Bones of the Lost

loading-dock steps.
    Shit! Shit! Shit!
    I raced back up the hall, slipped into the room, and signaled to the girls with an index finger over my lips. They stared. Not understanding? Too numb to react?
    Heart rate in the stratosphere, I pressed my back to the wall, gun barrel up and as steady as I could keep it. Mind racing. I’d used one bullet. Had Rockett fired? How many remained in the chamber?
    Boots sloshed and crunched across the warehouse floor. Stopped abruptly.
    “What the fuck? Ray?”
    A moment, then the footsteps charged upstairs.
    My finger tightened on the trigger.
    The footsteps hurried toward the door, paused, then, to my shock, retreated. I held my breath. Were they moving back down the stairs?
    Silence enveloped the warehouse.
    Thinking back, I still have no sense of how long I waited.
    Pigeons cooed.
    My heart thumped.
    The car engine did not start up.
    Was he gone? Checking Majerick? The girl? Calling in backup?
    I had to do something.
    I pictured the targets at the Bagram range. Conjured an image of the Triangle of Death.
    Palms tight on the grip, I peeked around the door frame.
    The blow knocked me sideways. My head cracked brick. My vision swam as my ass hit the floor.
    A boot stomped hard on my hand. As pain shot up my arm, my wrist was viciously hyperextended. Something popped. The gun jerked from my fingers.
    I screamed and lashed out with a foot. Connected. Heard the gun hit, then skitter. An echoing clink marked its impact with the floor below.
    Scrabbling on all fours, I circled to the top of the stairs. Either my opponent was armed or he wasn’t. I had no choice. Bent low, I pelted down, taking two treads at a time.
    My pursuer thundered behind.
    I ran past Majerick, out the door, and down the loading-dock steps. The Chevy pickup had been joined by a Porsche 911.
    I cut left past the vehicles and fired toward the breach in the fence, my pursuer close on my heels.
    I almost made it.
    Two yards from the developer’s sign, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I twisted and raked my nails over the skin. Saw parallel trails darken the word RIPPER .
    The clamp relaxed a micron. I tore free, lurched forward, and ducked behind the sign.
    The man shook the injured hand, clutched a gun in the other.
    I hunkered low, pulse throbbing in my temples, my throat, my chest. Why didn’t he pull the trigger?
    Then I heard a click.
    No bullet pinged metal. Or tore through my flesh.
    Another click. Still nothing.
    Cursing, the man pocketed his weapon and started toward me.
    I bolted for the fence. He was on me with breathtaking speed.
    We went down and rolled. Scrap metal and rock jabbed my belly and ribs. Oily water splashed my face and soaked my clothing. Our frantic breathing obliterated all other sound.
    Knowing nothing of hand-to-hand combat, I thrashed wildly, stoked on adrenaline and driven by panic.
    A miracle. I broke free and began to scrabble toward the opening.
    A hand clawed my foot. As my body jerked backward over the ground, my fingers closed on a rusty metal object. The thing was long and cylindrical, I guessed a section of pipe.
    With a visceral snarl, I pivoted my torso and swung like a batter going for the upper deck.
    And hit a homer.
     
    The force of the impact dropped my attacker to his knees. His hands flew to his head.
    I clambered to my feet, pipe gripped so tightly rust particles showered my arms.
    My enemy’s face stood out pale in the moonlight. It didn’t surprise me.
    “It’s over, lieutenant.”
    Gross looked up, eyes unfocused, expression equidistant between rage and pain.
    But I was in a bind. If I went through the fence he would be gone, maybe first dispatching the girls. Could I hold him at bay? I had to. Had to stall. Had to keep the bastard there until Slidell arrived. Whack him again? No, that could be murder!
    “You had me fooled.” Between panting breaths.
    Gross swayed on his knees, but said nothing.
    “How’s it work?” I asked. “You buy the girls then fly them stateside using fake passports? Or do you skip the niceties and just ship them like cargo?”
    Still no response.
    “Semper fi, eh, John-Henry?”
    Gross’s chin cocked up in surprise. His hands detached from his temples, slowly drifted down.
    “The middle initial ‘H’ on the Article 32 charge sheet. Didn’t take a genius to tie you to Uncle John-Henry. You two should make his sister proud. She’s your mother, right? Marianna Story Gross?” I had Pete to thank for that puzzle