Fully Loaded

by Samantha Keith

  Because of her.

  Her face heated and tears pooled beneath her lids. She watched the door close. The shooter who’d dragged her by her hair and hit her in the head caught her eye. His mouth hitched into a smirk and the door banged shut.

  CHAPTER 18

  Brock paced the hotel room, his dress shoes gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Telling Milo might not have been the best idea. Milo was one of his oldest friends besides Serena, Dani, and Peyton, and not once had he heard him so angry. So despairing. Christ, if something happened to Serena and their baby because he’d stupidly left Dani’s side, he’d never forgive himself. His airways thickened. Fisting his hand in the bow tie at his throat, he ripped off the material and threw it, then tore open the top two buttons of his shirt.

  Finding her would be impossible. She could be anywhere. Did the rogue Interpol agents have her? Ubrigg? Or had Giles Artis found her?

  And where the fuck was Rhett? He dropped onto the bed to catch his breath but his blood raged through his limbs, forcing him to his feet again.

  He was lost. So damn lost. He couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone get his shit together to find her. He had to think. Whoever had her wanted the Chrisolicom XII formula. They’d call.

  They had to.

  What would be the point of taking her if they didn’t want something in exchange for her life? If they wanted to kill her, they would have done so at the Eiffel Tower and made it look like a random shooting. He needed to focus and get a plan together. It was the only way he’d get her out alive. He changed into casual clothes and carefully tucked the flash drive into the pocket of his jeans. Next, he grabbed the gun that Dani had refused to carry—in that daring red dress she wouldn’t have been able to hide a tissue let alone a handgun—and shoved it into the waistband of his pants. He’d left his weapon on the field near the shooter’s assault rifle.

  Hell, if he hadn’t been so ravaged by lust and had been thinking with the proper head, he would have insisted she wear something to conceal the gun.

  Ring, ring, ring

  Brock bolted for the tuxedo jacket that dangled from the chair and fished out his phone. Dani’s encrypted number lit the screen. Hope swam through the sea of despair in his chest. He gripped the device harder and swiped to answer.

  “This is Brock.”

  “Hello, Brock. I believe we each have something of interest to one another.” The steady and collected voice slithered through the phone.

  Brock’s blood pressure shot through the roof. He clenched his teeth to stop the curses that his tongue wanted to hurl at the motherfucker. Cursing wouldn’t do Dani any good.

  “That we do,” he said, keeping his words even.

  “We can make this as easy or as difficult as you’d like.” The guy’s accent was German. Ubrigg? He couldn’t be sure.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’d prefer to save our introductions for when we meet in person, if that’s all right with you.” The overpoliteness only served to test Brock’s patience.

  “If you hurt her—” Helplessness clogged his throat. The caller wanted the formula that would kill millions of people when they released it. If he and Dani survived the exchange, one or both of them would end up dead anyway from the virus. So would Serena and Milo, too, if it wasn’t contained in time.

  But what could he do? If he didn’t give them the information, they’d kill her for certain. The image of Anna Bella cradled in her mother’s arms on the sidewalk slammed into his mind. He dropped to the bed and shoved his fingers into the hair at his scalp.

  After this, he’d have a hand in all the deaths the disease wiped out. He’d be a murderer.

  “Threats are unnecessary. Your friend is of no value to me. Bring the drive to me in one hour and I’ll release her.” He rattled off a location.

  Brock grabbed the hotel pen and pad of paper, jotted down the information, and disconnected. He reached into his pocket and took out the drive, turning the tiny device over and over in his fingers. How could something so small be so deadly?

  He curled his palm around it and pulled back his shoulders. He couldn’t let them kill half the planet, couldn’t let them hurt innocent people like Anna Bella and Serena and Milo’s baby.

  He had to stop them and keep Dani alive.

  There was always the possibility Ubrigg had hired the shooter. If he had, he might only be interested in retrieving the formula and killing those involved in stealing it—Dani and him. If that was the case, humanity might be safe long enough for Rhett and the authorities to confiscate the formula. Surely government agencies wouldn’t want Ubrigg storing something so dangerous in his lab, where it could be copied or sold.

