Page 35 of Fixed Asset

Pete still hadn’t answered the call, so I did.

“Copy that.”

A second later, a barrage of bullets tore through the room, holes peppered the furniture, and pictures fell off the walls. I was pinned down but had a direct line of shot to the door and the now-shattered window opposite Pete, who was returning fire. The smell of gunpowder perfumed the air, reminding me I needed to slow my breathing. Let my body fall into my training, let muscle memory take over.

Easier said than done when your world’s exploding around you.

After what seemed like forever, the gunfire slowed. I chanced a look in the direction Pete was shooting. Two assailants, one right after the other, tried to climb through what used to be a large picture window but now was nothing more than a battered frame. In rapid succession, Pete dropped the men.

The room went quiet. Eerily quiet. I used my wrist to wipe away the sweat rolling down my temple.

“I’m coming to you, Five.”

Even though Pete wasn’t more than twenty feet away from me, I heard his call through my earpiece.

I held my position, ignored the stock of the M4 digging into my side, and waited for Pete to make his move.

My eyes were alternating from the window to the door when I thought I heard what sounded like the snap of the changing handle of a rifle slamming closed. I slowed my breathing and strained to listen.

Nothing.

“Hold,” Pete instructed. “Call positions.”

Right, he heard it too.

“Overwatch,” Fallon came back.

“Three and Four are still at the line,” Mason returned.

The team was accounted for and not in the house. But one of Berta’s men could’ve entered the house to help.

Shit.

The next minute felt like an eternity, and the house remained silent.

“Coming.”

I held my breath, glided my finger down the trigger guard, and paused just shy of the pull that fired my weapon.

Two shots pierced the silence.

I rolled to my back, did an ab curl, and fired on the man advancing into the room. His shoulder jerked, then he disappeared back into the kitchen. There were three points of entry into the house; one was through the kitchen. The upstairs was basically one open room, but the cabinetry that jutted out to make the kitchen an L would provide cover and a place to hide.

I rolled back, peeked around the chair, and saw Pete lying face down on the floor.

Fucking shit.

I scrambled to my knees, tossed my rifle back over my shoulder, and crawled as fast as I could to Pete’s prone body.

I heard the snap of the bullet breaking the sound barrier before I felt it whiz past my head.

I dropped to my belly, transferred my RXM to my left hand, and returned fire in the general direction. Then I went to Pete’s feet, grabbed his ankle, and stood. I was pulling him back behind the couch he’d been using as cover when the shooter appeared with his rifle lifted.

I went into a crouch, saw he was fumbling to clear his jammed weapon, and used his bad luck as my opportunity to end the threat.

“Come on, Pete,” I grunted, and pulled. His gear made it hard for me to slide him across the floor, or maybe it was the 1970s shag carpet that was inhibiting my movement.

We were almost there when an assailant ran into the house.