Free The Outsider (James Bishop 4) by Jason Dean Page A

men had been hiding in there? Two? Three?
    There was the screeching of tyres to his left as the courier van mounted the kerb, then quickly overtook him down the driveway. The rear doors were swinging open and he saw at least three heavily armed men sitting inside, steadying themselves against the van’s movements. The van was making for the wide passageway at the side of the house, towards Strickland’s location at the rear. Making sure all sides were covered.
    Ahead of Bishop, only ten feet away, the front door was already half-open. Delaney stood there, Glock raised in her right hand.
    Then she began firing over Bishop’s head as the sound of automatic gunfire suddenly erupted from behind him.

FIFTEEN
     
    Bishop just kept running, trusting Delaney’s aim. She continued giving him cover, edging back from the doorway as she emptied a magazine at whatever was behind him. He waited for the inevitable bullets in the back, but none came. As he got closer, a neat row of jagged holes suddenly appeared in the doorframe just above his head. More rounds punched into the wall next to the door.
    Then he was diving through the gap and inside.
    He landed on the tiled floor, twisting round until he was facing the doorway. Aiming the .38 at two vague human shapes in the bus a hundred feet away, he squeezed the trigger four times until the gun clicked empty. With no idea if he hit anything, he turned his body, kicked out with his foot and slammed the door shut. For all the good it would do.
    But he wasn’t injured. Yet. If he was going to help get the Stricklands out of this, staying in one piece was essential.
    Delaney was crouched at the smashed window by the front door, still firing at the bus, and yelling, ‘ Reiseker, stay on the one on the left . Hammond, call for backup and keep shooting, dammit.’ She ejected an empty magazine and rammed home a new one. ‘ Lomax, stay with the principals . And where the hell are the others? TALK TO ME, DAMMIT. ’
    Still lying on the floor, Bishop flipped open the Taurus’s cylinder and ejected the six empty shells while he pulled one of the speed loaders from his jacket pocket. He could hear more semi-automatic gunfire coming from other parts of the house. From outside, fully automatic weapons hosed the property on all sides. The stench of gunpowder was everywhere, the noise relentless. It sounded like a wooden crate full of nuts and bolts being shaken side to side. The air was full of streaks of light as Delaney’s team returned fire. Shattered glass tinkled on the tiles in front of him.
    Bishop inserted the six new rounds into the six slots, twisted the loader’s knurled knob and released them in a single motion.
    He was snapping the cylinder closed when he saw Delaney go down.
    She landed a few feet from him, her Glock skittering away along the floor. Blood was pumping from a neck wound and he could see she’d also been hit in the chest. He crawled over to her and she turned to him with glazed eyes. Her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. He could see she’d taken a heavy hit to the jugular and was leaking blood at a rate of knots. She was dying, and she knew it.
    ‘Get …’ she managed to say. ‘Get …’ She coughed once and more blood erupted from her mouth. She tried again but no more words came.
    ‘I will,’ Bishop said. It was all he could think to say.
    She stared at him blankly. She was going.
    Bishop placed the palm of his free hand against her cheek and held it there for a moment, thinking of how soft her stomach had felt under his touch, two years ago. And he remembered that small compass tattoo just above her navel. So she’d always know where she was, she’d said. He remembered how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she’d laughed. And he thought of things left unsaid and how they’d now stay that way.
    After a second or two Delaney closed her eyes.
    We all die alone , she’d said. And she was absolutely right.
    Knowing he couldn’t do anything