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I hang up. No time for screwing around. There are no agents waiting back with the vehicles. Two SUVs? That’s eight people at least, so where are the motherfuckers? There’ll be at least four knocking politely on Newan’s door right now, but the other four? They must be covering the other exits. There’s a rear entrance to the apartment building that can be used by the residents; they’ll definitely have people there. Maybe they haven’t thought about the fire escape, though.
We’re not that lucky. When I run to the corner of the building, pressing myself flat against the wall and peering around, I get a visual on two agents. They’re talking into their radios, but neither of them are looking up…at Michael, Sloane, Lacey and Newan as they move rapidly down the fire escape. I have to move. As soon as those bastards see them, they’ll raise the alarm on their radios and the guys around the back will be right on top of us.
Michael’s at least had the forethought to grab the Newan bitch as a hostage. I see she’s not coming willingly; his arm is locked tightly around her body, and he’s leaning over the emergency fire exit, directing his gun at the two cops below—a precautionary measure in case they start doing their jobs and bother looking up.
A multitude of different scenarios play out inside my head. If I kill these cops, I’m suddenly America’s most wanted. If I shoot to injure, I’m still pretty fucking high on the DEA’s shit list. No, I have to be smart about this.
I pull out the Desert Eagle and I do fire it…at their shiny black SUVs. The bullet impacts the door of the front driver’s side of the closest car, and the vehicle’s lights instantly start to flash. The alarm follows right after.
“What the fuck?” Agent One yells. I can barely hear him over the wail of the alarm. I scoot back around the side of the building so I won’t be seen. I wait. One, two, thr—the guy comes running. I grab hold of him before he can even look to cross the street. He smells like stale coffee and laundry detergent as I drag him to the side and lock my arms around his throat. He claws at me as I choke him out, desperately trying to wrestle free. That’s not happening, though. Not a chance. He loses consciousness in a mere six seconds—way for holding out there, buddy—but that’s still six seconds too long. When I glance back around the corner, the other DEA agent is holding his gun up in typical police fashion, both hands on the weapon, and he’s screaming at Michael and the others.
“Let the woman go!”
On the very last flight of stairs before hitting the ground now, Michael doesn’t look like he’s going to be letting Newan go any time soon. “Take off the radio, asshole.” This is why I keep Michael around; he’s fucking smart. He knows the deal as well as I do. If that guy so much as twitches in the wrong direction, if he so much as looks like he’s thinking about raising the alarm, my boy will blow his head off.
Right now that’s not the kind of attention we want to be drawing, though. I don’t have a hope in hell of sneaking up on the agent, so I lock my gun on him and clear my throat. “Might wanna put down the weapon there, friend.”
The guy, the kid—when he spins at the sound of my voice, he looks no older than twenty-two, twenty-three—nearly shits his pants. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hisses. “You both need to put down your weapons,” he tells us, head swiveling from Michael to me and back again. “Do it now, and you won’t get hurt.”
It’s like they give these kids a script or something. When they’re so fresh on the job they don’t know any better than to use it. Do it now and you won’t get hurt? I’m almost fucking laughing over here. Not quite, because I catch sight of Sloane and suddenly this isn’t even mildly entertaining. Her face is bleached of all color, and her hands are trembling like crazy as she holds Lacey to her.
Fuck.
“There’s no way either of us are backing down,” I say. “Drop the gun and I won’t shoot you in the fucking head.”
The agent’s arms quiver, his body twitching as his resolve falters. He looks from me to Michael again, and Michael tips his head to one side. “Two seconds. Better do as he says.”
There’s shouting from above us. Loud calls and squawks from cop radios. The radio on the young agent’s chest emits a blast of white noise, and then a voice I recognize immediately: fucking Denise Lowell. “We’re in. Search the place. Every room. Agents at all exits, on your toes.”
“Fuck,” the kid repeats. “They’re gonna kick my ass off the unit.”
“Wanna be dead or unemployed?” I growl.
The kid drops the gun to his side. “Okay, okay. Shit.”
I charge forward and grab his weapon from him. I grab his handcuffs from him next. Michael, Sloane and the others hurry down the alleyway toward me while I cuff the agent to a rusted downpipe on the opposite building. He looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Michael launches at him, swinging back and leveling the fucker out with one single, well-aimed left hook. The kid’s eyes roll back into his head, and he sags to the floor.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Newan screams.
“So it doesn’t look like he cooperated,” I snarl, emptying the kid’s clip and tossing his gun back at his feet—the agency really does fire operatives who lose their weapons.
“Hold it! Stop! Get down on the ground!” Behind Michael, three more agents are racing toward us, and there are more climbing out of Newan’s window and down the fire escape.
