was going on there, and Noah figured their years of fucking silence said it all.

  He’d bet money that some of the officers in the house right now worked for Manning. The ones that didn’t? Well, they should watch their backs. You never knew when someone might put a bullet in your head. A long time ago, he’d accepted the reality that they were never coming to save him.

  A shadow moved ahead, drawing his gaze forward. Semi-crouched and hidden mostly behind the wall at the top of the stairs was a man the size of a fucking linebacker, dressed in tactical gear with a gun trained on them.

  The man’s face moved slightly from the shadows into the light and the next thing Noah noticed beyond the sweat-drenched black hair was a long scar trailing down the left side of the man’s face from temple to jaw. Noah didn’t linger long on the imperfection because his attention was suddenly held riveted by a pair of eyes so pale blue, they glittered like ice chips.

  Mac

  He stopped dead at the top of the stairs, having found what he was looking for. Up ahead, beneath the glowing light in the upstairs hallway, crouched Ricky Stevenson. The man was using a teenaged boy as a shield. It wasn’t the gun the drug lord aimed in his direction that suddenly caught Mac’s full attention, but rather the wide, light-brown eyes of the hostage. The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  Ducking back around the corner, Mac thunked his head against the wall. Well, fuck. Holding his gun angled upward and close to his body, he weighed his options. There was no way in hell he was going to let Stevenson get away with taking a hostage.

  Kane eased up beside him. “What do we have?”

  “One shooter, Stevenson, with one hostage, a kid,” Mac murmured. His mind raced with finding the best possible outcome. His gut told him the drug dealer wouldn’t hesitate to kill the kid if it would save his own ass, and Mac would lay odds that Ricky Stevenson wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “Ricky Stevenson, give it up, let the kid go,” Mac shouted. Silence followed with no response.

  Risking another quick glance, this time, Mac was able to see the boy’s swollen face and a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Mac fought back the desire to act quickly. Wide eyes met his and Mac tried to convey reassurance. Fear filled the eyes staring back, but their depths also held a resignation, as if the teenager had lived too long in this hell and had given up all hope. Like hell. Not today, kid.

  Kane waited patiently beside him. This was Mac’s call, not only because he had military marksman experience, but because he was the better shot.

  “Get back!” Stevenson snarled with the gun trained in their direction.

  “I don’t think so. Let him go. There’s nowhere for you to run. It’s over,” Mac yelled, ducking back out of sight. He went over every scenario in his head, trying to picture the outcome. The risk was high, but he’d have to take the shot. The drug lord was bigger than the boy. And Stevenson’s size provided a large target. It shouldn’t be too difficult to hit the guy hovering behind the kid.

  “Give up, Stevenson, we have you surrounded,” Kane shouted from beside Mac.

  “The fuck you do!” A muffled noise drew Mac’s gaze quickly around the corner. Stevenson was no longer in the hallway. He and the kid were disappearing through an open door about fifteen feet away.

  Mac sprinted up the remaining two stairs and down the hallway. He reached the door and quickly looked before ducking back. A shot rang out and a bullet hit the door, sending wood flying. Mac was close enough to hear Stevenson snarl at the kid.

  “Manning will thank me for delivering your fucking ass. Now move!”

  A flash of anger hit Mac. He risked another look. Stevenson had gone out the window and was trying to pull the boy through.

  “Lass mich gehen!” the kid shouted wildly in a language that sounded like maybe it was Russian. When that didn’t work, the boy hissed and clawed. “Fucking let me go!”

  With Kane on his six, Mac charged across the room and caught the kid around the waist. The boy’s slender body shrank back, trying to avoid his touch, but Mac hung on. He yanked the boy with one arm and brought up his gun with the other. Stevenson let go and dropped to the grass, and the bullet from Mac’s gun missed hitting the man.

  Mac lifted the trembling form in his arms up and away from the open window. The momentum took them both to the carpet and the kid’s wiggling body ended up on top of his.

  Pop, pop, pop!

  The deafening noise of gunfire sounded close, and drywall near the door broke apart, pieces exploding and flying everywhere. Kane, standing near the door, cursed and dove for cover.

  Mac rolled, covering the shivering form of the boy. The boy’s lips were moving, but the noise around them was too loud to hear what he said.

  “Lass mich gehen,” the kid growled at Mac when the noise abated.

  That was when Mac realized the kid beneath him was older than the fourteen he’d thought him to be. Still young, but not as young as he’d first thought. And he smelled like fucking peppermint.

  “Mac, you got him?” Kane hollered through the sudden silence, just before the noise of other agents shouting to get down and drop weapons started up.

  “Yeah, go!” Mac said gruffly, lifting off the struggling boy. Kane disappeared down the hallway.

