Claim Me

Chapter 15

15Lucas

Rat-tat-tat!

The sharp crackle of gunfire cuts through the darkness, bringing me back to my senses. My brain feels like it’s swimming in a thick, viscous fog.

Groaning, I roll over onto my stomach, almost puking from the agony in my skull. Where’s Jackson? What happened? We were out on patrol and then… f**k!

Ignoring the throbbing in my head, I begin crawling on the sand, away from the gunfire. My whole body hurts, the sand particles pelting my eyes and filling my lungs. I feel like I’m made of sand, my skin ready to dissolve and blow away in the harsh, stinging wind.

More gunfire, then a pained cry.

Fear squeezes my chest. “Jackson?”

“I’m hit.” Jackson’s voice is filled with shock. “Oh, f**k, Kent, they got me.”

“Hang on.” I crawl back toward the gunfire, dragging my useless rifle. I ran out of ammo five minutes after we were ambushed, but I don’t want to leave the weapon for the hostiles. “I called it in. They’re coming for us.”

Jackson coughs, but the sound turns into a gurgle. “Too late, Kent. It’s too f*****g late. Get back.”

“Shut up.” I crawl faster, the dim light of the moon illuminating a small mound next to our overturned Humvee. Jackson’s voice is coming from that direction, so I know it must be him. “Just hang on.”

“They’re not… They’re not coming, Kent.” Jackson is wheezing now. The bullet must’ve hit his lungs. “Roberts… He wanted this. He ordered this.”

“What are you talking about?” I finally reach him, but when I touch him, all I feel is wet meat and fractured bone. I yank my hand away. “f**k, Jackson, your leg—”

“You have to”—Jackson sucks in a gurgling breath—“go. They’ll blow this place if they come. Roberts, he… I caught him. I was going to expose him. This isn’t Taliban. Roberts knew”—he coughs wetly—“knew we’d be here. This is his doing.”

“Stop. We’re going to get through this.” I can’t think about what Jackson is saying, can’t process the implications of his words. Our commanding officer couldn’t have betrayed us like that. It’s impossible. “Just hang on, buddy.”

“Too late.” Jackson gurgle-wheezes as I reach for him again. “Roberts…” He chokes, and I feel hot liquid coating my hands as I press them over his stomach.

“Jackson, stay with me.” My heart beats in a sick, erratic rhythm. Not Jackson. This can’t be happening to Jackson. I increase the pressure on his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Come on, buddy, just stay with me. Help will be here soon.”

“Run,” Jackson mumbles inaudibly. “He’ll kill…” He shudders, and I feel the moment it happens. His body goes limp, and the stench of evacuated bowels fills the air.

“Jackson!” Keeping my hand on his stomach, I reach for his neck, but there’s no pulse.

It’s over. My best friend is dead.

Rat-tat-tat!

The gunfire is back, and so is the syrupy fog in my brain. It’s also hot—far hotter than it should be at night in the desert. The heat is consuming me, eating away at me like—

Fucking hell, I’m burning!

Throwing myself to the side, I roll, not stopping until the burning heat recedes. My ribs scream in pain and my head spins, but the flames licking at my skin are gone.

Panting, I open my eyes and stare at the tall ceiling above me.

Ceiling, not night sky.

My brain synapses finally connect and begin firing.

Afghanistan was eight years ago.

I’m in Chicago, not Afghanistan, and whatever took me down has nothing to do with my old commander.

Rat-tat-tat!

I turn my head to see a small figure running on the other side of the hangar. Four men in SWAT gear are running after her. As I watch in disbelief, Esguerra’s wife turns and fires her AK-47 at the pursuers before darting behind one of the planes.

Shit. I have to help Nora. Groaning, I roll over onto my side. There’s burning rubble all around me, and the limo is on fire. In the hangar wall behind the limo is a gaping hole through which I can see the police chopper. It’s sitting on the grass outside, its blades no longer turning.

Sullivan’s henchmen must’ve taken out the guards in our last SUV before coming for us.

As I struggle to my feet, I see Esguerra leap toward the burning limo. He survived, I realize with relief. Fighting a wave of dizziness, I take a step toward the car, ignoring the agonizing pain in my ribs.

Before I can get there, Esguerra jumps out of the limo, holding two machine guns, and sprints after Nora’s pursuers. I’m about to go help him when I spot movement near the helicopter.

Two men are climbing out, clearly intent on getting away.

I react even before I consciously realize who they are. Lifting my weapon, I pepper them with bullets, purposefully aiming my shots away from critical organs. When I stop, the hangar is silent again, and I look back to see Esguerra embracing Nora, both of them seemingly unhurt.

A vicious smile curves my lips as I turn and make my way to the two men I injured.

It’s time for the Sullivans to get their due.

“Is that who I think it is?” Esguerra asks hoarsely, nodding toward the older man, and my smile widens.

“Yes. Patrick Sullivan himself, along with his favorite—and last remaining—son Sean.”

I shot Patrick through the leg and his son through the arm, and both men are rolling on the ground, blubbering in agony. Their pain helps soothe some of my raging fury. For what they did to Rosa and Nora, and for the guards who died today, these men will pay.

“I’m guessing they came in the chopper to observe the action and swoop in at the right time,” I say, holding my aching ribs. “Except the right time never came. They must’ve learned who you were and called in all the cops who owed them favors.”

“The men we killed were cops?” Nora asks, visibly trembling. She must be coming down from an adrenaline high. “The ones in the Hummers and the SUVs, too?”

“Judging by their gear, many of them were.” Esguerra wraps a supportive arm around her waist. “Some were probably dirty, but others just blindly following orders from their higher-ups. I have no doubt they were told we were highly dangerous criminals. Maybe even terrorists.”

“Oh.” Nora leans against her husband, her face suddenly turning gray.

“f**k,” Esguerra mutters, picking her up. Holding her against his chest, he says, “I’m going to take her to the plane.”

To my surprise, Nora shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Please let me down.” She pushes at him with such determination that Esguerra complies, carefully setting her on her feet.

Keeping one arm around her back, he gives her a concerned look. “What is it, baby?”

Nora gestures toward our captives. “What are you going to do with them? Are you going to kill them?”

“Yes,” Esguerra answers with no hesitation. “I will.”

Nora doesn’t say anything, and I remember my promise to her friend. “I think Rosa should be here for this,” I say. “She’ll want to see justice served.”

Esguerra looks at his wife, and she nods.

“Bring her here,” Esguerra says, and despite the grimness of the situation, I feel a twinge of amusement as I walk back to the plane.

Esguerra’s delicate little wife has acclimated to our world quite well.

When I get to the plane, Rosa steps out to meet me, her face pale. “Lucas, are they—”

“Yes, come.” Carefully taking her arm, I lead her out of the hangar. As we step outside, I see that Patrick Sullivan has passed out on the ground, but his son is still conscious and pleading for his life.

I glance at Rosa, and I’m pleased to see that her cheeks have regained some color. Approaching Sean Sullivan, she stares down at him for a couple of seconds before looking up at me and Esguerra.

“May I?” she asks, holding out her hand, and I smile coldly as I hand her my rifle. Rosa’s hands are steady as she aims at her attacker.

“Do it,” Esguerra says, and she pulls the trigger. Sean Sullivan’s face explodes, blood and bits of brain matter flying everywhere, but Rosa doesn’t flinch or look away.

Before the sound of her shot fades, Esguerra steps toward unconscious Patrick Sullivan and releases a round of bullets into the older man’s chest.

“We’re done here,” Esguerra says, turning away from the dead body, and the four of us return to the plane.

IIThe Lead