Part 53 (1/2)

Izzy helped himself to the weapon donation and ducked inside-and nearly ran into the guy with the hat he'd seen visiting Greg's house with skinhead Jake. The guy's gun went up in a cla.s.sic g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger sideways hold, and Izzy opened both hands in a gesture that said Whoa, Nellie Whoa, Nellie, even though he was still holding tight to the linebacker's weapon.

”Who the h.e.l.l are you you?” the guy asked.

Jesus, what was was Hat Guy's name? Hat Guy's name?

”Nathan,” Izzy said, pulling it out of his a.s.s. ”d.a.m.n, you scared the s.h.i.+t out of me, man. I just came in from the plane. I'm looking for Jake...?”

The fact that he used their names worked like a charm, and Nathan lowered his weapon just enough for Izzy to hit him in the face with the b.u.t.t of that AK-47-no, wait, it was an AK-74 with a slightly smaller-caliber bullet, but the same grand Kalashnikov design.

Nathan went down, his lights out, and Izzy dragged him back behind a conveniently parked A&B Storage truck, relieving him of his various weapons-that very nice Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol that he'd held like a dips.h.i.+t, and a backup SIG Sauer with the same caliber; okay, so maybe he wasn't a total dips.h.i.+t. Maybe he just liked the drama of an unconventional handgrip. Maybe he found that holding his handgun like that got him laid.

Although, truly? What it had gotten him this morning was laid out.

Nathan was carrying magazines for his weapons in his pockets, as well as a set of keys-one of them bearing the symbol for a Ford, and no doubt belonging to the van that was parked outside, near a f.u.c.king Volvo.

Hi, my name is Bob, and I'm a security guard for an organization that sells children as s.e.x slaves, and yeah. I drive a Volvo because I'm into auto safety.

Right.

Nathan also was carrying a set of plastic restraints-no doubt because they had cargo that needed to be restrained, aka Eden, Jennilyn, and Ben, due to be s.h.i.+pped out on that plane. Izzy hummed a few bars of ”Bohemian Rhapsody”-Mama, just killed a man-as he opened the back of the truck and used one of the pieces of plastic to restrain Nathan, hands behind his back, to one of the anchors on the floor that was inside of the truck, rather than breaking the motherf.u.c.ker's neck the way he kinda sorta wanted to.

But in the aftermath-at least the aftermath Izzy was envisioning-it was good to have one of the bad guys still be capable of communication. And someone relatively far up the chain of command was particularly likely to start communicating effectively; i.e., confessing to all of his evil boss's sins, when faced with life in prison or worse.

So Izzy yanked off the guy's sneaker, stripped off his smelly-a.s.s sock and jammed it into his mouth, then gave him one more tap on the head to make sure he stayed unconscious, before closing and securing the truck door with another of those handy plastic restraints.

Outside on the runway, the sun had risen, and the metal stairs were in place as the plane's door popped opened. And as the two guards stood there along with two of the men from inside, like neatly lined-up little ducks in a shooting range, Izzy knew he'd never have a better opportunity to take all of them out.

And whether they drove a Volvo or not, they did did willingly work for an organization that sold children-internationally-as s.e.x slaves. willingly work for an organization that sold children-internationally-as s.e.x slaves.

So Izzy did what he had to, knowing as he did it that all h.e.l.l would break loose at the sound of that AK-74, but that the dirty dozen that they'd started with-if Danny'd done his job, and if he knew Danny and he did, Danny had had done it quickly and efficiently-would drop down to a far more manageable five. done it quickly and efficiently-would drop down to a far more manageable five.

Not counting, of course, the potential army that awaited him in that plane.

The climb up to the air vent on the north side of the warehouse was a b.i.t.c.h and a half.

But Dan did it, because he had to.

Because he could not fail.

Because he'd trained and trained and trained trained for this. For getting the job done despite the pain. for this. For getting the job done despite the pain.

So he made it up and he made it inside, and he swung himself onto a series of catwalks that crisscrossed the ceiling, up near a set of big, slow-moving fans.

Jesus, it was hot in here, but there was no time to rest or congratulate himself for making it this far. Gimpy McBaby-Man, he was not.

Infrared images had put the three hostages-his potentially pregnant wife, his brother, and his sister-in a small room in the northeast corner of the building. He found it easily. The entire back of the building was part.i.tioned into a row of rooms, with lower ceilings covered by rolls of insulation, probably because those rooms were air-conditioned and the rest of this place sure as h.e.l.l wasn't.

As Dan made his way over in that direction, he could see the tops of the walls that segmented the rooms, and he saw there was a long hallway that connected them all.

It was then that he heard it-the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

And five men burst out of the single door in that long wall that separated the warehouse from the back rooms.

One of them-a man with a shaved head-stopped a second and snapped out an order as the remaining three ran for the airfield. ”Go to the prisoners and get one of them.”

The man who'd been given the order hesitated. ”Which one?”

”I don't give a s.h.i.+t! Just do do it! Now!” it! Now!”

They were too far away, and outside of the range of the weapons that Dan had acquired from the obviously inexperienced guards-which was a shame, because if he had more than this stupid lightweight room broom or these small-caliber pistols, he could've taken them all out when they'd come through the door.

And as the skinhead followed the other men toward the open warehouse bay and the brilliant morning light, and as that last man ran back toward the part.i.tion door, Dan ran, too, heading for that northeast corner of the building.

There was no ladder down. He was going to have to jump, counting on the ceiling's tile-and-metal framework and that insulation to break his fall.

Dan swung himself over the edge of the catwalk and let himself drop.

Eden and Ben were both talking at once.

”It's Izzy!”

”It's Danny! It's got to be!”

They both started yelling. ”Hey! We're in here! We're back here!”

Jenn, too, had heard what undeniably sounded like gunfire. She'd heard shouting, too, but none of the voices belonged to Dan, and that worried her.

But then she heard the sound of footsteps running down the hall.

”Here comes the guard,” she said. ”It sounds like only one...”

Ben and Eden both moved into place.

The door opened with a crash, and the guard-the man Jenn thought of as Nathan's brother-was standing there, waving a gun at them, shouting, ”Get back from the door!”

They couldn't get close enough to stick him with the glucagon. At least not yet. But maybe if he ordered them out of there...

”Down on your knees, hands on your heads,” he shouted. ”You! The big girl! Get over here!”

He was talking to Jenn-she was larger than Eden-and she was going to have a chance to do it.

It was then that the ceiling exploded and Jenn threw herself down on top of Ben, who was still pretending to be unconscious, only to find that Eden had done the very same thing.

But it wasn't an explosion, it was an entrance. The ceiling tiles had shattered from the force of a man plunging through them, bringing insulation and pieces of the metal framework with him, and G.o.d, it was not just any man, it was...

”Danny!”

The jet was one of those personal-sized baby jets that richie-riches or celebrities with pilot licenses used, to flit from L.A. to Palm Springs.

Izzy charged up the stairs and hit the door to the plane with his shoulder before the frightened-looking man standing there could swing it all the way shut.