  Easily pulling the kid up, he ignored the boy’s struggle. The kid was stronger than he looked, but Mac pushed the teenager against the wall and used his much bigger size to keep him there.
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  “Settle down. My name’s Mac, I’m a US Marshal.”

  Mac leaned back and was surprised at the blow that landed on his chin. Grunting, he blocked the hands swinging at him, fending off each frantic blow. A fucking strong wind could have blown the kid over, but the boy sure had grit.

  Once the blows grew feeble and stopped striking him, they stood there, both breathing heavily. The young man swayed, and Mac tightened his grip. After a few moments, he was able to look the kid over for injuries.

  “Are you hurt other than your face?” Mac tried to keep his voice gentle, but it came out gruff. The boy trembled in his hands like a wild thing on the verge of fleeing or fighting again.

  “Nein, ich bin nicht verletzt,” the young man hissed, glaring up at him through a tangle of hair.

  It was definitely fight and not flight that had the teenager struggling against Mac’s grip.

  “English, kid, I don’t understand,” Mac said, holding firm.

  “No, I’m not hurt, and I’m not a kid!” the young man spat, and Mac eased his grip. A second later, the boy turned and threw up on the carpet.

  Through the gagging sounds, Mac tried to run a gentle hand over the young man’s back, but the guy flinched from his touch. A flash of fury churned with something dark and dangerous inside Mac when a small pile of drug bullets landed in the foamy bile on the carpet.

  “Leave me alone.” The young man curled a shoulder and spat on the carpet.

  Mac reached for the guy’s shoulder, but he twisted away. Gritting his teeth, he fisted the back of the young man’s sweatshirt to hold him still.

  “Is that it?” Mac asked, nodding at the drugs on the floor and keeping his gun trained on the semi-closed door Kane had disappeared through.

  Abruptly, the boy nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. The rest he got earlier.”

  Mac released his grip on the kid’s sweatshirt and booted the door closed with his foot. Tucking his gun in his holster, he dug around in his pockets and pulled out the evidence bags and gloves Kane had given him. He gathered the drugs from the carpet and tucked everything away. The evidence and this kid’s testimony would go a long way toward putting Manning and Stevenson away.

  “What’s your name?” Mac asked, pulling his gun out again and easing the door open to peek through the crack. Both ways looked clear. When the kid didn’t answer, Mac looked back at him.

  “Noah,” the guy said reluctantly and glared, wiping a sleeve against his mouth. This had to be the Noah that Jenny wanted saved.

  “And how old are you, Noah?” Mac asked with patience, ignoring the distrustful look the teenager gave him.

  Noah tilted his chin, and his eyes narrowed before he said, “Seventeen.”

  A fucking minor. Both Manning and Stevenson were going away for a long fucking time. Noah didn’t look like the usual drug mule, but then maybe he was new to the job. Still, it made Mac sick to think that someone of his age was forced to risk his life in such a way.

  The boy’s rebellion tugged at Mac’s heart and he was tempted to hold him. And What. The. Ever. Living. Fuck? That wasn’t like him at all. Mac didn’t hold people, and certainly not a potential WITSEC victim. There was just something about the boy that drew him in. He looks so vulnerable, just like Lisa.

  “Okay, we’re going out the way I came in.”

  “Look,” Noah jerked from his hold, “I can make it out of here on my own.”

  Mac narrowed his eyes. “I need you to hold onto me. I have a bulletproof vest,” he pointed out. “Which will help if we get shot at.”

  Silence greeted him. “You do want to get out of here, don’t you?” Mac asked quietly. Behind a shimmer of tears, the boy’s gaze held a rage Mac could only guess at. He waited him out. It took a minute before Noah slumped against the wall as if the string that had been keeping him upright had finally snapped.

  “Yeah,” Noah sniffled. At least the kid had settled down somewhat. And even though he watched him with large, mistrustful eyes, Mac would take that over hostility.

  Easing the door open farther, he took a quick look outside. Suddenly, an explosion shook the house, sending the compound rocking. Mac slapped a hand on the wall to keep his balance. Sheet rock cracked near the overhead light fixtures, and small, white chunks amongst powdered debris rained down.

  “It’s the backup plan. The whole place is set to blow, house and buildings,” Noah said, coughing. “We gotta get out of here.”

  How in the hell did this teenager know that much about Manning’s operation? Not stopping to ask, Mac tugged Noah closer and curled the young man’s stiff, cold fingers around a strap on his bulletproof vest.

  Noah’s skin felt ice cold, and Mac regretted he didn’t have the time to warm him up. Noah struggled to shake him off, but Mac was ready and kept his hand tightly curled over Noah’s, forcing him to keep a grip on the vest.

