Dead Six

head,” she ordered. I had been right. She was an American, and she apparently knew how to use that Glock. “Who are you people? What am I doing here?”

“That’s kind of complicated.”

She tightened her grip on the Glock. I could imagine a 9mm exploding through Reaper’s head. “Give me the short version, asshole!”

“Okay. So there I was, minding my own business . . . and I ran into some very bad men who had you tied up and were taking you into a house where you were going to be tortured to death on video. I, uh, rescued you.” The girl looked kind of out of it, disoriented and scared. She was still under the influence of whatever drug they had given her. And her finger was resting on the trigger that decided whether one of my crew lived or died. “We’re friends.”

“You expect me to believe that?” she shouted, blinking rapidly. Reaper cringed as she banged the Glock into the base of his skull.

“Look, we’re not your enemies. See?” I slowly placed my 9mm on the table and stepped away. “Carl, put your gun down.”

“But—”

“Do it!” I ordered. Even worse than her killing Reaper would be the noise. Our complex was crowded with rental villas, and I had no doubt that Zubaran fuzz would be crawling all over a gunshot call within minutes. Carl grudgingly responded and placed his CZ on the floor. “My name is Lorenzo. I saw that you were in danger, and I helped. I brought you back here, because the streets are covered in cops, and all hell has broken loose out there. Let me help you.” Why had I brought her to our hideout? Damn needless complications.

“Okay, I don’t think you’re with those men that grabbed me, but who are you, really?” She was scared, but she was hard, and her grip on the gun didn’t loosen. “You’re an American, at least.”

“You first,” I suggested soothingly. Plus it gave me a moment to try to think of some sort of plausible cover story.

“I’m with the US government,” she snapped.

You have got to be fucking kidding me. “Good,” I said as calmly as possible. If I had brought a fed or a spy back to our hideout, it was either screw the mission or kill her. Neither one sounded like a good option. I caught Carl casting me a look, letting me know how stupid he thought I was. “We’re on the same side. We’re on a top-secret mission. And if you blow Special Agent Wheaton’s brains all over the walls, you’re going to have some explaining to do to your superiors, and I probably won’t be able to get the security deposit back on this apartment.”

When you have to lie, you might as well reach for the stars.

“Are you Dead Six?” she asked unsteadily. Her eyes had narrowed to dangerous slits, and her teeth were a hard white line on her darkly tanned face. I paused, not sure how to answer. “Are you with Dead Six?” she repeated.

Fifty-fifty chance on this one. “Yes.”

“I knew it!” she shouted as she stepped back from Reaper. The muzzle of the Glock was swinging toward me. The 9mm hole looked unnaturally large as the contents of my stomach turned to ice. I threw myself to the side, but I already knew it wouldn’t be fast enough.

Click.

Reaper disdained holsters, and since he tended to just shove the gun in his pants, he usually carried chamber-empty. Carl and I called him a sissy for doing that, but as I hit the floor, I was mighty glad Reaper was a sissy.

The girl apparently knew guns, and she instinctively reached up with her left hand and began to rack the slide. The world seemed to dial down into slow motion as Reaper spun and charged her, his stringy black hair rising like a halo. He hit her hard, and they both disappeared into the living room.

I was up in a flash, moving toward the scuffle. In the corner of my vision, I saw Carl scooping up his gun. Reaper and the girl were wrestling for the Glock, the muzzle pointed upward between their faces. He was much taller, but she was stronger than she looked.

Beginning to lose the struggle, she let go of the gun and threw her elbow into Reaper’s temple. His head snapped back like his neck was a spring. Our techie went to the ground in a heap, but at least he took the Glock with him.

Carl had drawn down on her. “Don’t shoot!” I shouted as I leapt over Reaper. “Too loud!” The girl had gone into a crouch, hands open in front of her face. Carl turned and disappeared from the room. Thanks for the help there, buddy. The girl circled, waiting for me. Apparently this chick knew how to fight, and I didn’t like hitting girls.

“Just calm dow—” She cut me off with a snap kick at my groin. I swept one hand down to block, but it had just been a feint. She hit me with a back fist on my cheek hard enough to rattle my teeth. That hurt. I stepped back, eyes watering, and cracked my knuckles one-handed. “Oh, it’s gonna be like that, huh?”

“I’m not going to let you kill me, too,” she spat. She charged with a scream, throwing wild punches. She was desperate, but I was a professional. I dodged and swept them aside, waiting for a clean shot. She fought surprisingly well for a girl, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I was going to have to knock her the hell out, I could almost admire the ferocity.

Suddenly Reaper’s terrible music began to blare, painfully loud. The speakers on the computer probably near overload. What the hell? Carl came storming back into the room. He had my pistol and was screwing my sound suppressor onto the end of the threaded muzzle. It was difficult to hear him over the noise. “I’m too old for this hand-to-hand crap.” He raised the 9mm and fired. The Zubara phone book sitting on the couch exploded into confetti. The thump of the silenced gun was barely discernible over the wailing guitars. He turned the gun on the girl. “Cool down, missy, or your head gets the next one.”

Eyes wide, she slowly raised her hands in surrender. I slugged her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out her and sending her to the floor. Violence against women doesn’t count when they start it, and I wasn’t going to trust her as far as I could throw her. Somebody banged on the other side of the living-room wall. Our neighbors were probably cursing us.

“You got her, chief?” Carl asked with a grin. “I’m gonna turn this garbage down. Kids today, Reaper, how can you listen to such noise?” Our techie moaned on the floor in response.

“Reaper, you okay?” I asked. The girl had gotten to her hands and knees, gasping. Flicking open my Benchmade, I placed the knife against her neck. She felt the steel there and froze, knowing that this fight was over. Reaper grunted, indicating that he would live. “Good. Grab some rope.”

The three of us and our captive were in the living room. The music was turned off, and everyone was a whole lot calmer. The girl was sitting on the loveseat, hands tied behind her back and, just to be safe, ankles tied together, too. I had my suppressed pistol in my hand, Carl had a beer, and Reaper was holding an ice pack against his head. “No wonder they drugged her,” he muttered.

“Okay, let’s try this again, without all the hitting and shooting and stuff. Who are you, and why were you being held by Adar’s men?”

“What’s an Adar?” she asked.

“Evil, crazy guy, planned on doing really bad things to you and then selling the video to demented freaks to masturbate to, but sadly he’s on an express train to hell right now. That’s an Adar,” I said patiently. “And your name?”

She answered sullenly, realizing that she might as well cooperate. “My name’s Jill . . . Jill Del Toro. I used to work at the American embassy.”

“Used to? Who were you with? State Department? CIA? NSA?”

“Um . . . the Department of Agriculture.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Okay, then. Please tell me that was some sort of cover, and you’re some sort of super spy or something?” I didn’t want to think that somebody from the Department of Cows and Plows had almost been the death of my team of professional killers.

“No, that’s Rob Clancy stuff. I was temporarily on loan to the State Department, but I was basically a receptionist . . . well . . . I was an intern.”

“Tom Clancy,” Reaper corrected. “Wait . . . intern? What the hell?”