Wyatt had reappeared fifty feet away, on another wall, and started shooting, the bullets arriving around him with precision.
Too precise, considering the darkness.
WYATT HAD COME PREPARED. CARBONELL HAD PROVIDED HIM a pair of night-vision goggles, which allowed him to see Clifford Knox huddled within the rubble. Unfortunately, his target had not ventured far enough from his cover for a kill shot. He caught movement atop another wall and heard a shot. He quickly scanned the battlements and spotted an armed man frisking another who lay prone. Size, shape, and movement confirmed the identity.
Malone.
How could that be?
He returned his attention to his own problem.
“Knox,” he called out. “I know Andrea Carbonell provided you this location. She’s the only person who could have. She wants you to kill me, right?”
KNOX LISTENED TO THE QUESTION AND REALIZED THAT HIS SITUATION was bad. He’d lost one man for sure and could not raise the other on the radio. More gunfire from other parts of the fort signaled trouble. This easy kill had turned into anything but. He hadn’t risked everything just to die in this godforsaken place for Quentin Hale or any of the other captains.
“There’s another man here,” Wyatt called out. “It’s Cotton Malone. And he’s not your friend.”