The Eye of Heaven (Fargo Adventures 6)

The deafening sound of Reginald’s shot exploded from the stairwell, and then time seemed to compress and move in slow motion. The gunman instinctively turned to face the noise, if only for a moment—but long enough for Sam to pull his knife from his pants pocket and flip it open in a single move and fling it at the man’s throat. It plunged into his neck, the three-and-a-half-inch razor-sharp blade slicing through his trachea. His finger reflexively jerked the trigger of the

assault rifle, sending a volley of rounds into the skeletons. Ricochets whistled and whined in the space. Sam threw himself at the killer as he fell backward across the entryway threshold, where bullets from his murderous colleagues outside peppered his dead form.

Janus tried to aim the Beretta at Sam but Remi’s booted foot connected with his wrist, sending the weapon spinning to the ground. He lunged for it, but Remi was a split second faster and he was almost on the gun when she grabbed it and slammed the butt into his temple. His eyes went out of focus and he slumped to the ground as Sam got hold of the cartel gunman’s rifle.

Sam dove for the work light and switched it off, plunging the temple into darkness. More shots rang out from the exterior of the building, but Sam held his fire as he waited for his eyes to adjust. He knew that without the light to target him and the others inside, the gunmen would be firing blind at the entry—a slim advantage but the only one he had.

“Antonio. I’m betting the gunman had a pistol. You ever use one?” Sam asked.

“I’ll figure it out.”

Guerrero’s voice echoed from the stairs. “Jaime! What’s going on up there?”

Remi crept to Sam’s side and murmured, “I’ll take them. You take the shooters outside.”

Sam quickly sized up the situation and nodded. “Deal.”

He saw movement in the dim exterior moonlight and sighted down the barrel of the rifle, then squeezed off three shots. Sam heard a grunt outside and crept forward to where the gunman’s corpse lay on the step. More shots sounded from outside and thumped into the body. Sam gritted his teeth and ignored the fire, focused on reaching the man and checking his pockets. He reached the entry and groped with his free hand, the rifle pointed into the night as he felt for the telltale shape of a thirty-round magazine or a pistol. He found a revolver in the man’s belt and pulled it loose, then slid it across the stone floor to Antonio.

Sam heard a rustle from the brush to the left of the temple and emptied the rifle into it. His fingers felt two magazines in one of the windbreaker pockets. He tore them free and rolled away as a hail of bullets blasted overhead. Sam ejected the spent magazine and slapped a new one in place and then chambered a round and squeezed off measured bursts at the killers outside.

Remi waited soundlessly near the stairwell opening, ears straining for any sound, the high ring from the gunfire dampening her hearing. Antonio crawled to her side and whispered, “What should I do?”

“Shoot down the stairs when I do.”

She returned to listening, certain that Reginald and Guerrero were making their way up the passageway. And then Reginald, on the steps below Guerrero, switched on his flashlight to avoid falling. Guerrero hissed at him to turn it off, but it was enough—Remi had been able to make them out. She loosed four shots into the gap. Antonio fired three times beside her, the ricochets bouncing off the stone as the stairwell became a killing field. She heard a groan as a body hit the stones hard. She fired two more shots for good measure and was rewarded with a terse exclamation and then the sound of boots pounding down the stairs.

Reginald’s distinctive voice cursed again and she heard a body fall, bouncing as it slid down the steps. Reginald had turned tail in the darkness, lost his footing, and fallen the rest of the way.

“Are you all right?” Sam called from his position by the entry.

“Never better!” Remi answered.

“I . . . think so,” Antonio said.

Lazlo moaned from near the skeletons. Remi peered in his direction.

“Lazlo,” she whispered.

“I . . . I’m . . . hit.” Lazlo’s voice was a croak.

“How bad?” Sam asked.

“A bloody . . . bullet . . . hit me. How much . . . worse . . . does it get?”

“Where?”

Lazlo coughed, “Shoulder.”

“Hang on. This will be over in seconds.” She turned to Antonio. “Do whatever Sam tells you to, do you understand?”

Antonio nodded. “What are you going to do?”

Another volley of shots pelted the temple doorway. Remi cringed and ducked her head. Sam’s Russian rifle answered the fire, its staccato bark music to her ears. She glanced back at the stair opening and her eyes narrowed looking into the darkness.

“Finish this.”

During a lull in the shooting, Remi ran in a crouch to Sam and told him what she was planning to do.