Dangerous Pursuit (OSI Dark Ops #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Calliope approached the rear of their old clapboard garage and workshop. The back door was locked, but there was a key hidden beneath the stump they used for chopping wood. She hurried over to it, bent her knees, and pressed her hands against the edge of the rough, chewed-up log. She planted her feet and rocked it back and forth. Splinters dug into her palms until it finally tipped over, landed with a thump , and rolled a few feet away.

A glint of brass shined through the dirt, and she snatched the key up from the ground. She blew on it, wiped the excess dirt off on the butt of her shorts, and let herself into the large, dark space.

The door hinge creaked loudly.

She froze, didn’t even take a breath, and listened.

Nothing.

Muted sunlight struggled to find its way through the dingy windows, and the smell of sawdust and grease filled the large space. Spiders had taken up residence high in each corner and built elaborate webs—some were a few feet wide. They never bothered clearing them, because the spiders took care of other, less desirable pests.

She wove her way around the table saw, drill press, and a workbench that had a half-built storage box on top held together by clamps. An old tractor that had been around longer than her dad sat off to one side, covered with a massive canvas tarp. It was the first tractor Granddad ever bought, and it ran as well, if not better, than the day he bought it. He used to tell her the tractor was his pride and joy right up until the day she was born, then Calliope took the top spot.

The idea of losing him and her dad to a psychopath pissed her off. Every individual they’d helped during past missions was equally important, and she’d willingly risked her life for them.

This time, it was personal.

Calliope dragged the tarp off the tractor, and dust flew everywhere. She pinched her nose to stifle a sneeze, climbed up on the seat of the tractor, and stretched her arms up to grab a long duffle bag lying across the rafters. She jumped off the tractor, squatted down, and set the bag on the floor. The teeth on the metal zipper were loud as she dragged it open. She lifted out the rifle, set it down carefully on the concrete floor, and flipped back the edges of an old flannel shirt she’d wrapped around it .

“Hello, beautiful.” She picked up the Savage 110 Elite Precision rifle with the aluminum chassis and fully adjustable stock.

Calliope had won the expensive custom rifle at a match she’d competed in her freshman year of high school. Being a “little bitty gal” beating a bunch of men had been fun and earned her a great deal of respect and notoriety within the shooting community. It was also how Jonathan and Beck discovered her.

When she pressed the butt of the stock against her shoulder and set her cheek against the warm metal, an involuntary sigh escaped her lips. She pulled the caps off the ends of the sight and dropped them into the bag. She looked through the scope and turned the knobs to make a few minor adjustments. Ammo was tucked in the side pocket, and she grabbed a handful. She wouldn’t need more than that.

Calliope stepped over to the window facing the front of the house. Grime coated the glass, so she grabbed a nearby shop towel and rubbed a clean circle about the size of a silver dollar.

She didn’t see anyone on the porch and guessed Triano had forced them inside. He had to have surprised, then bound them, because her dad and granddad knew a thing or two about taking out an enemy. Her dad’s weakened condition also worked in Triano’s favor .

The thought of him healing from surgery, being pushed around, enraged her.

She narrowed her eyes and focused on the large front window. The curtains were closed—something that rarely ever happened. One edge of the fabric, right near the window frame, shifted sideways a couple of inches, just enough for someone to peek out.

Calliope raised the rifle and peered through the scope just as the curtain dropped back into place.

Dammit.

She slung the rifle to her back and zigzagged around the stuff in the workshop and out the back door into the woods. Her boots sank into the muck, and she continued slogging through the marsh until she circled around behind the house. The blinds were drawn on the kitchen window, and the curtains on both hers and her dad’s bedroom windows were pulled shut. The top half of the door leading into the kitchen had a window that they’d never bothered putting any kind of covering over.

All she had to do was make it the fifty feet between her and the base of the steps without disturbing a chicken coop full of easily excitable hens.

Calliope raised her rifle and stared at the kitchen window, willing Triano to appear. After a few minutes, she unlaced her muddy boots and toed them off, peeled off her soggy socks and draped them over her boots, and set them aside. She kept her rifle aimed at that window as she stepped out from the scrub and, like a silent, deadly ninja, made her way toward the steps.

Her bare feet were silent on each step—steps she could navigate with her eyes closed. When she was little, she would sneak out at night to go exploring, and she’d learned exactly where to step to avoid making the wood creak. At the top, she crouched down, hurried to the kitchen door, and stood.

She flattened her back to the wall next to it and risked a quick glance through the window. Triano was standing to the side of the large front window, his back to her, peeking out of the curtains again. Her dad was sitting behind him in his recliner, his hands behind his back. He looked pale, and the position of his arms had to be painful, but there was a look of determination on his face.

As if sensing Calliope’s presence, his head slowly turned in her direction, and his eyes met hers.

She held a finger to her lips and shifted the rifle to where he could see it.

He gave the slightest nod and returned his attention to Triano.

There was no sign of Granddad, but she figured he was on the sofa, where she couldn’t see him.

Calliope crouched down, moved across the porch to her bedroom window, and reached around to grab her phone from her pocket. She stopped short when she heard a familiar bird call coming from somewhere behind her. She turned to scan the woods and stopped when she saw her granddad looking out at her from behind a large mass of swamp grass. He pointed at himself, made the walking motion with two fingers, and pointed at her.

She nodded, dropped to one knee, raised her rifle toward the door to cover him.

He looked up at the kitchen door, spread the grass apart, then stepped through it and rushed over to the base of the steps. His shoes were off, and his jeans were wet from the knee down, and he made it up the steps without making a sound.

His knees cracked when he squatted down next to her, and she lowered her rifle.

He put his lips close to her ears and whispered, “I was out tendin’ to the girls when I heard someone pull up.” The girls were his chickens. “I started walking around to the front and heard some fella with an accent yellin’ and cussin’ at your dad to get inside, so I ducked out of sight.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here?” she whispered.

Granddad shook his head. “He went around and covered all the windows, so I was headin’ to the workshop to grab my revolver out of my tool cabinet when I saw you.”

“How long have they been in there?” She watched the kitchen door.

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” He rubbed a red scratch on his neck. “Who is he? ”

“His name’s Rafael Triano, and he’s a cartel boss from Colombia.”

“That’s the man that killed Lucas’s wife, right?” He must’ve noticed the surprise on Calliope’s face. “He shared a bit of his story with your dad and me.”

“He’s evil, Granddad.”

“Well, then, we definitely gotta do something about that fella, don’t we.” He tapped the end of her nose, the sweet gesture a total contrast to their current situation.

“Yes, we do, Granddad.” And they would.

She grabbed her phone and sent a text to Lucas.

C: granddad with me we are at my window. triano inside watching through the front. dad sitting near the fireplace on the south wall.

L: is Jacob ok?

C: yes, T doesn’t even know he’s here. he has my gun I hit him center mass.”

He pointed at the front of the man’s shirt, where it was shiny with blood. It was a formality, but he put his finger to the side of Triano’s neck, looked up at Calliope, and shook his head.

Good, the bastard was dead.

Lucas put a hand on each knee and pushed up to stand. He stared down at the man who’d taken so much from him.

Calliope walked over, hugged her arms around his waist from behind, and set her cheek against his back. “It’s over.”

He turned and wrapped his long, strong arms around her. “It’s over.”