“Mommy’s going to be so happy to see you,” Lana said, and there were tears of happiness in her voice. “Look at him, Steele. He’s you. He’s Breezy.”
Steele dropped his hand on top of Zane’s head, just for one brief moment, and then he turned back to face the house. All softness drained from him, leaving behind pure rage. He glanced at Maestro. Maestro nodded. Behind him, he heard the powerful engine of the boat as Mechanic took Lana and Zane out onto the lake, away from the Abernathy estate.
“We know how many yet?” Steele asked, all business. They moved fast, in perfect sync as they’d been doing for years. Both used the landscape and layout of the house as cover as they moved back to the firefight.
He wanted to see the reunion between Breezy and her son, but this was far more important. He had to remove the threat to her, to his family, once and for all. The Swords, as a club, would keep trying for them, but Torpedo Ink was keeping them weak, draining all their money from them. They continued to keep them from making new money using old methods. As Code found it, they provided evidence against club members to law enforcement, anonymously, of course, but the evidence was too solid to ignore. There was no way the new problems the club faced could be traced back to Torpedo Ink. They were completely off the club’s radar and hopefully would remain so. They intended to destroy the Swords using every means possible.
“Seven shooters left in the house,” Maestro reported. “The others took out four. Three live upstairs, four down. Bridges and Junk are both downstairs. Preacher caught a glimpse of them. He could have taken out Junk a couple of times but figured you would prefer to do that.”
“He’s right. Anyone else is fair game. What about Boone?”
“He’s upstairs in the room with the big balcony overlooking the backyard. Preacher kept him away from the window. He aimed at Zane, not at anyone else. Definitely wanted to take out your son.”
They were moving into the danger zone, so Steele halted and then signaled that he was going up. The balcony overlooking the backyard was very long and deep, most likely associated with the master bedroom. It curved in places, which was helpful, because the twisting, dark railing made it harder for someone looking through the French doors to see now that the glass was shattered.
Steele went up the side of the building fast, using his strength. Boone would think he was safe because he was up high and the outside walls, although brick, didn’t seem as if they could be climbed without equipment. Those very shallow cracks between bricks were all Steele and Maestro needed to make their way up.
Steele waited until Maestro was in position. Maestro had climbed the building from the opposite side of the master bedroom. They ignored the gunfire erupting from various spots around the house. All that mattered was to do their job. They would take out all shooters on the top floor and clear every room, so when they went downstairs in search of Bridges and Junk, no one would be left behind to retaliate.
Steele crept into position, going high, up on the overhanging roof. It protected anyone on the balcony from sun or rain as they sat outside enjoying the view of the lake. He crept along the edge of the roof until he was almost over the spot where he was certain Boone was crouched behind something solid he’d overturned.
Steele lowered his head until he could see into the room. Boone had crawled away from the window and was dragging a very large end table over to the window. He placed it behind him, making certain that it was set up to protect his back from anyone who might try to sneak up on him.
While Steele watched, Boone stabbed his finger onto a button on the landline. “Bridges. Where the fuck are you?”
“We’re taking heavy fire down here, Boone,” Bridges told his father. “That fucking Steele. I told you about him and his friends. He’s here. He got the kid out of here. Breezy must be close by.”
“Send someone to pick her and the kid up. You have them and he’s going to back off.”
There was silence. Bridges cleared his throat. “Not Steele, Boone. It won’t matter. He won’t stop. None of these men ever stop.”
The voice was tinny coming from the phone’s speaker through the intercom system.
“Then you give that little bastard to me. I’ll skin him alive in front of the man. That doesn’t work, I’ll do the same to Breezy.”
“Boone.” Bridges’s voice was cautionary.
That surprised Steele and told him something at the same time. Bridges was afraid of his father. He believed the man was capable of doing just what he threatened.
“Kill the son of a bitch then, just do it fast.” Boone slammed down the receiver, picked up his gun and once more moved into position, pressing close to the window, his body behind the heavy table, the barrel of his gun on top of the edge to steady his hand.
