Beneath The Surface. Meredith Fletcher

With the baton’s extended reach, Rafe leaned over the bar only slightly and whipped it against the side of the man’s head.

      The bartender’s eyes rolled up into his head and he sat down hard. Rafe would have been willing to bet that the man was out before his butt hit the floor.

      In the mirror, Rafe saw that the man at the table had gotten his gun out.

      The man didn’t offer a chance for last words or even spend any of his own. He pointed the pistol, not even bothering to aim.

      Rafe dived over the bar and hoped it was made of good wood. His leg quivered, and he thought for a moment it was going to buckle under the effort and his weight. His rehab trainer had told him the knee was going to come back slow.

      He didn’t quite clear the bar, but he managed to get up on top of it. He rolled across as the guy tracked him with the pistol. Bullets missed him by inches. He rolled over the edge and dropped.

      More bullets pounded the bar but didn’t penetrate. Bottles behind the bar shattered. Alcohol leaked down from the shelves and pooled on the floor. The worst of it was the broken glass. Slivers embedded in Rafe’s flesh and raised dots of blood.

      He ignored the pain and lunged for the shotgun. His hands curled around it and his finger came to a rest on one of the double triggers. Instead of trying to rise up and become a target, he stayed prone.

      The man at the table called out to Rafe. “You still alive back there?”

      Rafe didn’t answer. C’mon. Step out here and give me a target.

      “You moved too quick, buddy,” the man said. “Tells me you come in here expecting trouble. You ain’t no dockworker.”

      Rafe watched both ends of the bar. He caught a glimpse of movement at the end that fronted the hallway leading back to the bathrooms and storage area. Allison had also uploaded blueprints of the bar to the notebook computer he had in the car.

      A quick swivel brought the shotgun muzzle around to cover the spot. He almost pulled the trigger when he spotted the face peering around the corner. Then he caught sight of the blond hair.

      Shannon Connor stared at him with fear-rounded eyes.

      “Get out of here!” Rafe ordered. “Run!”

      She fled at once, and bullets tattooed the corner of the wall where she’d been standing.

      Shoe leather scraped the wooden floor at the other end of the bar. Rafe tracked the noise with the shotgun, leveled it with a snap and squeezed the trigger.

      The swarm of pellets slammed into the chest of the young man drawing a bead on Rafe. The impact knocked him backward. He continued the fall to the floor without a sound.

      An alarm sounded in the back. Rafe assumed Shannon Connor had escaped through the rear door. The alarm was from a panic bar.

      The man who’d been sitting at the table cursed. More bullets hammered the bar.

      “I’m alive and mobile,” Rafe said out loud. He knew Allison would be wondering. He didn’t know how she sat on the other end of the connection without saying a word. “Shannon’s running for it. Out the back way. See if you can find her for me while I get out of here.”

      “I will,” Allison said.

      Rafe found he was more concerned about the woman than he was about himself. He’d been through similar situations in the past. As far as he knew, this was Shannon Connor’s first gunfight.

      When she’d seen the man lying on the floor with the shotgun so near another man who was dead or unconscious, Shannon’s panic had buried the needle and she’d gone on overload. She’d taken martial arts while at Athena Academy and had liked them well enough to keep up her abilities by visiting several dojos in different disciplines. She’d never stayed with any one long enough to get a black belt, but she knew she could take care of herself.

      She whirled back from the corner of the wall and heard bullets strike it. By then she was running barefoot for all she was worth. She flew past the opening door where Drago was attempting to stumble out.

      As she reached the back door, she swung a hip forward and crashed into the panic bar. The emergency alarm screeched to life immediately. Then she was out in the alley.

      The air was muggy and still. Fog off the Potomac River, which had given the neighborhood its name, streaked the night.

      She turned to the right, judging that street was closer, and ran. The asphalt lining the alley tore at her feet. She ignored the pain because she knew Drago and the other men would be following. She had no doubt about that.

      There in the darkness, Shannon wished she could find a policeman. Or her car. Either would be fine.

      Rafe grabbed a bottle of whiskey that had fallen to the floor and miraculously hadn’t broken. Still lying on his side, he laid the shotgun over the crook of one arm, grabbed the bottle, opened it, poked a bar towel into the long neck and turned the bottle upside down.

      The alcohol poured out and soaked the bar towel. A small pool grew under the upended bottle.

      “I think maybe we should talk about this,” the man called out.

      “I’d be happy to.” Rafe fumbled in his pants pocket for the Zippo he carried. He wasn’t a smoker. But every good field agent always kept something on his person for starting fires.

      “Could be we got off on the wrong foot.”

      “It’s possible. I got two left feet.” Rafe knew the man was waiting for Vincent Drago to come from the back. If the man did, they could catch him in a deadly crossfire.

      Rafe didn’t intend to wait around for that to happen. He flicked the lighter and held the flame to the alcohol-soaked bar towel. A blue-and-yellow flame crawled up the material immediately.

      “Are you a cop?” the man asked.

      Now we have time for Twenty Questions? Rafe couldn’t believe it.

      “No.” With a quick twist, Rafe lobbed the Molotov cocktail he’d made over the bar and in the general direction of the men.

      “Get down!” a man yelled.

      Rafe shoved himself to his feet. There was less pain than he’d expected, but it was growing sharper and biting deeper. On the other side of the counter, the whiskey bottle shattered. The alcohol caught fire with a distinctive bamf.

      During the confusion, Rafe stood and raised the shotgun to his shoulder. As soon as he saw the big man spinning toward him, Rafe blasted the man with the final shotgun round.

      The big man sailed backward and dropped bonelessly into the fireball taking hold on the floor. Rafe wiped his prints from the shotgun and scooped the baton from the floor. He assumed Allison would want a clean crime scene. And if he was questioned about his involvement by law enforcement officials later, he had some latitude in the story he’d tell.

      A quick rap and a push collapsed the baton. He replaced it on his belt as he drew his pistol and pointed it at the last surviving bar patron.

      “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, man!” The third man threw his pistol across the room and laced his hands behind his neck as he hit his knees.

      He’s got prior knowledge of the position, Rafe thought. He spun and went to the hallway Shannon Connor had come from. He paused at the corner. His leg functioned smoothly enough, but the pain was aggravating.

      No one was in the hallway.

      Rafe locked his hands in the familiar push-pull grip he’d been trained to use with a semiautomatic pistol and went forward in profile. His steps were smooth and controlled, as if he hadn’t been gone from the work for almost two years.

      Perspiration trickled down his forehead and into his eyes. Some of it was caused by tension, he knew, but some of it came from the pain in his knee.

      He