Free Exchange of Fire by P. A. DePaul Page A

who would breach the unit first. The bastard actually won by ignoring her and yanking the screen door open into her face and diving inside.
Oh, he’s going to pay for that.
She followed right on his heels and thumped him on the shoulder. He looked back and had the audacity to wink.
    She scanned the kitchen and her stomach clenched. It was trashed. All her cabinets and drawers were open, the items tossed on the floor. Her dishes were in pieces and glasses now shards.
Bastards.
    She motioned that she would take left and he should take right. He nodded. She moved silently through the kitchen, pushing the items gently to the side and sliding her feet past. They traded off entering the living room, dining room, hallway, bedroom, and bathroom first, each covering the other as they leapfrogged.
    ***
    The SBG operative crept out of his hiding spot near the Range Rover. Wraith and Grady had disappeared down the side of the Victorian house, and he couldn’t let them out of his sight.
    He palmed two of his knives and headed for the section of road barely covered by the evenly spaced street lamps. He jogged across the street, searching the side of the house, and almost collided with an ancient woman walking an equally ancient dog. Jesus, that mutt could barely lift his legs to move let alone protect his master.
    Whap!
    His head flipped to the side, and it took everything he had to hold his instincts back and not bury his knife into the old bat. Hard to justify her as collateral damage.
    Whap!
    She nailed him on the other ear. Loud crinkling and a nasty odor accompanied the hit.
    “Peeping Tom!”
Whap!
“Thief!”
    Jesus H. Christ. Okay. Maybe not so hard to justify.
He jumped out of range, just barely avoiding getting smacked again. “What are you—” His eyes bugged when he spotted her weapon. “You crazy old bat! Stop hitting me with Fido’s shit bag!”
    “What’re you doing out here?” she asked, lifting the plastic bag again.
    “Walking,” he retorted.
    “You tried to rob me.” She swung the shit-filled bag at him, but her aim was way off and she ended up smacking herself before she could stop its progress.
    “Cut it out,” he snapped. How the hell did he get her to shut up so she didn’t bring a crowd? “I didn’t see you when I crossed the street. I’m not robbing anybody.”
    A black-clad figure skulked along the edge of the Victorian’s side fence.
Son of a bitch!
Another operative was here.
    ***
    Sandra curled her lip at the destruction all over the kitchen’s tile floor. She garnered all her willpower to keep it together and not break down in front of Grady.
It’s just stuff.
She had been about to abandon it all anyway when she left town, but it still felt like a violation. Fate smacking her in the face, reminding her that she wasn’t allowed to live a peaceful life.
    “Anything missing?” Grady asked, pausing beside the microwave with the door hanging on its hinge.
    “Not sure yet,” she answered through tight lips, not willing to mention that her stash of false identities had been taken. She couldn’t afford to tear out of here in a rage and make a deadly mistake. “We need to go. Now.”
    “What I don’t get is how we beat the cops here. This destruction had to have been loud.”
    “Probably.” She stashed her knife away.
    He tucked his gun back in its holster and crossed his arms. “On the off chance they weren’t notified, why do I get the feeling you aren’t calling the police?”
    “Grady, we can talk about this after we leave.” She headed for the back door.
    A floorboard in the living room creaked.
    Grady grabbed her arm, halting her progress. “What the h—”
    She clamped a hand over his mouth and used her other to motion for him to be silent. She then tapped her ear and pointed toward the living room. He nodded and peeled her hand away.
    She jerked her chin toward the back door and knew he understood when he gestured like Vanna White.
    She raced forward on the balls of her