Ground Zero

But Jack wasn’t. Freeing a hand he pulled his Glock and fired two quick shots. The second scored, dropping the guy to his knees as he grabbed his shoulder.

Jack slid the rest of the way down the wall in a controlled fall and hit the ground ru

“Ohmygod!” Weezy cried and dug in her heels.

Keeping his pistol raised ahead of him, Jack virtually lifted her off her feet and yanked her around the corner into the backyard. A quick scan showed it empty, but for how long? The guys out front must have heard the shots.

He used a high-capacity magazine for his Glock 19—fifteen rounds. He’d expended four at the hospital and three more just now. Hadn’t brought a spare mag—a fire fight was the last thing he’d expected today—so that left eight in his main carry. Had eleven rounds in the little Kel-Tec P11 strapped to his ankle. Nineteen rounds should carry him through, but you never knew. Wished he’d thought to bring the Tokarev. He could go back and grab the fallen man’s pistol—probably another Tokarev—but didn’t want to risk it.

Crouching, he peeked back around the corner—no one coming their way along the south side . . . yet. But they could sneak along the north flank if they chose. Had to get Weezy out of the backyard.

The fire had reached the rear of the first floor; its light flickered through the windows. At the far end of the overgrown yard Jack made out the stockade fence. He’d seen it earlier in the day and remembered it looking old and weathered, gray wood tinged with green patches of moss. Must have been put up by Weezy’s neighbor because the posts and crosspieces faced this way.

Had to risk it.

“Follow me,” he whispered and charged the fence.

When he closed within a few feet he launched himself at it, aiming his shoulder at a centerpoint between two posts and the upper and lower crosspieces spa

“Find someplace to hide.”

“But what about you?”

“Be right back.”

He hurried back to the house, found a bush near the foundation, and huddled at its base. He knew the first-floor windows were ready to explode into the yard and he didn’t want to be here when they did, but he’d give the guys out front one minute. If they didn’t show by then, they probably wouldn’t show at all, and he’d join Weezy. If they did, he knew exactly what they’d do.

He rubbed his sore shoulder as he stared at the broken opening in the fence, clearly visible in the firelight from the windows. Yeah, that was where they’d go.

He began counting. He’d just passed forty-five seconds when they charged into the backyard, one to his left, one to his right, both in a ru

Jack jumped up and followed, checking to see how they held their weapons. Both right-handed. That meant the one to his left would have to pivot almost ninety degrees before getting off a shot, while the one to his right could fire cross-body in a fraction of the time.

So he shot the one on the right first, then caught the one on the left in mid-turn. Both center-of-mass hits. He pumped another into each as they tumbled to the ground.

Fifteen rounds left.

As he dove through the break in the fence, the first-floor windows exploded, belching flame and smoke and bathing the backyard in fierce yellow light.

“Weezy! It’s me! Let’s go!”

She emerged from the shadows. “Ohmygod, Jack! Ohmygod!”

He wished she’d stop saying that. Lights were coming on in the surrounding houses and people were starting to lean out windows.

He turned her and propelled her ahead of him, saying, “Get to the street.”

They ran along the side of the neighboring house. When they reached the sidewalk he turned her toward Roosevelt and laid an arm across her shoulders.

“Put your arm around my back.”

She complied. “But—?”

“Pretend we’re a tipsy couple coming back from a party or something.”

She leaned against him. “But Jack, I saw you . . . you shot those two men in the back.”

“Well, that was the part of their bodies toward me.”

“But . . .”

“But what? That’s not right, that’s not fair?”

“Well, I guess.”

“You really believe you play by rules when someone’s out to kill you? Think about that, Weezy. If you lose, you’re dead. It’s not a game. There’s no reset button. No rules, no ref to toss a flag and call a foul, no ‘fair’ or ‘unfair,’ just live or die.”

“When you put it that way, I guess—”

“You guess? They firebombed your house and were waiting outside to make sure you didn’t escape. Should I have yelled ‘Hey!’ to give them a chance to turn around and get off a couple of shots?”

“No, but—”

“No buts in this situation. As a guy once told me, ‘If you find yourself in a fair fight, you didn’t plan properly.’ It’s some of the best advice I’ve ever had.”

“Okay. Let’s drop it. I feel dumb.”

“You’re not dumb. Violence gets romanticized and ritualized—boxing, football, jousting knights, whatever. But the truth is it’s ugly and nasty and comes down to survival by whatever means necessary.”

Weezy sobbed as sirens began to howl. “My house!”

Jack had wondered when the realization would hit. She’d been ru

“At least you made it out alive.”

“But all my papers, all my proof, everything I own in this whole world . . . it’s gone! All gone! It took me years to assemble all that hard evidence. Now it’s ash . . . smoke.”

“But you’re backed up, right?”

She nodded. “Multiple backups. But I sca

“So . . . they’ve won?”

“No.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “No, they haven’t.”

“Good. Hold that anger. Nurture it.”

They walked on in silence.

Finally Weezy said, “How did they find me?”

Jack had been thinking about that and didn’t like the answer.

“The van. I think I saw it out front.”

“But you left it miles away.”

“Right. But they may have had a GPS tracker in it.”

“But why? They couldn’t know you’d take it.”

“Lots of people track their employees. GPS doodads are cheap and let you know if your man is where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. Someone could have been tailing us from a mile back. And when we stopped at your house so I could check it out, they could have driven by and seen us. Damn. Never guessed. Sorry.”

“No, that was my fault for wanting you to drop me off.”

“You were feeling woozy.”

“Yes, but I could have—should have gone with you.”

“Hindsight’s great, huh.” They were almost to Roosevelt. “We need to get back to the city and find you a hotel.”

He could book and pay for it with his John Tyleski identity.

“No. I need to go to Kevin’s.”

Jack didn’t like that idea.

“I don’t trust him. He could have fingered your place.”

“He could have done that anytime. Why now?”

“I don’t know. You said yourself, he’s ex-NSA.”

“Yes, and ‘ex’ is the operative word—or prefix, rather. He’s devoted to finding the truth about this. Much as I don’t want to, I need to see that torture video.”