Free Storm Warning (Security Specialists International Book 4) by Monette Michaels

three shots in each engine. On the next full breath, she placed a second set of three-shot bursts right next to the first—as insurance. She then shifted away from the edge, dropped, cradled her rifle in her arms, and belly-crawled as fast as she could away from the side and toward the front of the gas station.
    Less than two full breaths later, a barrage of automatic rifle fire tore up the edge of the roof where she’d been. Probably the guy at the corner; the others wouldn’t have had the time to get out and shoot that fast. A flying chip of cement block hit the side of her face. Ignoring the sting, she crawled even farther out of range, then swiped some snow over the small cut, numbing the pain for the time being.
    “DJ?” Keely sounded worried, but her brother’s “Sit rep, DJ” sounded as if he were spitting out nails.
    “I’m fine. They’re shooting at ghosts.” DJ propped herself up on her elbows and looked over at Ma’s roof and found Keely and Callie peering through a toothed gap in the wall. She gave them a thumb’s up.
    The wild shooting continued along the far side of the station’s roof.
    “Go ahead. Waste ammo, you dumb fuckers,” DJ muttered as she kept her head down and turned away from the odd, stray piece of flying roof.
    Male grunts and chuckles came over the headset.
    “Stay down,” Callie said. “Keely and I will do our job and keep the assclowns away from the restaurant and the vehicles in the parking lot.”
    “Roger that.” She brushed some snow away and then rested her head on her gloved hands. “Let me know if I can help.”
    “Will do,” Callie said.
    DJ turned her head and propped her chin on her folded hands. While eyeing the front parking lot, she took a mental inventory of her physical status. This was her first action in a while.
    Breathing?—Controlled.
    Pulse?—About fifteen beats over her resting heart rate, due to adrenaline mostly, and recovering with each breath.
    Senses?—Fully engaged, not fuzzy. Her Army trainers had always taught the recruits to make the stress hormonal cocktail your friend. Use it, don’t succumb to it.
    No flashbacks to any war zones. Nice to know that four mercs in pickup trucks didn’t trigger her PTSD. Eventually something would and she’d deal with it.
    Right now, she was fully in the zone and operational.
    Ramping her battle readiness up another notch, she focused her senses on her surroundings. The mercs had ceased shooting. Tweeter and Vanko spoke only to relay ETA and flight approach. The only other sound was the wind whistling over the roof and through the forest that backed up on the two buildings. Her only physical sensations were the cold of the snow beneath her body, the gelid wind and icy flakes hitting her face, and the familiar solidity of the rifle in her hands. She smelled her own light sweat, the damp musk of her shearling coat, and the smell of gun oil. Nothing moved in the front parking lot but snow devils scurrying across the surface.
    Then a familiar voice carried on the wind, so amplified she would’ve sworn the speaker—Cervantes—was next to her. “Get the woman and the child. We’ll take her vehicle.”
    “Heads up, ladies,” DJ whispered into the headset. “They’re making their move on the front of the restaurant.”
    “About frick-fracking time. It’s damn cold up here,” Keely muttered.
    DJ smiled. She really liked Dev and Andy’s little sister.
    “Blast shutters engaged on all window and doors bolted at Ma’s?” Keely’s brother’s deep voice rumbled over the headset.
    DJ’s pulse jumped and her breathing hitched before she could wrestle both back under control.
    “First thing we did, Tweetie,” Keely replied. “Civilians not looking for a break in the tedium of their day are in the safe room.”
    Tweetie. Tweeter. No one who had a voice like his should be called Tweeter. His given name was Stuart Allen Walsh. She didn’t think she could call him Tweeter and keep a straight face.