Breaking point, p.6
Breaking Point, page 6
The woman climbed to her feet and advanced on Briggs with a booming shotgun. Briggs ran, dodging left and right. The woman reloaded her weapon and resumed firing without missing a beat, like she'd done it a thousand times. A real pro.
Mason smiled. He had recruited her himself. She was a veteran of the Ukrainian army, a skilled operator who'd fled from her country because the masochistic males in her unit had refused to give her what she’d felt she deserved. Too bad for Ukraine. Their loss was Mason’s gain.
Suddenly, Briggs twisted to change direction. Mason watched in utter fascination as the Marine sniper’s movements smoothed out and slowed down. Being a warrior himself, he recognized the switch that had flipped inside Briggs, rendering him perfectly calculated, perfectly timed. Almost animalistic.
The woman tracked Briggs with her rifle as he slid over the hood of a car. She lined up a kill shot, and disappointment soured Mason’s gut. In a moment, it would all be over. Then he’d never get to face down his former partner.
Right before the woman pulled the trigger, Briggs plucked something off the hood. A windshield wiper. In one fluid motion, he ducked to avoid the kill shot, then whipped forward impossibly fast, launching the windshield wiper at the woman in a powerful hurl. She collapsed as it hit her in the face. In a flash, Briggs was on top of her, wrestling the shotgun away.
Nearly purring in delight, Mason grabbed his binoculars. He wanted a better view of the chaos. When the lenses focused, he saw the windshield wiper had embedded itself deep in the woman’s eye socket. He let out a soft whistle. Damn, that’s impressive.
Briggs put a sturdy boot on the woman’s chest and stood, aiming the shotgun at her head. He fired once. Twice. Then the only sounds in the town belonged to the angry storm.
Mason lowered the binoculars and nodded. Yes, this would be very fun indeed.
"Good show, Briggs,” he murmured, moving to his next vantage point. “But make sure to save some energy for me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DANIEL — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
The growling beast did not know sadness or regret. It killed the woman and felt bloodthirst. It looted through her pockets for ammunition and thought of its next challenger.
When the shotgun was loaded with six shells, Daniel and the beast ran together as one. They were well-attuned to nature and its dangers, so the storm did not faze them. It meant nothing but opportunity. Opportunity to move unseen, opportunity to approach unheard, opportunity to save the woman. Her name was Anna. Anna.
They threw out their senses and awaited the next trap. This time, it came in the form of three shadows that spilled from the back of a delivery van. Instead of running away, Daniel and the beast laughed, charging straight ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DANIEL — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
The three figures weren't stupid. They split up as Daniel presented the shotgun and started firing. He had resumed full control of his actions, but the beast lingered close, ready to strike. He hit one shooter in the leg, but the man merely rolled out of sight and continued shooting. The beast sensed another man approaching from behind. Daniel swiveled the shotgun and took him in the face.
One down, two to go. It was a game of cat and mouse, but who was the cat and who was the mouse?
In a blur of movement, he dodged and weaved and bobbed, trying to get a shot past the fire coming from two different directions. When one shell remained in the shotgun, man and beast made an agreement: stay alive and don't be stupid. So, rather than continuing his steady progress forward, Daniel ran to the police cruiser.
Twenty-one minutes remained as he opened the driver's door and slipped inside. A hail of bullets shattered the windshield. He looked at the ignition and found the key still there. A quick turn of it had the engine roaring to life.
The rounds kept coming, so Daniel ducked his head below the dashboard while he put the cruiser in gear and jammed on the gas. Imagining which way he was supposed to go in his mind’s eye, he guided the steering wheel. The cruiser surged forward and hopped the curb, lifting him high in his seat before slamming him down. Then the cruiser must have glanced off another car, because it kicked to the right with a terrible screech of metal on metal.
He popped his head up and saw muzzle flashes ahead, over by the rear end of a mid-sized sedan. Stomping the gas pedal all the way to the floor, he cranked the steering wheel toward the man’s hiding spot. A simple sedan was not going to stop Daniel Briggs.
The cruiser leaped over another curb, and its front wheels momentarily caught air. Bullets peppered the back windshield. Daniel checked the rearview and saw the third shooter stalking closer, but he ignored the oncoming threat. I’ll handle him later.
He dropped his gaze from the mirror, and time slowed as he locked eyes with his target. The contact broke when the cruiser rammed headlong into the sedan, smashing it backward, crushing the shooter against the concrete seawall. Daniel raised the shotgun and blasted his final round into the trapped man’s face. Any thoughts of getting out and searching for weapons vanished when a spray of bullets ripped through the side of the cruiser.
Daniel glanced at his watch again. A little over nineteen minutes left. He jammed the cruiser into reverse. Its wheels spun on the slick road before catching. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see while staying low. The final shooter was hardly discernable in the distance. Cursing, he wrenched the steering wheel around and shifted into Drive, gunning the gas. The cruiser raced forward, hopping the same curbs he'd traversed on his way to kill the second shooter.
