The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

or her male friend. Instead there came a burst of commotion. Furniture sliding. Bodies interacting. Voices raised and jumbled over one another. The male visitor said, “Get her legs!”
    “Move now!” the team leader said. “Now, now, now!”
    Two seconds after that Dominic saw the team sprinting into the pool of light in front of the cabin. All five of them, Heckler & Koch automatics in hand, rushing the front door in a tight group. Like a sledgehammer coming down on a knuckle.
    Travis gave the end table a kick to create the last of the commotion, then turned and ran for the firing position he’d picked out moments earlier. Paige and Carrie had each already settled into theirs—Paige behind the corner at the hallway’s mouth, Carrie behind the iron woodstove. Carrie had retrieved her own pistol—a Beretta 92FS—during the long silence in the living room.
    Travis reached his cover: an island in the kitchen. He dropped to a knee behind it, drew his SIG and leveled it on the door.
    Already he could hear the footsteps outside, crunching hard on the exposed gravel. Seconds away.
    Three protected shooting angles on a solitary chokepoint, against aggressors who didn’t even expect to come under fire—who expected to burst in on a scuffle among unprepared subjects.
    Travis took a breath and steadied his hand on the granite.
    The footsteps outside covered the last stretch to the door. Whoever was leading the pack didn’t stutter-step. He hit the lock at full speed and the latch-plate splintered from the frame and the door exploded inward.
    Dominic didn’t really expect to hear shooting. The team would seek only to control the situation. At most they’d trigger a few three-round bursts into the ceiling for intimidation, though even that was unlikely. These men were professionals. They knew how to assert themselves without theatrics. And their orders were explicit: take the subjects alive. Gunfire of any kind would be an unnecessary risk.
    Dominic’s own orders were in the same vein. His role was to disable the visitors’ vehicle if necessary—one shot to the engine block would do—but otherwise to withhold fire.
    Only under the most implausible scenario, in which the visitors eluded the team and seemed likely to escape, was Dominic to engage them with lethal force.
    It wouldn’t come to that. The decoy plan had failed pretty miserably—almost comically—but the rest would be warm butter on toast.
    He was thinking that very thing when he heard the front door crash in—and right on top of that sound came the first gunshots. He flinched and tore out his earpiece, but not before recognizing what he was hearing: not the 9mm bursts the team would fire, but single shots of something heavier. Forty-caliber Smith and Wesson, it sounded like. And maybe a few 9mm shots among them, but not in three-round bursts. All the shots were sporadic but one at a time.
    Then it was over.
    Three seconds, start to finish.
    In the silence he heard his pulse in his ears. And the wind sighing over the ridge into the valley, pushing the big snowflakes almost sideways.
    He felt for his earpiece and put it back in place, but for the longest time he heard nothing.
    Travis stood and surveyed the aftermath. His eyes picked out the relevant points in order of importance.
    Paige and Carrie were unhurt.
    All the bodies in the entry were down and still.
    There was no one else coming in. No footsteps outside. No voices. Just empty darkness and blowing snow.
    The decoy was still lying bound in front of the chair. Still unconscious. And unharmed.
    The women stood from their cover. They met each other’s eyes, and Travis’s.
    Travis crossed from the kitchen to the front door, his gun still trained on the bodies. He scrutinized them, saw that each had taken at least one headshot, and felt his tension step down a degree.
    A second later it stepped back up.
    Five bodies.
    In his mind he saw the decoy extending five digits of one hand, then adding another finger with a shrug.
    Five, maybe six.
    If there was a sixth man, where was he? Why wasn’t he with the group?
    Travis thought of the terrain surrounding the cabin, and the answer suggested itself. And made his skin prickle.
    A lookout, up high. Almost certainly armed.
    He saw earpieces on each of the corpses. He stooped and took the nearest one, and fixed it to his own ear.
    “Are you listening?” he said. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of none of your friends breathing.”
    He