In less than five minutes, the firing ceased. “Chaos, Fargo, and Iggy, secure the area and report.”
Moving through the bushes to the manicured front yard, they kept low, rifles secured against their shoulders. They split up, checking the downed men for any sign of life. The fire inside the house was still too intense to get close. Iggy and Chaos checked the sides and back, finding another dead Russian lying on the ground.
Chaos lowered his rifle. “Area clear and secure, Ghost. Six dead outside.”
“House is too hot to enter,” Fargo added, his gaze wandering over the destruction.
“Roger. Get on home, men. We roll out in five.”
Brittany hit the cool down mode on the treadmill, finishing her workout. She’d do a few stretches before returning to her bedroom to search for sleep.
Using the treadmill always gave her time to think, sort out anything weighing on her. Tonight, the list had been long, but she’d made some important decisions, most having to do with her personal goals.
Picking up a towel, she walked to the glass doors leading to a patio and stairs taking her to the first level. Brittany believed it was a misnomer calling it a walkout basement. The patio was large with several tables surrounded by chairs. The stairs were wide, leading to the lush gardens above.
Turning away, she swiped moisture from her face, neck, and arms, she already felt better. And tired. In fact, she could probably lay down on the large, comfortable sofa along one wall and fall asleep in minutes.
Tossing the towel into a woven basket, Brittany headed to the stairs leading to her bedroom, stilling at a noise behind her. Turning, she scanned the room, seeing nothing. Her hand hovered over the light switch, but an internal warning stopped her from flipping it.
Waiting, she heard nothing more for several seconds. She began to feel foolish.
“Get a grip. All houses have their own odd sounds, Brit,” she scolded herself.
Flipping off the lights, she started up the carpeted stairs, gripping the rail. Before her foot landed on the fourth step, a strong hand slapped a cloth over her nose and mouth, another going around her waist to drag her back down.
Struggling, she kicked backward, hitting something hard. His guttural curse indicated she’d hit her mark. Brittany kicked again, but her assailant stepped away while tightening his hold on her.
Shaking her head, the cloth loosened for a few seconds, allowing her to draw in a clean breath. She slammed her foot against the stairwell wall two, three times, feeling her mind swim. Whatever they’d soaked the cloth with had begun to work.
If she passed out, there was a better than even chance they’d kill her. Panic sliced through her, determination to live building. Planting her feet on the last stair, she shoved backward. The force of her body smashing against his caused her assailant to lose his balance, toppling both of them to the floor, the cloth slipping off her face.
Sucking in a deep breath, she put all her energy into a single, gut-wrenching scream.
“You cannot take care of one, weak woman, Anatoly?”
A tall, imposing man stepped in front of her, his hand drawing back to deliver a brutal blow to her face. Head reeling, she tried to hold on. With her last slice of energy, she opened her mouth.
“No!”
Another vicious slap whipped her head back. “Silence her, Anatoly.”
Anatoly yanked Brittany to her feet, stuffing a rag in her mouth before binding her wrists. She strained to count the number of attackers in the room. The one who’d slapped her stood to the side. Even with the ringing in her head, she spotted the scar running down the left side of his face, tattoos up his neck. He glared at his comrade at her back.
“Anatoly. Will you be able to take care of her now?”
“Yes, Viktor.” He tightened the restraints on her wrists, but she refused to acknowledge the pain.
“If he cannot, Viktor, give her to me. I know much about taking care of American women.”
Holding up a hand, the apparent leader shook his head. “Not yet, Yury. You will be needed later. Get her out of here before we are discovered.”
Terror gripped her. She frantically used her tongue to loosen the cloth in her mouth. Taking another deep breath, she shoved the gag out.
“Help! Fuse, help me!” Her voice was loud and strong, reverberating against the tile floor and painted walls.
Another blow rocked her backward. A moment later, her body went still as she lapsed into unconsciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fuse jumped up from his seat in the office. “Did you hear that? It sounded like Brit.” Hurrying down the hall, he drew his Sig 9MM. Gunner raced toward him, holding a Glock in his hand.
Opening the door to the walkout basement, Fuse stopped at the sound of voices. “Someone besides Brit is down there. Call Mitch and Deke. We need backup at the back door leading out of the basement.”
Gunner retreated down the hall to make the calls before returning to Fuse. “They’re assembling the men.”
“Help!” Brittany’s panicked voice floated up the staircase to where Fuse and Gunner waited.
“Shut her up, Anatoly. If you can’t do it, I’ll have Yury take over.”
“It’s the damned Russians,” Gunner bit out. “Wrath reported they were taken out by Ghost and his team.”
Fuse’s jaw tightened. “We can’t wait. You with me?”
Gunner raised his Glock. “Lead the way.”
Returning a terse nod, Fuse raised his Sig. Slowly making their way down the stairs, thankful the carpet muffled their steps, they stopped midway down, hearing muffled angry voices.
“Are you sure the tranquilizer darts worked, Yury?”
“They’ll be paralyzed at least thirty minutes, Viktor. We don’t have much time.”
Fuse shot an intense look at Gunner, mouthing Viktor Gelonkin. Using his Sig, he motioned for them to continue down the stairs. Before they got far enough to spot the intruders, the room erupted in chaos.
Breaking glass and splitting wood preceded stern shouts. Fuse recognized the voice belonging to Deke.
“Drop your weapons and raise your hands in the air.” Deke’s stern voice bounced off the walls of the basement. “Now!”
Fuse and Gunner took the final steps to the basement, their weapons pointed at Viktor. Fuse’s gut clenched. The Bratva leader held Brittany in front of him, a gun wedged against her neck. His men took cautious steps away from him, their pistols trained on Deke and Mitch.
“It seems we are at a standoff.” Viktor shoved the barrel of his gun farther into Brittany’s neck. She whimpered, her panicked gaze darting around the room to land on Fuse. The lone tear running down her cheek might’ve broken a lesser man. Instead, it galvanized him.
Fuse pointed his Sig at Viktor’s head. “You don’t stand a chance of getting out of here alive, Gelonkin. No matter how this ends, you’ll be dead.”
Two of Mitch’s men appeared on the patio outside the basement.
“It’s six to three, Viktor. Pretty good odds…for us.” Deke took a small step to the right, seeking an unobstructed shot. Brittany’s position posed a significant problem. Fuse and Gunner were in a much better position to take down the Russian without hitting Brittany.
“You kill us, and the Bratva will impose a reign of terror on you such as you’ve never known. I die?” He shrugged, a sneer twisting his lips. “I am nothing. The Bratva will survive without me and my men.” He glanced at his compatriots, whose expressions remained impassive.