Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,112
hard and twitchy as hell. He held his rifle like a novice who was afraid of the weapon. Not good.
“Looks like BSB is knocking on our door, Iz. I count twelve men in flak jackets, all carrying tactical rifles and loaded for bear,” Persia replied evenly. Man, her fingers weren’t even trembling. “And you?”
BSB, aka the Dutch Brigade Speciale Beveiligingsopdrachten; in English, the Security Assignments Brigade. Consisting of military police and various commandos, BSB was known for its ruthlessness when conducting special operations. This group must be their arrest team.
“Dozen, near as I can see through this damned peephole. Might be more. Hans, what do you think?”
“More,” he breathed. “The BSB is similar to your American SWAT. Only better. This must be their advance team. But their uniforms are strange...”
Walker didn’t have time to worry about their get-ups. “If this place is as secure as you say, Coltrane, what do we have to worry about?” he asked under his breath, needing all the deets, not just the whitewashed, good-enough-for-Hans, version.
“Because every good plan turns to crap the second shit hits the fan,” she told him out of the corner of her mouth. “If things go south, get your ass in that safe room. Take Hans with you. Lock the door and wait these bastards out.”
He lowered his voice. “And let you die? Get over yourself, sugar. Be serious. What are you really thinking? That they’ll hit this place with a Hellfire missile?”
She swiped a hand over her lips. “I hope not, but this place is seven-years-old, and The Hague has blueprints on file for every building in the city. I’m thinking if they know how well this house is built, they’ve already planned how to get inside. We’ve got no diplomatic immunity if they do. They’ll kill us, no questions asked. Hans for sure. And don’t call me sugar.”
“But you’ve already called for an assist. Someone is coming, right, sugar?”
Her nostrils flared. “Izza did, but they’re not here yet, are they? Stop calling me sugar.”
“But sugar, that fifteen minute ETA was—”
“Not for us,” Persia breathed, as another attack of killer bees hit the front door and window, again without causing any real damage. “And stop calling me sugar, Goddamn it!”
Walker couldn’t resist. He puckered up, blew her a tiny air kiss, and winked. Just to piss her off. What was she going to do? Court-martial him?
She slanted one helluva an evil-eye at him. Which only made him smile wider. Until the house shrieked, shook and vibrated. Then—
“Scheisse!” Hans hissed. “They’re taking the entire building!”
“They’re what?” Walker bellowed as things inside cupboards shifted and everything loose on countertops crashed to the floor.
“Plan B! Engage!” Persia ordered as she jerked the front door open, grabbed another box of ammo, and stepped outside.
Walker followed, hard on her six. Several rounds zipped past his head the moment he cleared the doorway. So fast, that he stepped back just to let the bullets fly by. Sure enough. The ICC had brought in a giant crane, its massive claws clutched over the roof of the house. Bet Stewart hadn’t thought of that.
Persia dropped one knee on the top step, already firing steadily, an open box of ammo at her side. With an inordinate touch of manly pride, Walker noticed she knew how to run her gun. The ultimate sign of a professional. Never took her eyes off her targets, as, one by one, four men fell to her well-placed shots. She reloaded, again without looking away or fumbling for ammo. In seconds, she’d dropped two more BSB guys.
But he doubted these men were BSB. Hans was right. None wore official BSB badges or any other identifying insignia. Instead, every last head out there was shaved, adorned with swastikas and tats. The bastards all carried AKs. The ICC hadn’t sent them.
“Cover me,” he told Persia as he ran into the fray, then slid to his knees on the front walk. He’d caught the assassins by surprise. Also put him in the middle, where the far-right group couldn’t shoot him without taking out their far-left guys. Walker took advantage of that few seconds delay and took out the crane operator with one well-placed shot. Who would’ve ever thought to rip a house off its foundation to get at a wanted criminal? Guess the Dutch, that’s who.
Izza bellowing and cursing from inside told him the rear exit had been breached. Sweating now and out of breath, he pushed to his feet and ran back to the house. Clean shot,