urged him into action. His brain told him an unplanned, unrequested intervention now could be disastrous. Plenty of soldiers and police officers were killed by friendly fire in the dark or in the swirling confusion of battle.
“Let Helen do her job,” Flynn said quietly. “She’s in command. If she wants help, she’ll ask for it.”
Lugging her submachine gun and a pack carrying extra gear, Helen Gray dashed across the playground toward the waiting Blackhawk helicopter. DeGarza and Emery, similarly burdened, ran right at her heels. They ducked low under the hilo’s turning rotors and scrambled up into the troop compartment.
“We’re in! Take us up!” Helen shouted to the pilot over her command circuit.
“Roger.”
Turbines howling, the Blackhawk climbed skyward, already spinning left to head toward the battle. It levered off just fifty feet above the ground.
Helen crouched in the helicopter’s open doorway, staring down as they slid low over the street. Orange flames and black, oily smoke billowed out of the burning Ford Taurus.
She could see Jackson’s body sprawled on the front lawn. They were over the roof of the house in seconds.
The Blackhawk pilot’s voice crackled through her helmet headset. “You ready?”
Helen craned her head to check with her teammates. They both nodded and gave her a thumbs-up signal. She whipped back around and confirmed that for the pilot. “We’re ready. Let’s do it!”
Rotors whipping through the rising smoke, the Blackhawk went into hover only a few feet above the roof.
Without pausing, Helen dropped out through the hilo’s open side door. Robbed of her natural grace by her weapons and extra equipment, she landed awkwardly on the sloping asphalt shingles. She teetered there for a second, fighting briefly for her balance. Breathing hard, she regained it and knelt down already tearing open the equipment pack she’d been carrying. DeGarza and Emery made the same leap and moved to her side.
Helped by DeGarza, she extracted the thin, rolled-up sheet of explosives she’d been digging for, unrolled it, and started tamping the charge into place on the roof. Emery crouched nearby, aiming his M16 downward.
Helen finished securing her end of the breaching charge and carefully attached the detonator. They were almost set. She looked across at DeGarza…
And rolled away from a hail of splinters as bullets blasted through the roof directly in front of her, fired upward from inside the house. She felt a sharp, stinging pain in one cheek and wiped away a smear of bright red blood with one gloved hand. Some of the splinters must have caught her in the face. “Jesus!”
Emery fired back, using three-round bursts to punch new holes in the roof. Suddenly, the FBI sniper jerked upright, caught by a bullet under the chin. The top of his head blew off, and he toppled backward, sliding rapidly out of sight.
Hell. Helen blinked away tears and felt the welcome inrush of a cold, focused, killing rage. At least three of her men were down dead or dying. She intended to make the bastards inside this house pay for that.
Her fingers raced through the last adjustments, setting the detonator for a five-second delay. “Done!”
Four. Three. She and DeGarza scrambled up the sloping roof and over the peak. Then they threw themselves flat, hugging the shingles. Two. One.
The house rocked under them. Flame spurted skyward, but most of the blast was directed downward through the roof.
With her ears still ringing from the enormous explosion so close by, Helen pulled herself back upright and peered at their handiwork. The breaching charge had torn a jagged, five-foot-wide hole in the roof. Smoke and dust boiled upward through the new opening.
She clapped DeGarza on the shoulder and shouted, “Come on!”
Then she unslung her MP5, skidded down the roof, and dropped straight through the ragged opening. Speed was life. They had to strike before the stunned terrorists inside the house recovered.
Helen landed heavily on a tangled heap of debris torn shingles, pieces of charred support beams, and the mangled corpse of a man. One of the terrorists had been right below the charge when it went off. Good, she thought coldly. One less to kill.
Ignoring the sharp, stabbing pains shooting through her legs and rib cage, she rolled off the still-smoking pile of wreckage and came up into a crouch with her submachine gun ready to fire. DeGarza followed immediately after her and came up facing in the other direction. He swung around after making sure they were alone in the room.
Helen summoned up memories of the blueprints she’d studied. They were inside what had been a living room before the HRT’s bullets and their breaching charge ripped it apart. She rose and moved toward a hallway that ran the width of the house. A hand signal sent DeGarza right toward the two bedrooms and bathrooms on the ground floor.
She turned left toward the dining room, kitchen, back door, and the stairs leading down into the basement.
Gliding quietly across the dining room’s scarred hardwood floor, she skirted past a dinner table and chairs and drew closer to the open arch connecting to the kitchen. Every sense, every perception, she possessed was at its highest possible pitch.
“One, this is Two. All clear.” DeGarza’s hoarse whisper rang loudly through her earphones. “Coming back your way.”
Helen froze. She could see part of the kitchen now. Not much of it really, just the glint of a glass-fronted microwave on one of the tiled counters. Was there something reflected in that dark glass? An arm? Perhaps a weapon?
Conviction crystallised without conscious thought. She shifted her aim and fired a burst through the edge of the doorway, tearing away chunks of wood and plaster. Before the stuttering echoes faded she was moving again, charging sideways to bring more of the kitchen into her line of sight.
There! She spotted a moving shape near the opening.
Helen squeezed the trigger again, holding her submachine gun tight on target as it spat out another three rounds.
The terrorist, already hit at least once, jerked again convulsively and fell back against a refrigerator, sliding slowly to the floor. His eyes were already open and fixed before his arms and legs stopped twitching. Helen’s eyes took in the dead man’s dark hair and light skin before moving on to inspect the rest of the room. It was empty.
“Two, this is One. Kitchen is clear. Come ahead,” she breathed into her mike.
DeGarza followed her in, his weapon still sweeping through controlled arcs as he checked potential hiding places.
Helen stopped facing a door left ajar. It led down into the basement. Her gaze fell on a dark smear on the door handle. Blood. Another of the terrorists must have been wounded in the earlier exchange of fire with Frazer and Brett.
She moved closer to get a better look at the staircase and frowned. It turned sharply at a right angle halfway down. This was going to be a bitch. And there wasn’t time to summon reinforcements.
She signaled DeGarza into position on one side of the half-open door and crouched on the other. Then she tugged a flash/bang grenade out of her leg pouch and looked across at the stocky agent. He nodded.
Counting silently to herself, Helen tugged on the grenade’s pull ring, slammed the door open, and lobbed the cylinder down the stairs, trying to bounce it around the bend. DeGarza followed the grenade down, taking the stairs two at a time. She hurtled after him.
They rounded the corner at high speed and took the last few steps into a long, low-ceilinged room lit only by the blinding strobes thrown by the exploding grenade. Helen sensed rather than saw motion in the far corner and yelled a warning. “Down!”
She and DeGarza dropped prone just as a third terrorist reared up from behind a sofa and fired a long, tearing burst from an assault rifle. He missed. They shot back from the carpet. Shredded by multiple hits, the man collapsed across the sofa, bleeding into the ripped stuffing and exposed steel springs.
Helen breathed out. These bastards were good good enough to shake off the effects of a stun grenade and fight back. Well, she thought wearily, maybe this one had been the last.
More gunfire rang out suddenly inside the basement, muffled only slightly by distance and closed doors.