  “Hold onto me. Whatever happens, stay behind me and don’t let go.” Mac waited until Noah met his gaze. “Understand?”

  He saw the emotions warring on Noah’s expressive face. Most likely, he hadn’t trusted a living soul in a very long time. It pained Mac to see the mistrust, but he was aiming to change that. Why he suddenly felt like it was his job was beyond Mac.

  Eyes so light in brown they appeared golden lifted to his, and something tight and protective surged in Mac.

  Noah hesitantly nodded. That was all he could expect for now, but it was enough. Mac moved to the door and stopped. He felt Noah bump into his back, then jerk slightly away before shuffling forward. Smoke filled the deserted hallway.

  “Kane,” Mac said into his radio.

  “Mac?” Kane’s voice crackled back.

  “Yeah, clear everyone out. The hostage said the whole place is set to blow.”

  Noah

  “Fuck,” the marshal whispered, and Noah pulled at the vest.

  “I can get us out,” he said, holding one hand over his nose and mouth. “There’s a secret way.”

  “Show me.” Mac nodded.

  Noah ran down the hallway and entered a small office. Running to a squat china chest, he struggled to move it away from the wall. The marshal tucked his gun away and reached for the chest. Together, they easily shifted the heavy piece of furniture. Behind the cabinet was a trap door that he opened before stepping inside.

  Smoke and flames crackled behind them as the fire reached the room they had been in. The man closed the door and grabbed a small flashlight from his vest.

  A narrow set of stairs took them down and through another door. This one was metal. The door swung open easily from regular use. More stairs led them down farther away from the main house. The tunnel was structured like a mining shaft, with open beams framing a dirt ceiling and walls. Tree roots curved and swirled, protruding through the walls, their ends white from being hacked back. The silence was eerie and the passageway smelled like damp, musky earth.

  Noah took off at a run, he’d be damned if he was going to end up dead in this tunnel from a corrupt cop.

  The marshal stepped off the last stair and broke into a run, chasing after him.

  Lifting a two by four from the ground, Noah turned and came out swinging when Mac careened around the corner. He went for the man’s head. The marshal ducked and then closed one massive hand around the board. Noah’s arm was almost pulled from its socket when the man yanked the wood away.

  Noah glared, breathing hard, feeling defenseless. His heart pounded and he clenched his fists, his short nails digging into his palms. The man tossed the wood into the darkness behind him.

  “That wasn’t smart,” the marshal growled. “I’m trying to get us out of here.”

  “Sure you are, Mr. Marshal Man,” he spat. “Whose payroll are you on?”

  “Look,” the man said, holding one hand out palm up. “I’m not on anyone’s payroll but Uncle Sam’s. You can believe that or not, but there’s a fire back that way.” Mac jerked his thumb down the tunnel. “And a shit storm outside. So I’d suggest you choose
right now. I can knock you out and zip-tie your hands and carry you out, or we can work together to get out of here.”

  Noah dropped his gaze beneath the man’s intense stare. Wrapping his arms around his waist, he finally nodded. Not like he was going to argue with the guy, the man was huge. Easily outweighing him by a good seventy-five pounds.

  “Good,” the marshal said, stepping around him and moving through the tunnel.

  Noah followed. He refused to feel guilty, but that didn’t stop a small inkling of shame. Maybe the guy was on the up and up. He sure was acting like he wanted to help.

  When they reached the end of the tunnel, he pointed upward to the exit. Mac swept his arm out to position Noah behind him. A quick swipe upward with the flashlight Mac held showed a small grate covering a round hole leading to the outside. The noise of gunfire and people shouting filtered down to them. Using the flashlight, the marshal illuminated iron posts hammered into the dirt wall that served as a ladder to the top.

  “Who else knows about this?” Mac asked in a low voice.

  “Pretty much everyone,” he replied with a grimace.

  The marshal took another quick glance at the exit. “How open is it at the top?”

  “It comes up about twenty feet from the back of one of the buildings,” Noah murmured. “It’s about a ten-foot run to the trees from there.”

  “Those are very specific dimensions.”

  Noah shrugged and after a moment, the man turned away. The marshal had to be wondering what his role was there, but Noah wasn’t sharing. Keeping a wary eye on the bigger man, Noah kept his distance. The guy dropped to his haunches, leaned against the wall, and motioned him closer.

  Instead, Noah walked over to a lantern hanging down from one of the beams. Lifting a lighter that sat on a two-by-four railing, he lit the lantern and light illuminated the tunnel with an eerie glow. Tossing the lighter back, he walked over and slid to his ass on the dirt floor. Not far from Mac, but not too close, either.