The final target took off in a mad dash, understanding the fate that awaited him. He fumbled with his weapon as he ran, trying to reload and then giving up, shifting it to rest against his hip so he could pick up more speed.
Instead of running the shooter over when he caught up, Daniel swung the cruiser around one more time, sending the man flying with a hard hit from the left rear bumper. The man sailed face-first into the delivery van from which he’d emerged and crumpled to the ground, no longer a threat.
Just under eighteen minutes remained as Daniel made a wide turn onto Beach View Drive. He’d just gotten all four wheels on the new road when a thunk pulled his attention to the right—and to the rocket-propelled grenade coming straight for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
IDENTITY UNKNOWN — LOCATION UNKNOWN
The man in the electric wheelchair dragged the pointer to the leftmost screen and zoomed in on the image. Five such screens were mounted on the wall, each streaming a video feed from any part of town he wished.
Watching the police cruiser tear down the street, he admired the resourcefulness of Daniel Briggs. The Marine sniper was progressing along the route one vicious test at a time, hardly blinking as each new threat emerged. The way he had dropped the bold Ukrainian woman with, of all things, a windshield wiper, and then the way he had methodically dispatched the three hitmen . . . Stunning. All four had been elite killers, stone-cold and battle-tested. That they had missed every shot . . .
The man shook his head and jotted down a reminder to send money to their families. He believed in that—in taking care of those under his charge. Tapping the pen on his chin, he considered what he would say in the four letters. The recipients would have no idea who he was, but the words he chose still mattered.
The rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the back right panel of the cruiser. The impact flipped the vehicle, dropping it upside down.
The man leaned forward in his wheelchair, eyes narrowed in keen interest.
Briggs kicked the driver’s door open and dragged himself out onto the pavement. Taking one look around, he stood and limped away, slowly gaining speed.
Creative. Brave. Tough.
The man nodded. He would give his underlings the chance to kill Briggs—even Gray, with whom he shared a complicated relationship—but if no one succeeded, then so be it. While his disability might make him appear harmless, he was more than capable of handling the Marine sniper.
He produced a .50-caliber round from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. Most would say it was too much for this fight. He begged to differ. Yes, it weighed more, and yes, its weapon system took two men to carry, but the results were splendid.
The man put the large round back in his pocket and resumed watching the screens. For now, he would observe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DANIEL — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
Sixteen minutes left to get to Anna.
Blood ran down the right side of Daniel’s face, and he had to wipe his forehead to keep his vision clear. He was pretty sure his right leg wasn't broken, but he'd definitely sprained something. Normally, that might have been enough to stop him. To make him think about what he was doing, why he was running straight into a trap. Or, in this case, multiple traps. But the beast regained control a moment before he could pause. A good thing, since its otherworldly senses made them drop to the ground right as a bullet whizzed past their head.
Man and beast noted the loud report of the sniper's weapon and turned. It wasn't hard to pinpoint where it had come from. There was an old utility outbuilding a few hundred yards away, right down the path that they needed to travel. A shadow lurked on its roof.
The island was at its thinnest here, so there was no getting around the danger. Somehow, they had to cover over two hundred yards through a sniper's shots.
A quick look around revealed there were no vehicles in the vicinity. No homes on this stretch, either. Meaning there was zero cover except for some palm trees waving with the wind. A lesser man would've run the other way. But Daniel Briggs was no lesser man, and the beast was no man at all.
Imagining themselves as the source of the incoming shots, man and beast started a maniacal sprint toward the sniper, careening left and right, whirling off trees and spinning around poles, making their path and movements as unpredictable as possible, running, rolling, diving, leaping.
Sometimes the shots missed by a foot; sometimes they missed by an inch. Daniel worried that the progress was painfully slow. The beast did not think of such things. The beast thought only of survival and killing. In this case, it had to focus on the former to achieve the latter.
The rain and darkness helped to obscure them from the sniper's view, and they got as close as fifty yards before a bullet finally struck, spinning them to the ground. A quick examination of their shoulder revealed a shallow wound, ugly but survivable.
Calculations ran through their head, and the result caused them to change tactic. Ceasing the bobbing and weaving, they made a beeline for the sniper's hideout. Pain was not a consideration as their legs pumped. They felt the snap of more rounds flying past, but paid them no mind. And somehow, miraculously, none of them hit. It was not yet time for man and beast to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MASON — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
Mason had always appreciated the cruel beauty of war, so witnessing Daniel Briggs in action was a distinct pleasure. The Marine sniper possessed the fluidity and artistry of a skilled combatant. He also seemed to possess the power of premonition.
Had Mason been a superstitious man, he probably would have believed Briggs commanded a third eye. What else could explain how he had sensed one of the hitmen creeping up behind him? How he had known there would be keys in the police cruiser? How he had identified the need to duck before the sniper's bullet took him in the head?
Those questions—and so many others—plagued Mason. He wanted answers. But he also understood his mission and its limits. Play with the little mouse, but still kill it in the end.
