Colleen Thompson – Capturing the Commando (страница 9)

“No!” Rafe bellowed, firing only once more before twisting clear of the window frame and turning his head away from the opening.

Startled by his shout, Shannon only gripped the pistol tighter.

Her next move was cut short by the sound of glass splintering against the window frame, followed by the whoosh of the flaming liquid that spattered over the remaining shreds of curtains. The cloth ignited instantly, falling inward as the thin fabric crumbled, feeding the fire with new fuel in the form of the nearby bedspread.

Shannon rolled away, coming up on her feet. Rafe was on her in an instant, his forward motion carrying her away from the open window toward the side of the motel room nearest the door. Garrett was there, too, his face a mask of terror as he cradled his useless right arm and yelled, “We have to get out of here!”

The room was blazing, the cheap, synthetic carpet filling the air with acrid smoke. Their attackers had pitched a Molotov cocktail, Shannon thought, though at this point the delivery system scarcely mattered. All that did—the only thing screaming through her brain—was the hideous decision they were faced with.

Stay there and burn to death in this motel room, or try to shoot their way free through the waiting ambush.

Chapter Five

“Into the bathroom.” Rafe had to shout at Garrett to be heard over the earsplitting scream of the room’s smoke detector. “I need you to fill the tub and wet some towels.”

“We’ll be trapped,” Garrett protested, and Rafe saw raw panic in his white-rimmed eyes.

“Like hell,” he said, turning the gun on his brother-in-law. “Now get in there right now, and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.”

Garrett hesitated only a moment before nodding rapidly and doing as he’d been told.

Rafe closed the door, shutting the other man inside. “That’ll keep him out of the way and busy for the moment.” Probably on his knees and praying he would wake up on his own couch, where he could play the night away with his armchair adventures.

Shannon shifted her gaze from the spreading fire to him. “What’s your plan?”

Rafe noticed she kept the sidearm she had recovered pointed in the direction of the window. He chose to interpret it to mean she had her priorities—namely, their immediate survival—in order for the moment. “We’ll be going out the back door,” he said.

She shook her head rapidly, the blue of her eyes overlaid by the reflected dance of flame. “What back door? There’s no back door here.”

“There damn well will be in about five minutes,” he insisted as picked up one of the oak chairs and hauled it toward the closet alcove along the back wall.

“Better make it two.” She coughed on the smoke.

Looking over his shoulder, he nodded and prayed she wouldn’t shoot him in the back the moment he turned away. “Keep covering the front, will you?”

With no choice except to trust her, he slung the assault rifle across his back and began slamming the chair legs against the wall. Fortunately this particular wall had at some point been remodeled using drywall, which crumbled before each punishing blow. But if the unit behind them, the one he meant to break into, still had its original plaster walls, then they could all be in huge trouble.

Even if he did break through, it was possible their attackers might be waiting on the other side. Or that another guest—an armed guest—might be staying in the room, although he would have to be stone-deaf or just plain stupid not to have fled the shooting and the shrieking smoke alarm already.

Chunk by chunk, the room’s interior wall gave way, falling before his relentless onslaught as the sweat poured off his body. But as Rafe kept bashing, first one, then another, of the chair’s legs snapped off.

“Hurry!” Shannon called.

The urgency in her voice had him turning his head to see yellow tendrils of flame licking up the far wall toward the ceiling. Ignoring the fire, he tossed aside the broken chair and lifted out the clothes rod. Positioning it like a lance, he took three steps backward and then slammed his body forward to finally punch through the stubborn wall.

More drywall gave way to his efforts, and he greedily sucked in the spill of sweet air. Kicking out one of the studs to widen the passage, he shouted back at Shannon, “Go get Garrett. Be quick.”

The bark of gunfire was his only answer, and through the billowing smoke he spotted her—his captive federal agent—shooting through the window. Taking aim and firing as if she meant to kill.

WITH THE SWIRLING SMOKE making it nearly impossible to see into the darkness, Shannon squeezed off one last shot in the direction where she’d last spotted a man running, the black barrel of his automatic weapon jutting out in front.

Beyond that detail, she could make out nothing, not even the presence of a second man. But surely there were more. No sane shooter would try to take down an armed and desperate Ranger on his own. Unless Rafe had never been the target. Maybe he had been right. Maybe Garrett had picked up a tail in the form of some whacked-out thief with heavy firepower and a flair for guerrilla tactics.

No way. A garden-variety thief would never make this kind of assault rather than clipping Garrett when he’d headed for the door with his arms full of food and groceries. But what about a greedy family law attorney, desperate to keep his lucrative little empire safely hidden? Could Dominic Powers have somehow learned of Rafe’s pursuit and hired a couple of local thugs or put up a reward to stop him from getting any closer?

Backing toward Rafe, Shannon bent low in an attempt to stay below the level of the smoke. “That’ll keep ’em under cover for a little bit.”

As she reached the bathroom door, she opened it and ordered, “Come on, Garrett. Time to— Rafe, he’s passed out. Going to need your help here.”

Water was pouring into the nearly full tub, and Garrett lay beside it, slumped and bleeding on the worn linoleum floor. Before she could get to him, Rafe was pushing past her, shouting, “Go. Go on ahead. I’ve got him.”

Shannon didn’t waste a moment. Heart punching at her sternum, she rushed through the ash-filled heat to Rafe’s ragged-edged “back door” and looked into a nearly pitch-dark room. An empty room, she prayed, as she pushed her way through the opening…

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