There were five men down already and three on their feet. The flash-bangs had done their jobs in the confined space of the entry hall. These men were disoriented and, even though they were armed, they had no aim. I killed two of them before the slide locked back on my Beretta. The last guy didn’t have a pistol, and he thought I was helpless with an empty gun, so he rushed me with the stake. I used the pistol to bash the stake aside and then I snapped his leg with a side-thrust kick. He screamed and twisted down to the floor, and I rechambered the kick and slammed my heel against his ear, flinging him onto his side.

I swapped out the magazine as I spun around. Everybody was down. Ghost stood over the second man he’d killed, and his muzzle was black with blood.

The back door was a charred ruin, hanging in splinters from a single twisted hinge, and I could see a black sedan parked outside. Around me were the dead and dying. My rage was still boiling, but my inner Cop voice was telling me to dial it down, to find someone with a pulse. To get some answers.

And then a figure stepped into the doorway.

Tall, lithe, dressed in a black chador. I pointed my gun at her. Ghost growled from deep in his chest.

She said, “Joseph—they’re coming!”

Instantly a hail of bullets tore into the doorframe as Violin dove into the room.

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Mustapha’s Daily Goods

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 7:42 p.m.

The bullets filled the air as Violin hit the floor, rolled over a dead man, grabbed him, and pulled him into a sitting position to serve as a shield.

Ghost looked to me for a command. To him she was another potential enemy, a danger to the pack. With a word I could order him to tear her apart or accept her into the pack.

“Home!” I snapped. It was the word that would change everything about how he would react to her. “Home” was code for “friend.” Instantly Ghost’s gaze shifted away from her and refocused on the barrage that continued to tear apart the doorway. He hunkered down behind the man whose throat he had torn out, bristling, muscles trembling as he waited for the command and the opportunity to fight.

Violin turned to me and tore away the chador that hid her face and body.