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Deb stepped harder on the wire, bringing both almost to the ground, and pulled up on the upper wire. Thankfully, all of them were loose, but the metal fence posts on both sides leaned toward them at an alarming angle.
Michael crawled through at an achingly slow pace. Finally, he was on the other side. The continual chatter and boom of gunfire stopped, and Deb froze. If they’d hit Pete, she’d kill all of them with her bare hands.
“Deb, Michael, Pete, where are you?” Nic’s voice in her ear was calm, but urgent.
“Trying to get through the fence,” Michael replied.
Pete said, “Hunting wabbits. On my way. Don’t shoot me, kids.”
Deb sagged with relief. He was okay. She released the upper wires, bent down and rolled Michael’s backpack through. It caught, and probably ripped in places, but nothing fell out. She straightened, and jumped when a figure jogged toward her. It had to be Pete. If it wasn’t, they were dead. “Pete?”
“It’s me.” He stopped in front of her, breathing hard, and put his foot next to hers, pulling the wires farther apart than she could. “Go, Deb. Nic, I’ll help Michael. Can you open the gate through the horse fence and chainlink fence? Watch our backs, too.”
“Copy. There’s a vehicle pulling away at the bottom of the hill, but I’m scanning for foot soldiers. Horse gate is open.”
Crouching, she maneuvered through, the barbs catching her backpack too, but it pulled free. She should have taken it off. On the other side, she stepped on the fence for Pete, but he shook his head and pushed down the top wires, stepping across. He held out his rifle. “Take it.”
Deb gripped the gun, the wood smooth and oddly warm under her frigid hands.
Pete crouched and held out his hands to Michael, kneeling at his feet. Michael grasped his forearms. “On one. Three, two, one.”
Groaning, Michael struggled to his feet, and wavered, his hands at his back. Pete grabbed the harness strapped across his vest. “Deb, can you get his backpack and my rifle?”
“Sure.” She rested the rifle against the fence, and reached down for the backpack. Something zipped over her head, and she dropped flat.
“Down!” Pete went to his knees, helping Michael to the ground. “Nic, we’re taking fire.”
A series of loud booms sounded above them, spaced every second or so. “Haven’t spotted them yet. Spraying and praying.”
“Hard to do with hunting rifle.” Michael chuckled darkly. “Need to move. Crawl. Leave my stuff, Deb.”
With all his medications inside? Not a chance. She pulled the rifle off the fence and handed it to Pete, then grabbed Michael’s pack.
Pete raised his rifle. “When I fire, go.”
Michael turned over, used his rifle to get into a seated position, then brought it to his shoulder. “Nah, you go. I’ll spray and pray better than Nic.” Fire spat from his weapon, hot brass showered her, and the noise rattled her brain.
Pete yanked her arm, pulling her forward. Deb grabbed the pack tighter and sprinted. Pete ran crouched over, zigging and zagging, but slowing as the hill grew steeper. Deb’s arms ached, and she could barely breathe, but they reached Wiz’s outer fence, then the chain link fence gate, then the lower patio. They hid behind the massive rock pillars holding up the deck above them. Metal shutters covered the lower level windows and doors.
“Nic, Michael, we’re safe.” Pete panted in her ear. “Michael, go. I’ll cover you.” He raised his rifle, resting it on a rock protruding from the pillar.
Michael didn’t answer.
“Michael, go,” Nic said. Still no answer. “Pete, I can’t see him. He’s not at the ranch fence. I’m locking the chainlink gate.”
Deb’s heart dropped to her feet. He had to be okay. Her bakery wasn’t worth his life.
Chapter 21
Michael emptied his magazine, then collapsed, his back spasming with the effort of sitting upright. He ejected and pulled another magazine.
“Drop it.” A man’s voice to his right. “Drop it now or lose your hands. Bloody stumps won’t hurt your usefulness.”
Michael released his grip, letting the AR-15 land on his vest, and dropped the magazine to the ground. They’d known Koslov had to have some smarter guys, and one of them just found him. The faint Slavic accent said the man was Bratva and ice formed at the bottom of his stomach. Probably brutally semi-professional; he wasn’t likely to fall for simple tricks.
“Take off the earpiece, too, and the pistols. Slowly.”
He pulled the comms from his ear, clicking it three times before dropping it. But he doubted anyone would hear it with Nic firing.
