“Either I’ll get it done or I’ll die trying.”
“Ange…” His voice trailed off.
“This is how it has to be. Hurry home.” I disconnected.
I removed a compact semiautomatic Sig Sauer from the cabinet and loaded it from the box of ammunition that lay alongside it. My hands were steady. Good. I could fall apart after the crisis passed, but I’d be functional until then.
Wukowski’s old challenge echoed in my ears. Shooting at a target is a lot different from shooting at a person, Angie.
Joey watched me intently, his eyes very large in his small face. “Do you know how to use the gun, Miss Angie?” he asked.
I did and, to protect these innocents, Aunt Terry and myself, I would. I ruffled Joey’s hair and said, “I’ll keep you guys safe. But here’s your part. Stay back there with Miss Terry. Okay?”
“Will do,” he said. Then he made a sharp about-face and marched to the bed, joining the twins as they bounced and giggled.
Aunt Terry’s eyes widened, but she hugged Joey and told me, “If I haven’t said it lately, mia nipote preziosa, I’m so proud of you.”
My precious niece. “No more than I am of you, mia cara zia.” My dear aunt. Never more dear to me than now.
A quick look at the images on the watch reassured me that Artur and his team remained in a tight circle. Time to move.
Chapter 53
It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
Mark Twain
I hoisted myself up and through the vent hatch, then whispered to the room below me. “Aunt Terry, close the cover. If I want back in, I’ll tell you in Italian.”
On the watch face, Artur issued orders to his men, with finger jabs to different spots along the house.
Aunt Terry used the desk chair to reach up. As the steel plate lowered into place, she said, “God be with you.”
Once in the garage, I quickly scanned the camera display. Now the men were moving away from Artur, but two remained within twenty feet of the leader. The other was nearing the opposite side of the house from me. Probably the best I could hope for, short of their lying down and letting me tie them up.
I pulled on the goggles and placed the ear protection around my neck, afraid to block my hearing too soon and let the third attacker take me unawares. Then I slipped out the side door and made for the back of the house, pausing at the corner to put the ear protectors on and take a moment to ask for help from the powers that be.
I pulled the pin and counted. One one-thousand, two one-thousand. I leaned out and sidearmed the first flash-bang toward Artur and his men.
Quickly resuming my position along the wall, I waited. Another count and the detonation came, sound and light blasting out like bolts of lightning loosed by an angry god of war. The smell of a hundred matches being simultaneously struck reached my nose. Even with the protection, my senses whirled. I stiffened my spine and lobbed the second flash-bang. Again, an overwhelming pungent smell, brilliant light and booming waves of sound pushed past me as I sheltered against the outside wall, where I removed the goggles and ear protection.
Sig at the high ready, I stepped out, adrenaline pulsing fury through my veins. Artur and two of his men lay on the ground, clutching their heads and moaning—or in the leader’s case, shouting what I presumed were curses in Russian.
I raised my wrist to locate the fourth man… who stood behind me, weapon at the high ready, pointed at my head.
Rumbling menace spoke in a heavy Russian accent. “Put gun on ground. You turn, I fire.”
Everything in me longed to deal punishment, to take his power in retribution for his part in threatening the children. But then I did the math. He only needed to squeeze his index finger. I couldn’t turn and fire in time. Shaking with frustration, I did as he directed.
“Now walk to garage. Hands on wall. High. Legs spread. Lean in. No make me nervous.”
I complied, clenching my jaws at the helplessness of my position. Light glinted in my vision, forcing me to blink. Keeping my head and hands steady, I tilted my left arm downward and rolled my eyes up to the watch.
A new camera activated at the back of the property. Bram!—climbing a stout oak, a rifle holstered across his back, the stock pointing upward above one shoulder. He settled midway in the tree.
Another camera came to life, this one showing the woods behind me. Spider moved into view, sighted his weapon and took aim.
In the oak, Bram followed suit.
Give them a shot, my mind directed. I dropped to the ground, and a second later, a bullet pulsated above me.
The Russian screamed, and his semiautomatic fell as he clutched his bloody, dangling hand.
I scrambled for the firearm, stumbled up and moved back to the garage wall, covering the wounded man and careful to stay out of Spider’s line of fire.
Like a vengeful dark angel, Spider reached the Russian, threw him onto his stomach, and cuffed him, left hand to left foot, right foot to left foot, in a three-point hogtie. Then he bound the injured arm tightly to the man’s chest with his belt.
The assailant moaned in pain, but Spider ignored him.
Bram emerged from the trees, racing to the back of the house while—Bobbie? Am I hallucinating?—came around the other side of the farmhouse, pistol in his grip.
Bram shouted, “If you bastards can hear me, don’t move. If you can’t hear me, it’s your problem. I’ll gladly save the county the cost of a trial.”
Spider positioned himself to one side of the still-stunned three at the back of the house.
“One
