He rolled over on his side. If he stayed like that too long, his back, battered during his days on the force, would cramp, but he needed to look at her. She slept peacefully, her lips slightly parted, a slow and soft rhythm to her breath hardly disturbing the quiet of the night.
A sudden sound broke the peace. His head darted toward the bedroom door. The sound was muffled, shielded from the bedroom by a hallway and several thin walls, but it was unmistakable. Several sudden and harsh spits, an intake of breath, and the soft thud of a body falling against the wall. Outside. He pulled off the blanket, jumped out of bed, and ran to the chest of drawers. He pulled out his handgun, checked the clip, and popped the safety. The moonlight shone through the windows, bathing his naked form in a silvery sheen. Every muscle was tensed, and he listened a moment without moving. Click. The bolt lock. Every nightmare he had had in the last month was coming alive before him.
He jumped back to the bed and shook Cohen. She stirred, opened her eyes, and was about to speak when he placed his hand over her mouth, holding his gun hand to his own with an outstretched finger over his lips. She snapped to an alert state, her eyes large, instinctively pulling the sheet closer. He shook his head, motioning to her not to speak and indicating that she should get down behind the bed. Cohen was an amazing FBI agent, but she was an analyst, not made for violence. Savas had seen plenty on the streets, especially during his early years at NYPD. But these were the trained assassins of Mjolnir, not common criminals. I cannot lose her.
The door crashed open with a thunderous noise, the drag chain snapping and flying across the living room. Savas dove through the bedroom door landing on his shoulder and side on the floor of the hallway. Absorbing the impact, he steadied his firearm and aimed in front of him.
He saw two dim shapes entering the apartment, weapons in their hands. Two. But he had the advantage of surprise.
He opened fire from his prone position at the closer of the two shapes; the other was still coming through the doorway. Three rapid shots from his pistol. The figure crumbled, let out a hoarse shout, and dropped to the ground firing wildly and shattering a mirror on the wall over the couch. Instinctively, Savas rolled right and into the bathroom, and a second later the wooden tile of the hallway exploded as several shots tore through the floor. He pulled his feet inside, stood up to steady himself, and prepared to dart out and fire on the second assailant.
It was unnecessary. His assailant found him.
Suddenly a dark shape appeared in the doorway. Savas swung his arm to divert the man's weapon hand, and several shots exploded against the tile of the bathtub. He brought his own gun forward, but the assailant was both fast and strong. Savas's wrist was pinned by the gunman's left hand and twisted backward so hard he cried out in pain and dropped his gun. The man brought his gun across his body as a bludgeoning weapon and struck Savas in the jaw, crashing his head into the wall. Partially stunned, yet running on the adrenaline of survival, Savas was able to bring his left arm down like a hammer, smashing the weapon out of the man's hand. The gun clanked heavily as it hit the floor tiles.
Cohen screamed his name. No! Hide, hide, hide… Savas felt the impact and deep swelling pain as the man crashed his knee into his testicles, and a flurry of fists impacted his abdomen and face, sending him crashing backward through the shower curtain and into the bathtub. His back was nicked by several broken shards of tile lying in the bottom, and he crumbled into the fetal position, wracked with pain. He watched helplessly as the man reached down, picked up his weapon, and aimed it at him. Rebecca, run…please, run. His vision blurred as he bordered on the edge of consciousness.
Two loud explosions shook him to alertness, and he felt a spray of blood as the chest of his assailant burst open, two bullets passing through his body and embedding themselves into the tile above the bathtub. The assassin fell to his knees with a heavy thud, then slowly pitched forward onto his face. The killer's body began to spasm. Savas gazed forward and saw another shape in the frame of the doorway, a man, arms outstretched and ending in a pistol.
“Agent Savas, sir?” came a young voice. “Are you OK?”
An hour later, Savas put down the phone and placed the ice pack back on his jaw. Ice packs all over me, he thought ruefully. Cohen sat across from him, her eyes bloodshot with dark circles under them. Her expression was pained. He could guess what it was like to look at him right now. At least the presence of all the FBI agents in the house should help calm her.
“It's OK. It's just not going to be pretty for a while.”
“What did Larry say?” Her voice was nearly devoid of emotion. Shock.
Savas motioned to the door. “Well, the agents outside — it's the worst. Shot dead right next to the door. We were saved because Larry had another team downstairs. I didn't even know. They were monitoring everything. Apparently they had installed microphones around the place, as well as the communications equipment the two out in front were plugged into. They knew the second the hit took place and got their second team up here as fast as possible. I'm going to tell Larry that the basement is too damn far away for an effective response.”
“Who were they?”
“You can guess,” said Savas. “Prints are in the Armed Forces' database. Professionals. Who else could it be?”
Cohen nodded and pulled her robe around her. She looked cold, he thought. He just felt too awful to get up and move over to her. Give me a minute, Rebecca.
“Larry says we'll move to a safe house soon. You'll need to pack up. Maybe we should have done this earlier. After the cyber attack, they knew everything about us, including where we lived. Protecting the apartment was fine, but it wasn't enough. We need to hide out for a while, baby. These guys want us dead for real.”
“John, if that man hadn't come in when he did…”
Savas finally did stand up. He drew a sharp breath. There are just places a man ought not to be hit. He took two steps and pivoted onto the couch next to Cohen. Glass shards from the mirror had been roughly cleared off, scattered across the Persian carpet she had bought only a month ago. He put his arm around her as her shoulders shook.
“It's OK, baby. We talked about this, remember? Don't think about what might have happened. I'm here. Hurting, but here.” She looked over and smiled at him, and he brushed a tear from her eye. “But I think I'm going to have to remain celibate for at least a week.”
She laughed softly at this. Savas kept up his charade of nonchalance and smiled back. He forced himself to remain motionless when he needed to shake. He kept his own tears to himself — as well as his thoughts. Inside, he shook with fear, fear that mere seconds had separated Cohen from death. He shook with the shame of the truth that he had failed to protect her. Only her presence next to him gave him any calm. At least she is safe and will be safer soon.
William Gunn walked outside a small airfield in Mexico. The runways were barely within the specifications he required, although they would not likely meet FAA approval for the laden cargo planes that were the predominant traffic. But safety was not his primary concern. The looser regulations and minimal scrutiny from any regulatory bodies made this the perfect location from which to work. The overgrown grass and its mesmerizing patterns blowing in the wind also gave it some modicum of charm as well. He spoke to the large man walking beside him.