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CHAPTER
75
“STAND UP, NOW!” BARKED HANCOCK.
They both stood, but Montgomery started swaying and looked like she might be sick. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she sobbed. “Brad, please don’t do this. Please. I’ll do anything.”
Hancock snapped, “We are way past that, lady.”
“Please, Brad, I don’t want to die. I won’t say anything. I swear.”
“Too late, bitch,” said Cowl. “You screw me, I screw you right back, only a lot harder.”
Montgomery’s eyes fluttered and then rolled back into her head. She collapsed in a dead faint against Devine, who grabbed her so she wouldn’t hit the floor.
“Oh come on!” barked Cowl. “I don’t need this shit.” He looked at Hancock. “I got plans tonight.”
Devine laid her on the couch, his back to the men. His hand slipped under the woman’s skirt. He pulled the palm-sized ten-shot Beretta subcompact that was holstered around Montgomery’s thigh and hidden by the flared skirt. In the span of one breath, he whirled and got off two quick shots. MP5 Man was his first take-down because that weapon vanquished all others in close-quarters combat. Shotgun Number One was next because Devine had sized up that guy as more comfortable with that weapon than Shotgun Number Two.
Cowl screamed and tried to jump over his chair but failed. He dropped his drink, slid to the floor on his back, and covered his face with his hands. Montgomery flipped over the back of the couch and lay flat on the floor.
Devine slid between the couch and a chair as Shotgun Number Two finally opened fire. The man had wasted precious seconds trying to fathom what had just happened. In combat, that cost you your life.
The twin blasts tore right into the chair, only Devine wasn’t there anymore. And now the idiot had to reload. A five-shot pump in hand, and Devine was dead. It really was all in the details.
And in a fight, you kept moving, even when part of your brain said to hunker down. A moving target drew attention, yes, but also led to poor decisions by those trying to follow the action. An immobile target let the adversary take his time, make better choices, and finish the quarry off.
And stupid Hancock, after being nearly knocked off his feet by the falling MP5 guy, was spraying pistol shots indiscriminately, in a wide arc. That was fine if you had another shooter doing the same from a parallel position. Then the field of fire was overlapping and you got your target nine times out of ten. But the field of fire was not overlapping, and thus the man was screwed.
The CIA apparently needed to train its people better.
Devine curved around the back of the chair and placed a round into Shotgun Number Two’s neck, ripping the fat artery there right in two, just as planned. The man screamed, let his weapon fall, and flipped over the chair clutching at a wound that was sending blood streaming out of him like a miniature hose. He had about five seconds to live. Hancock screamed and fell back.
Devine used the cover of that horrific spectacle to place a round into Hancock’s left knee, blowing out the cap and all bone and tissue behind it. The man collapsed in bloody agony on what was probably a fifty-thousand-dollar rug.
Devine could have done a kill shot, but he needed one of them alive in addition to Cowl, and Hancock was now the only candidate for the job.
Hancock had dropped his Glock and was, despite his obvious pain, reaching out for it.
Devine had to admire the man’s guts. But that was the extent of the admiration. He rushed over, kicked the gun away, and pointed his Beretta at Hancock as Montgomery poked her head over the top of the couch.
Cowl was on the floor screaming bloody murder, with Shotgun Number Two lying pretty much on top of him.
“Shut up!” barked Devine. A bloodied Cowl pushed the dead man off him and skittered over to the couch.
Devine picked up Hancock’s gun and thrust it into his waist-band, while the man lay on the floor moaning and holding his destroyed knee. Devine glanced over at Cowl, who was staring in disbelief at him.
Hancock glared at Cowl. “You pat down everybody for weapons, you idiot!”
Devine eyed Montgomery. “Nice plan.”
“Thanks.” Montgomery said to Cowl triumphantly, “You were right, Brad—you just can’t trust women, at least this one.”
Devine checked Hancock’s blood loss. He had seen enough wounded people to be able to gauge whether someone was going to live or not. And Hancock would make it.
He looked at Cowl. “You said you had a signal jammer in here. Where is it?”
“Behind that vase,” said Cowl in a shaky voice, the other man’s blood all over his expensive suit and shirt.
