Read Online Jack and Joe: Hunt for Jack Reacher Series (The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series Book 6) by Diane Capri - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diane Capri
Tags: Thrillers, Crime, Mystery, Military, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Hard-Boiled, Conspiracies, Serial Killers, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Vigilante Justice, Assassinations, Financial
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clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke layering the air. The music played at ear-splitting volume with a throbbing pulse, which my own blood began to rhythmically match.
Then I could make out a long bar across the front wall to my right, with liquor bottles, draft beer pulls and such in the usual places. The rest of the bar’s floor space was filled with square tables and empty chairs. A dozen or more had been overturned, presumably when their occupants panicked and ran.
That’s when I noticed the scrawny blonde dancer on her knees on the stage. Her naked skin was washed sickly green by the floodlight beaming down on her. Her forearms were flat on the stage and her head rested face down between them. Maybe she was praying. She definitely should have been. But from this distance, I couldn’t tell.
Next, as my eyes continued to adjust to the scene, I saw splayed face down on the floor not far from the stage two men, each with double exit wounds, center mass, in the back. Their haircuts suggested they were Fort Bird residents.
And finally, behind the bar along the front wall to my right, were two men standing in the shadows. Both were about five-ten and well over two hundred pounds. The older guy was bald and wide all over. I couldn’t see his face. The younger one was bulky. His tight black T-shirt fit like a second skin. His head was shaved. He had thick arms and tattooed forearms, but what I could see of his stomach was fairly trim, which made him seem oddly misshapen. Steroids, probably. Both held weapons aimed across the stage toward the back of the room.
I pulled my head back and flattened against the exterior wall next to my petrified sentry again to take stock of my meager assets and catalog limited options.
It had been maybe fifteen minutes since I’d heard the first shots and called 911. No help had arrived. I wore no body armor. Hell, I didn’t even have a flashlight.
Going in there alone and without proper protection would be stupid.
But my hair hung in icicle strings. My suit stuck cold and clammy against my skin. My hands had begun to cramp around my gun.
I couldn’t simply wait here until hypothermia set in hoping for divine intervention, either. Only one choice.
I took another deep breath, raised my gun. Falling on my ass wouldn’t be helpful. I shuffled my shoes around the slick concrete, seeking and at last finding solid footing on the other side of the threshold.
One, two, three —before I reached go , more gunfire erupted inside. The first shots came from the back of the room, followed quickly by return fire from the front. The dancer screamed.
I scrambled back into position against the wall and out of the line of fire.
From this close, though still camouflaged by the incessant music, the shots were discernibly distinct. Three weapons, not four or more. Which meant the two men behind the bar outnumbered the one in the back shadows.
Retroactively counting the shots was impossible and served no useful purpose, as any of the three shooters could’ve reloaded. But all three must have had plenty of ammo at the start.
Just as I chanced another glance around the door frame, another round came from the back of the room. The older guy behind the bar grunted and fell back against the liquor bottles. He slapped his left palm against his right shoulder and fired back.
Junior let out some sort of crazy war cry and released rapid-fire rounds in the right direction.
The man in the back kept firing, too.
I ducked out again. My ears felt like they’d explode with the double percussion impact of noise and the music’s rhythmic effect on my pounding heart.
Then, as abruptly as it had started, the shooting stopped again.
A beat passed. Two.
Now was my chance.
From the doorway, not because I expected it to make any difference, I yelled into the gale of deafening music, “FBI! FBI! Weapons down! We’re coming in!”
CHAPTER 11
The first thing I noticed was the garish pink and green and blue
Then I could make out a long bar across the front wall to my right, with liquor bottles, draft beer pulls and such in the usual places. The rest of the bar’s floor space was filled with square tables and empty chairs. A dozen or more had been overturned, presumably when their occupants panicked and ran.
That’s when I noticed the scrawny blonde dancer on her knees on the stage. Her naked skin was washed sickly green by the floodlight beaming down on her. Her forearms were flat on the stage and her head rested face down between them. Maybe she was praying. She definitely should have been. But from this distance, I couldn’t tell.
Next, as my eyes continued to adjust to the scene, I saw splayed face down on the floor not far from the stage two men, each with double exit wounds, center mass, in the back. Their haircuts suggested they were Fort Bird residents.
And finally, behind the bar along the front wall to my right, were two men standing in the shadows. Both were about five-ten and well over two hundred pounds. The older guy was bald and wide all over. I couldn’t see his face. The younger one was bulky. His tight black T-shirt fit like a second skin. His head was shaved. He had thick arms and tattooed forearms, but what I could see of his stomach was fairly trim, which made him seem oddly misshapen. Steroids, probably. Both held weapons aimed across the stage toward the back of the room.
I pulled my head back and flattened against the exterior wall next to my petrified sentry again to take stock of my meager assets and catalog limited options.
It had been maybe fifteen minutes since I’d heard the first shots and called 911. No help had arrived. I wore no body armor. Hell, I didn’t even have a flashlight.
Going in there alone and without proper protection would be stupid.
But my hair hung in icicle strings. My suit stuck cold and clammy against my skin. My hands had begun to cramp around my gun.
I couldn’t simply wait here until hypothermia set in hoping for divine intervention, either. Only one choice.
I took another deep breath, raised my gun. Falling on my ass wouldn’t be helpful. I shuffled my shoes around the slick concrete, seeking and at last finding solid footing on the other side of the threshold.
One, two, three —before I reached go , more gunfire erupted inside. The first shots came from the back of the room, followed quickly by return fire from the front. The dancer screamed.
I scrambled back into position against the wall and out of the line of fire.
From this close, though still camouflaged by the incessant music, the shots were discernibly distinct. Three weapons, not four or more. Which meant the two men behind the bar outnumbered the one in the back shadows.
Retroactively counting the shots was impossible and served no useful purpose, as any of the three shooters could’ve reloaded. But all three must have had plenty of ammo at the start.
Just as I chanced another glance around the door frame, another round came from the back of the room. The older guy behind the bar grunted and fell back against the liquor bottles. He slapped his left palm against his right shoulder and fired back.
Junior let out some sort of crazy war cry and released rapid-fire rounds in the right direction.
The man in the back kept firing, too.
I ducked out again. My ears felt like they’d explode with the double percussion impact of noise and the music’s rhythmic effect on my pounding heart.
Then, as abruptly as it had started, the shooting stopped again.
A beat passed. Two.
Now was my chance.
From the doorway, not because I expected it to make any difference, I yelled into the gale of deafening music, “FBI! FBI! Weapons down! We’re coming in!”
CHAPTER 11
The first thing I noticed was the garish pink and green and blue
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