Page 17 of Exacting Vengeance

Kyle yanked out his Glock and raced forward, taking cover behind one of the thick columns. Again, he hoped it really was solid, because he had a bad feeling someone was going to be shooting back at him real soon.

Movement to the left caught his eye. The lookout standing near the guard yanked a rifle from under his coat and started to raise the muzzle to the back of the guard’s head.

Kyle left his position, aimed in, and fired. The blast reverberated throughout the bank. The front of the lookout’s shirt blossomed with a bright red stain just before the guy fell back, hitting the floor hard.

Customers dropped to the floor, screaming. The old guard moved with surprising speed and scrambled for cover behind a table.

Kyle ducked back behind the column, focusing on the second perp. He aimed in and started squeezing the trigger but stopped.

The man had grabbed a hostage––the little girl in the pink ballerina dress.

Kyle ground his teeth as the perp pressed his gun to the girl’s temple. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she squirmed in his grasp.

Releasing his finger from the trigger, Kyle gripped the butt of his Glock so hard he thought it would crack. He could barely hold back the growl rising in his throat.

Even if he took out the perp now, all it would take was a dead man’s grip––the involuntary tightening of the finger muscles––and the trigger would pull back, ending that sweet little girl’s life.

The girl’s mother screamed and clawed at the perp’s arm, desperately trying to free her daughter.

Keeping the muzzle at the girl’s head, the perp shoved the woman away, knocking her to the floor.

A barrage of bullets slammed into the column. Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, half-expecting one of the bullets to drill straight through the column into his head or back. Moans and whimpers came from the customers kissing the floor. One guy started to get up.

“Stay down,” he warned in a low voice, tugging aside his overshirt enough to expose the badge clipped to his belt. The man’s eyes popped open, and he dropped back to the floor.

Leading with his gun, Kyle peered around the column but couldn’t see the perp. He raced to another column and took cover. His heart hammered, every beat shooting adrenaline through his body, yet his mind remained calm. This wasn’t the first time he’d shot someone. Nor would it be the second. He’d lost track of all the bodies he’d left behind in his life.

Still clutching the girl, the perp popped up from behind one of the wood tables. Kyle jerked his gun to the left and came on target. The guy hadn’t seen him yet and was still aiming at the other column. The perp turned, his eyes flaring as he homed in on Kyle’s new position.

As if in slow motion, the guy raised his gun. In that second, images flashed before Kyle’s eyes. Those of his dead wife. She was never coming back, and it was his fault. He could finish this right here and now. Let the bullet enter his body and finally end the torment.

Another image flitted into his brain. Viktoria.

He gave himself a mental slap and squeezed the trigger. The lobby echoed with the blast of a .45 caliber semi-automatic gunshot. The perp stared, still standing but not moving. His eyes were wide, vacant and unseeing. The little girl slid from his now-limp grasp and ran to her mother.

For a few seconds longer, the guy remained upright, then he slumped forward, and his forehead slammed onto the table. The body slid to the floor and disappeared from view. Kyle remained aimed in, but it was over.

Customers began to stand, some whispering in hushed tones, others weeping.

“Stay down!” he shouted, rounding the corner of the table and aiming at the body on the floor. Blood seeped from a hole beneath the man’s nose, marking the path of the jacketed hollow point bullet that had just severed his brain stem.

He holstered, then grabbed the Smith & Wesson from the man’s hand and stuffed it in the back of his waistband. Not that it was necessary, but he checked for a pulse.

More customers started getting to their feet. Outside, Deke and Jack—his older brother—had Ilya Sorofkin cuffed and face down on the sidewalk. Police cars swarmed into the area, red-and-blue lights flashing, sirens wailing.

“Wait,” he yelled.

Anyone rushing out the door risked accidentally getting shot by the good guys. He tugged out his cell and cued up Deke’s number. He watched through the window as his brother snagged the phone from his belt.

“You okay?” Deke asked.

“Yeah.” He took in the dozen shocked faces waiting for his direction. “We’re all fine. Two perps down. Let the uniforms know we’re coming out.”

“You got it.”

He ended the call, noting a green SUV pulling up beside the NYPD patrol cars. Sure enough, the boss of the FBI’s New York City Strike Force teams—Special Agent in Charge Mike Morrison—joined his team on the sidewalk. Mike’s lips were pursed. Even from this distance, Kyle could see the flames shooting from his eyes.

Great.