Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

She nodded, fatigued but resilient. “We’ll get there.”

“How many more of you back at the property?”

“There are five more. Too weak to get up and go when the lady came for us.”

I said, “The lady, blonde and tall?”

She nodded. I smiled inside. Chapman wasn’t stuck in the house anymore. She had gotten loose and was causing a ruckus. The shooting was her. Which made me feel warm and fuzzy. First, I had to get this group on their way.

Two of them could barely stand, but they were able to count on those who could. The column trooped mournfully in a single file behind their leader, each holding on to the shoulder in front, like something out of an old Dutch painting, the blind leading the blind. Except they weren’t blind, just dying.

When they were safely across the orchard, I turned away. It was quiet again. The shooting had stopped up at the house. The islands below were dull green spots in a black surface. I stayed there for a moment, planning the sequence. Chapman was loose. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt and stick to my plan. Outside in. Clear the external buildings, then arrive at the main house to attend my first board meeting.

Fifty-Three

I came through the woods, west side of the property, avoiding the driveway.

It was dark and crisp and clear. Any residual mist had been pushed away by the wind. The back of the first building was blunt and windowless. I went to the rear exit and waited. No sound coming from inside, no light filtering out through the door cracks. Nothing moving, no more gunfire. Just calm silence. The knob turned without resistance. The door opened and I stepped inside.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Compared to the interior, the moonlit landscape had been bright. I counted off sixty seconds. By the end of that minute, my pupils had dilated sufficiently to use the light from electrical fixtures set into the walls and machinery. The place was filled with machines, none of them working. Nothing moving. Only a hum from the electricity surging through circuits, fueling the immobile hardware with potential energy. Once I could see, I started to make sense of what I was looking at. Which was a cake factory.

The place ran like the instructions in a recipe book, multiplied by a thousand, and automated. Each machine had a little sign on it indicating the function. First came the mixing tubs where dough was put together. Next came the giant ovens. After that were stations that pumped filling into the cakes through plastic tubes. Once that was finished there was a dipping station. I plunged a finger in. The vat was filled with chocolate, still warm. The cooling machines came next. Finally there was a long zig-zagging route to the packing stations, where the product was siloed into plastic wrap and cardboard boxes. All automatic. All of it connected by wide conveyor belts. Thousands of cakes rested silently on the motionless conveyor belt, in various stages of completion. At the end, boxes of Mister Lawrence product were stacked in piles that went above my head.

The boxes were white with a picture of a cake, a logo, and a smiling bald guy above it. Mister Lawrence.

Someone had hit pause, then turned off the lights.

At the far side of the packaging area was a loading dock. Two forklifts were parked side by side. Then there were the doors. One large rolling cargo door, one normal person-sized door. I pulled the handle. Unlocked. I pushed it open a couple of inches with my foot. Through the crack I could see the house, about fifty yards to the east. The connecting areas were clear of brush and trees.

Halfway to the house was a dark shadowed form, a human figure who had been stopped and put down. Didn’t look like he’d be getting up again.

I stayed there watching. After the gunfire there was too much silence. The shadows had eyes.

I counted five minutes. The patience paid off.

A figure broke from the trees to my right and crossed the dirt yard. Huddled tight, gripping an assault rifle. There was a brief moment when he was exposed, but the operator knew to keep to the shadows. Below the door was a steel staircase. Five steps down to the ground. The guy crept along the edge of the building and under the staircase. I could hear his breathing and the soft padding of his boots on dirt. He tucked himself below me and to my left. I heard him speaking softly into a radio. Russian.

Chapman was out there and the hunt was on.

My ballpark guess was six enemy remaining. She had taken out the one that I could see, which left four plus this guy. He wasn’t going to last long. The question was how best to kill him. I figured I would be most useful to Chapman as a silent accomplice. I pulled further back into the factory and set down the weapons. First the Breachers, then the Remington. Once I had lightened the load, I crept back to the door.

All that separated me from the guy were the twin railings of the steel staircase and a three-foot drop. I figured I’d vault the railings and come down on the guy’s back. I could grip him with my legs and my left arm and stab him a dozen times in the chest. I brought my knife out once again and locked the blade.

The door made no noise. I eased it open slowly. My eyes didn’t leave my prey, maybe seven feet away. Once I made the move, I’d be committed. There was no going back because the guy would react to movement. His weapon was ready but pointed down across his chest. He was staring into the shadows made by the growth across the yard. I figured he was waiting for something, maybe a friend. I got the door open wide enough so that