Page 187 of Protecting You

Two windows flanked the front door. A man near one window nodded in the darkness ahead. His weapon was aimed outside.

Callan fired.

The shadow went down.

As the blast of the gunshot faded, the silence was stifling. Nothing but the sound of his breath and that of Jon behind him.

They reached an open doorway, probably another bedroom. Callan should clear the room, but all he cared about was stopping Ghazi. Nothing else mattered. Nobody else mattered.

He bent low and bolted forward.

A bullet whizzed over his head.

Jon took out the shooter. Now, the only enemies left were in the cabin's front room.

A dark-haired man peeked around the doorway at the end of the hall.

Callan was still aiming when the man went down. Jon was fast.

Callan hurried forward, took aim and shot a second gunman, who’d been stationed at a front window.

As he ducked back into the hallway, he caught sight of Ghazi.

A bullet ricocheted off the wall beside him, but Ghazi had fired a second too late.

“It’s over, Ghazi,” Callan said. “You lost.”

“Wright’s daughter is dead.”

The words were as painful as any bullet could be. Callan flinched, imagining her lifeless body.

The grief and fury only strengthened his resolve.

“Your child will never be the same," Ghazi said. "The drone strike cannot be stopped. I win.”

“Maybe you’re right, but we’ve got some pretty smart people working on it. Either way, you’re finished.”

“She is avenged.”

The girlfriend. “I wonder what Fatemeh would think?—”

“Do not say her name!” Another gunshot, as wasted as the last one Ghazi had fired.

“Would Fatemeh be proud of you for the innocents you killed? Or horrified. Not that you’ll ever find out. There’s a special place in hell for people like you, a place I assume your girlfriend will never have to see. But if she could speak to you now, what would she say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, but it does. Because I think…I think she’d hate you. Put the gun down.”

Callan squatted very low and checked around the corner.

Ghazi fired, but the shot was high and late as Callan retreated behind the wall again.

Callan hadn’t expected him to surrender, nor did he want him to.

He was about to try again when Jon gripped his arm, nodding to the front door. He whispered, “Friendly.”

How did Jon know?

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