Double Black Diamond
A Nicole Rossi Thriller
A.G. Henley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by A.G. Henley
Cover design by Steven Novak Illustrations
All rights reserved by A.G. Henley.
Visit me at aghenley.com
Contents
Hey, readers!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Read Next
Acknowledgments
Also by A.G. Henley
About the Author
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One
I couldn’t see the shooter by the single eye of light glaring from the upper corner of the vast warehouse, but she was there. Protected by the dark bulk of a concrete wall, I hunched over my client and waited, listening.
My blouse was soaked under my suit coat, and my legs trembled. The door to safety was at least twenty yards away. Should I sit tight and see what the shooter would do? Or make my move and get my client out of here? He crouched beside me, waiting for my instruction. Decide, Nic, I said to myself.
I motioned to him to go. He nodded, his hairline glistening. A hand on his back, I crept behind him through the darkness. At least he wasn’t fighting me. I’d heard stories.
Ahead, an open window loomed black in the wall. I pulled my client back and slid past him to peek through a corner of the window first. Nothing. Nothing I could see, anyway.
I breathed in his ear. “Duck under.”
He squatted and shuffled below the opening. I followed—and just in time.
Ping. A bullet zested the top of my head. I muffled a curse. At least now I knew where the shooter was: too close.
I scuttled forward to my client and spoke, struggling to keep my voice calm, professional, and quiet. “We need to make a run for the door. Now.”
We sprinted toward the exit. The shooter followed, her footsteps behind and to the left. I positioned myself between her and my client. My back muscles contracted. If I were hit, it would be in the back.
A new noise came from behind and to the right—a second set of running feet. Alarms clanged in my head. Two shooters? That changed the scenario. I grabbed my client’s Kevlar vest and, with effort, dragged him down between the perimeter wall of the room and the metal shell of a broken-down vehicle. We’d closed about half the distance to the door.
“You okay?” I asked him.
“Yeah.” He panted. “What now?”
I clenched my teeth with frustration. If only I had a firearm instead of a baton, I’d find a position behind the assailants and reverse this game of cat and mouse. But that wasn’t the goal. I had to get my client safely through that door—period.
The bulk of the vehicle protected our backs, and the thick walls of the room loomed a few feet in front of us. We were okay for now, but the exit was fully exposed. I knew I should wait; see what happened. Except sitting there—vulnerable—while the assailants snuck up on us made my body go ice cold. I’d rather die running.
“Let’s go,” I said.
As my client stood, a metallic clash rang out to my left. At the same time, a thud came from my right. I pressed my client flat against the vehicle, spread my body across him, and raised my baton to my shoulder. Out of the darkness, the shooter appeared, covering us with her firearm. From the right, a man roughly the size of a side of beef lunged at my client.
I swept my baton down, hammering the male assailant’s hand into the side of the vehicle. He dropped his weapon with a grunt of pain. I heeled the gun under the chassis, then pivoted and side-kicked him in the ribs to create some space. I pushed my client to the ground, and he folded up without resistance.
“Protect your head!” I shouted to him.
As the female shooter sprang at me, I swung at her outstretched arm. She skipped away from my blow and came back at me, quick as a viper. Her front kick connected with my gut, but before she could bring her weapon back up, I darted forward, tackling her.
I rolled away as soon as we hit the ground and staggered to my feet, only partially side-stepping a jab by the side of beef. My head snapped back with his punch. As he lurched at me, I used his momentum to push his body toward his partner. He stumbled towards her, and she scrambled out of his way, which gave me a half-second head start. My client was already on his feet.
“Run!” I yelled.
I pushed him in front of me toward the exit. We sprinted, but it didn’t feel fast enough. He threw the door open and I followed close behind, keeping myself between him and the assailants. My client was a solid guy; it took him a second to barrel through, causing me to slow. That second was all the bad guys needed.
Ping, ping. Two bullets slammed into the space between my shoulder blades. A kill shot. I fell half in and half out of the doorway.
The overhead lights flooded on, blinding me. Ignoring the throbbing in my back, I scrambled to my feet inside the doorway of the locker room.
“You okay, sir?” I yanked off my safety mask, catching it on the thick bun at the back of my head.
My client, also known as Instructor Bradley, Juno Academy’s hand-to-hand combat instructor, nodded. “You did good, Rossi.”
I stretched my back and winced. Rubber bullets still hurt—a lot. “I got shot.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t.” Grinning, he grabbed a hand towel and wiped his streaming face. It