Steele maneuvered along the roof until he was just overhead of where Boone had set up his fortress. Once in place, Steele signaled to Maestro to let him know he was ready. In position. Need him to turn toward you.
On it. Maestro slid his steel-toed boot along the outside of the glass. A high-pitched shriek erupted from the glass. He kicked hard at the last second, breaking more of the glass out of the window.
Steele swung down, driving right into Boone’s face as the man lifted up, gun in hand, slightly turned in order to shoot Maestro. Steele’s motorcycle boots slammed into Boone’s nose and both eyes so hard there was a crunch of bones as the nose was crushed. He’d targeted the orbital socket, deliberately fracturing both the upper and lower. He swung on into the room, letting go with his fingertips, following Boone down to the ground and kicking his gun away.
Boone tried to sit up and Steele kicked him in the head, crushing his cheekbone on the left side. Boone howled for help. Maestro followed Steele in, picking up Boone’s gun as he hurried across the room to the closed door. He stood to one side of it and listened while Steele proceeded to beat Boone, using just his boots. He never so much as bent down or got out of breath.
“Shouldn’t have threatened my son or my woman,” Steele said. “You’re going to die slow and hard.” He continued kicking, going for maximum pain, breaking bones and smashing internal organs. He stopped when there was no possible way for the man to move. He was done for. He would lie there suffering until his heart gave out or he bled to death internally.
Steele crouched down and stared into his eyes. “I’m killing your son and your grandson, so you won’t be going alone to hell. I’ll give that to you as a present.” He stood up and signaled to Maestro he was ready.
“Eyes or ears on second floor,” Maestro asked. “Ink? Can you tell us where the shooters are and what’s around them?”
The others were keeping everyone pinned down in the house. On the off chance that anyone managed to slip through the guard outside, every vehicle had been disabled.
They heard the sound of wings as the birds flew in a mass through the broken windows. The noise was much like a wind gusting at a high rate of speed. The sound of flesh hitting wood was loud to their left, as if someone had tried to club at the birds. If they did, the blows went through the flock as if they were insubstantial, nothing more than shadows. The wind howled as it retreated. Steele saw the huge flock of birds change shape in the air, looking for a moment like an hourglass with time running out, and then the birds were back in the tree.
“Single shooter in third window to your left. Looks like a sitting room of some sort. Couches and chairs. The shooter is right at the window. Box of ammo next to him. He’s ready for war,” Ink said.
Someone screamed downstairs an
d a gun went off. More screams—this time the same voice was agonized. Savage was at work, cleaning out the enemy. There were two more upstairs of no consequence, and two downstairs that didn’t matter. Savage was taking out the two downstairs. He’d leave Junk and Bridges until Steele joined him.
“Can you check the entire floor, Ink?” Maestro asked.
“Give me a minute.”
They all knew it wasn’t easy on Ink, controlling wildlife. He could do it, and practiced daily, but keeping an entire flock of birds close and sending them between a child and adults as well as into a house would take its toll. Preacher and Transporter couldn’t assist him if he grew weak because they needed their rifles for insurance.
Steele’s fingers tapped on his thigh. He was aware of seconds and then minutes slipping by. Downstairs, the screams had faded to sobs and pleas. No one, evidently, had come to the man’s aid. Most likely, Bridges and Junk were cowering together, trying to figure out how to sneak away, leaving behind their brethren to face the enemy.
The sound of the birds’ wings was loud as they once more entered the building like the howl of the wind. They moved through the hallway, feathers brushing the walls and ceiling. They were gone and then came back, entering each room they could through broken windows. The windows had been shot out or broken by someone inside, so they could aim at the Torpedo Ink members firing at them. Most of the time when those inside shot, they were shooting at shadows, not an actual target. It was frustrating and wearing on the nerves. It seemed forever before the wind retreated and it was quiet again.
“Second shooter in the last room facing the pool. It’s a bathroom. Tub to the left as you walk in. The toilet is all the way to the back of the room. Sink by window. He’s there, using the sink to give him height. It’s a tighter space than it looks. A couple of the birds almost didn’t make it out and when they came in through the window, they hit him repeatedly in the face. He covered up fast.”