Battle Cry

“Whozat?” the man asked, and had his pistol drawn before he showed himself. Not bad, Bolan thought, risking embarrassment to hold the fort. But whoever had left the door unlocked also had signed his death warrant.

One shot from twenty feet was all it took, sinking a hole between the shooter’s raised eyebrows, just a hair off center. Dying on his feet, the guy still managed two more lurching steps and fell against the stove, left arm outflung to catch the handle of a skillet, flip it once end-over-end and send it clattering across the floor as he went down.

The house was quiet, otherwise, though lights still showed in several of the windows. Bolan had to think the noise would draw somebody to investigate, and he was right. No more than thirty seconds later, when he’d nearly reached the exit to a formal dining room, he heard footsteps approaching at an urgent pace.

Bolan stepped back into a corner where the door would cover him as it was opened. Any SWAT team officer or soldier trained in urban combat would have entered in a crouch, slamming the door back to the wall and stunning anyone who might be crouched behind it, but a little racket in the kitchen didn’t rate that kind of do-or-die response.

So he was ready when the new arrival entered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, gaping at the body sprawled before him. And before the second man could twitch, much less sound an alarm, Bolan had kissed his neck with the Beretta’s warm suppressor.

“Let’s go see your boss,” he said.

The Scotsman almost nodded, then thought better of it. When he turned, it was a slow dance move, away from Bolan, waiting for the gun and whoever was holding it to go along with him. He caught the door before it closed, with his right hand, and stepped across the threshold with the same care he might exercise if he was walking on light bulbs.

“How far?” Bolan asked, not quite whispering.

“Upstairs. First floor, end of the hall.”

“First floor,” in the UK and most of Europe, meant what would’ve been the second story in the States. On this side of the water, the American first floor was called the “ground” floor, logically enough.

“You lead. Stay cool.”

“As ice,” his prisoner replied. Then added, “I suppose ye know yer in the shitebag now.”

“You’d better hope not,” Bolan told him. “If it hits the fan, you’re first to go.”

“Oh, aye. Ah figgered that.”

They’d reached the stairs, and Bolan’s captive started up them, taking each step with leaden strides.

“Faster,” Bolan instructed.

“Och, I wouldn’t wanna get me arse shot off fer runnin’, now.”

Before Bolan could answer, two men suddenly appeared above him, on the first-floor landing. Both scowled down at him, then reached for pistols tucked into their belts. He reached around his hostage, winged the shooter on his right.

And then all hell broke loose.

FRANKIE BOYLE was half asleep when sounds of gunfire yanked him back to consciousness. He tumbled out of bed, naked, his first instinct being to save himself if shooters were about to crash his bedroom door. Another second told him that the noise was buffered by a few more walls, which he figured meant he had at least a little time.

Job one: retrieve the Browning Hi-Power semiauto pistol from the top drawer of his nightstand and be ready to defend himself.

Job two: while covering the door, hit speed-dial on his cell phone for his houseman, to find out exactly what in bloody hell was happening.

Job three: put on some clothes.

The woman from Night Moves had begun to squeal and wouldn’t shut it when he snapped at her, so Boyle reached up and banjoed her with the 9 mm pistol. He thought he heard her nose crack, but had no time to consider it.

The phone rang three times and was going into number four when houseman Davey Bryce answered, breathless. “Yeah?”

“What’s all the feckin’ racket, then?” Boyle demanded.

“Someone’s got inside. I dunno—”

And the line went dead.

Boyle squeezed and shook the cell phone, all in vain. He thumbed redial, waited forever, just to hear a robo-voice say that his party wasn’t answering.

“No shite!” he snarled, and disconnected. He pressed another button with his thumb and waited through two rings before a gruff voice answered.

“Yeah, so?”

“Is ya feckin’ deaf or what, then? We’re gettin’ shot to tatters while you’re whackin’ off. Get yer ass over here right now!”

Boyle cut the link without waiting for a response and scrambled toward the nearby closet on his hands and knees. His private dancer was still wailing from the bed, likely to bring the home invaders down on top of them unless she shut it, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot her.

Not in his own bed.

Boyle reached the walk-in closet, crawled inside and only then stood up. For all he knew, a bullet might come punching through one of the walls and find him there, but he felt safer, anyway.

And he still had a wild card up his sleeve.

The neighbors didn’t know—or else, pretended not to—that he owned two houses on their precious tree-lined street. One that he lived and partied in, and one next door, immediately to the north, where shooters slept in shifts, ready to scramble in a heartbeat if their boss was threatened. Boyle had built a gate into the fence that separated his two properties, so troops could pass without alerting any watchers on the street.

Not that he gave a damn for stealth tonight, though, with some bastard shooting up his house. His neighbors would be calling up the police by now, he thought. Boyle only hoped that he could meet one of the bastards face-to-face, before the police rolled in.

And maybe get the hell away from there, as well.

But just in case, once Boyle had pulled his trousers on, he made another call. To his solicitor, this time. He figured that for what he charged per hour, the old prick could damn well haul his fat ass out of bed and meet Boyle at the lockup.

Just in case.

FOR SIX OR SEVEN seconds, there was chaos on the staircase. Bolan’s first shot clipped one shooter’s left biceps and staggered him, but both of Boyle’s men still had their guns in hand an instant later, unloading in rapid-fire. Bolan hunched down behind his human shield, felt the man taking some hits while other bullets sizzled past him, then returned fire with his autoloader set for 3-round bursts.

The wounded gunner took a round in the upper chest and sat down hard, then toppled forward, tumbling down the stairs in jerky somersaults. His partner tried retreating, nearly lost his balance with a misstep, throwing out one hand to catch himself. Before he could recover, Bolan’s Parabellum rounds sheared off the right side of his face and sprayed the wall behind him with gray matter.

Done.

Bolan charged up the stairs, taking three at a time, hoping he’d find the first-floor hallway clear between himself and Boyle. He needed time to squeeze the boss and get the information he required, before police came rolling in to spoil the probe.

And failing that…then, what?

No sirens, but he heard a crash downstairs as someone forced a door, then half-a-dozen voices, maybe more, were clamoring for Boyle, advancing toward the stairs. None of the new arrivals bothered to identify themselves as cops, and when he glanced over the railing, Bolan saw that they were reinforcements for the home team, closing in to help the man who signed their paychecks.

Say a dozen guns down there, at least, he figured. Where had they come from? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Only the fact of their existence mattered, and the weapons in their hands.

One of them fired a shotgun blast at Bolan, shattering the banister as he ducked back and out of sight. More bullets followed, peppering the walls and ceiling overhead. Retreating, he could see the door to Frankie Boyle’s bedroom, but Bolan knew the room could be a death trap. Boyle could pin him on the threshold, while his men came up behind and finished Bolan with a spray of lead.

Forget it.