He pointed his binoculars at the sniper’s rooftop. Windblown rain pelted the lenses, but not bad enough to prevent him from making out the man’s dark form. He watched for a moment and wondered what the sniper was thinking. Wondered if he was just as baffled by Briggs’ implausible intuition.
Sighing, Mason turned his gaze back to Briggs, who was now sprinting straight for the sniper’s building. He assumed that Briggs would do what any normal man would do: find an opening, go inside, and make his way up the stairs to take out the latest threat.
But he was wrong.
Instead, Briggs aimed for a pile of crates stacked against an exterior wall. With zero hesitation, he leaped atop one, and then another, and then another, steadily climbing, feet barely touching each crate. Then he was pulling himself up and flipping over onto the roof.
Mason grinned and clapped quietly. Well done, Briggs. Well done.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DANIEL — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
Bounding up the crates was nothing but instinct to man and beast. Neither was hopping on the large air conditioning unit that ran down the middle of the roof, splitting it in two. They knew the sniper lay on the other side, and nothing could slow them down from reaching him.
At the end of the unit, they sprang high, their trajectory perfectly in line with the sniper’s chest. A growl ripped from their throat, and the sniper’s head snapped up at the primal sound. With lightning reflexes, he flipped onto his back and pointed the rifle straight at their soaring form.
Man and beast took it all in: the sniper’s rain-soaked hair and body, the hard anger in his expression, the small measure of fear behind his eyes . . . The beast chuffed in satisfaction, but Daniel’s focus had already returned to the sniper’s trigger finger.
If it be your will.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE SNIPER — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
The sniper was a veteran of exactly eighty-two operations, many of them in the Middle East. That's where business was best, though sometimes a lucrative job popped up in Asia. One of his most profitable had involved forty-eight uncomfortable hours in a Taiwanese prison.
But money wasn’t the only reason he had made a career out of killing. He also enjoyed taking out Commie pricks before they could spread their villainous poison around the world. He might be a man with no country or politics, but he still hated the Commies. His grandparents had escaped Bosnia before it had become Bosnia, and he remembered their dreadful stories about living under Communist rule all too well.
Like the other men and women in Gray’s employ, the sniper was a master of his craft. He had killed targets while they’d sat still on park benches, zoomed down highways at ninety-five miles per hour, and run full tilt through crowds, weaving in and out of sight. He had fired in sunshine, rain, wind, and snow, and at every time of day and night.
So, this little operation, with its staged environment and lack of innocent bystanders, had sounded like a walk in the park to the sniper. Even though Gray had warned him that Briggs was not to be underestimated under any condition. The sniper simply hadn’t believed him.
However, when Briggs had dodged that first shot, seeming to sense the round . . . the sniper had buckled in for a wild ride. Now, not only had Briggs escaped death by a mere sliver, but he'd somehow made it over two hundred yards across the killing ground. A killing ground that the sniper knew every inch of in intricate detail.
Still, the sniper did not worry. He had put a contingency plan in place to protect his hideout in the unlikely event that Briggs made it this far: the roof was accessible by one staircase only, and he’d rigged the door to it with a particularly nasty anti-personnel device. Where his aim had failed, the explosive would succeed.
With sounds of the storm filling his ears, the sniper listened for the blast. But it never came. His lips pursed in thought. He had seen Briggs reach the building at least a minute ago. So where was—
An animalistic roar had the sniper whipping his head back. He saw Briggs flying through the air toward him, having jumped off the massive air conditioning unit.
There was no time or place to run, but the sniper stayed calm. He was not one to flee, anyway. Flipping onto his back, he raised the barrel of his rifle skyward. Briggs’ long leap presented him with the perfect shot. Impossible to miss. Even a regular old Commie could do it.
The sniper depressed the trigger, which he'd lovingly engineered himself, using the exact right amount of pressure. He felt the distinct click against his finger. But it was not followed by a boom or a bullet. His eyes went wide as saucers. What the hell?
The legendary Snake Eyes fell on him, claimed the rifle from his hands with a spiteful yank, and pounded his vision into blackness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DANIEL — GOOD MORNING KEY, FLORIDA
Man and beast peered at the broken face of the sniper who had tried to kill them. Another one down, but who knew how many remained? Nothing Gray had planned could surprise them at this point.
Confident that the present threat had been eliminated, the beast slunk back to the depths of Daniel’s mind. Daniel dropped the rifle onto the man's chest, then checked his watch. He had seven minutes left. Avoiding the sniper’s shots had taken far too long. Hopefully, he could still make it to Anna on time.
He rose to his feet and looked over the edge of the building, giving himself five seconds to study the terrain below. Then he headed back the way he had come, except for going around the air conditioning unit instead of over. When he jumped off the last crate, he hit the ground running.
The ocean swells broke over the sea wall, splashing him with saltwater as he sprinted by, and the wind buffeted his drenched skin, causing him to shiver. To his great relief, no one else attacked him along the remainder of his path. Though he was still more than capable of defending himself, even while wounded, he couldn’t afford another delay.