  Either way, he didn’t have much choice. He had to meet Ubrigg and he didn’t have a single person to rely on for backup. God, he wished Rhett would get back to him. He needed advice and he couldn’t risk calling Milo and alerting Serena to their dire circumstances.

  Rather than giving Brock a landmark to meet at, Ubrigg had given him coordinates. Brock typed them into his phone and waited for the satellite to zoom in on the location. A random road on the outskirts of Paris.

  He shoved his feet in his shoes, grabbed his phone and the room key—though it wasn’t as if there were a chance he’d return tonight—and stepped into the hall.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and he opened the screen. Seeing the Facebook notification, he was about to shove the device back in his pocket, but the name and profile picture beside the friend request made his heart skid to a stop.

  Ubrigg Lichti.

  * * *

  Dani waited several beats, until she was certain Romy or Ubrigg wouldn’t return to the room. If she got caught, she’d have no way to tip off Brock. She stared at the closed door, stretched her legs in front of her, and dug her bare feet against the tile. Pulling the chair forward, she inched her way toward the desk.

  Creeeak

  She halted. The piercing squeak of the chair’s wheels made her hair stand on end. She closed her eyes and listened hard, but the rapid pumping of her heart blocked out any other sounds. The door didn’t move.

  She swallowed and zeroed in on the desktop. She didn’t have much time. Rolling past the overturned stool, she swiveled the chair so her side lined up with the keyboard. Raising her butt as high as possible from the seat, she stretched her arms. Her elbows caught on the material at the back of the chair, preventing her from getting her forearms over. Her muscles screamed. She thrust her hips forward, standing as much as her shoulders would allow, and finally dragged her sleeping limbs over the chair.

  Blood tingled through her skin, chasing away the numbness. She sat down, wiggled her fingers, and rolled her shoulders forward and then backward, reciting the password in her mind. PSNMA . . .

  Shifting in the chair, she leaned forward so she could reach the keyboard behind her back, making it impossible to see what she was doing. Using the hand with the most mobility, she nudged the mouse and dragged her fingertips over the keys.

  She mapped out the keyboard in her mind and felt the most obvious keys to gage her finger’s location. Space bar, alt, caps lock . . . Nope, other way. She glided her middle finger to the opposite end of the board. Enter, backspace . . .

  P.

  Scurrying back in the direction of the Caps Lock button, she hit S. Feeling for the space bar, she imagined the bottom row of letters and hit what she hoped was N, then M, then A.

  She moved her tongue along her dry cheek. A clock ticked on the wall, but the buzz of blood against her eardrums stifled the sound.

  Now the hard part.

  She pictured Ubrigg at his desk and replayed the dancing of his fingers. His left index finger had definitely hit the keyboard somewhere between numbers one and three. He hadn’t gone farther than that on the number row. But had he hit shift? The exclamation mark was a common choice for a symbol used in passwords, but Ubrigg wasn’t common.

  She snapped open her eyes. Passwords were typically six
to eight characters, and numbers and symbols were encouraged. He’d have done five letters and a number and symbol. She hit the number two and the @ symbol.

  She turned around in her chair.

  Incorrect password.

  Shit! Her confidence deflated. She turned back around and deleted the last two characters. After hitting the number two again, she held down the Shift button and stretched her pinky for the three, then peeked over her shoulder.

  Incorrect password.

  No! She backspaced again. This time, she hit the number three then the exclamation mark. Her middle finger hovered over the Enter key. Sweat trickled down her spine, lifting her hairs with apprehension.

  Please, God. Please, let this be right.

  She tapped the key and whirled around.

  Ubrigg’s browser popped up, and she let out a chuckle on a breath. She’d done it. Twisting her hands as far to her side as she could, she grabbed the mouse and, watching the screen over her shoulder, moved the curser to the Facebook tab. Searching for Brock’s profile took an even greater amount of concentration, but she managed.

  Seeing his profile picture, an image of Milo and him at Tasha’s bar, made her heart constrict. Memories of home and her family assailed her. She swallowed over the swelling in her throat. Crying wouldn’t do anyone any good. She had to get a message to Brock.

  The clock ticked on the wall.

  It would take forever to type a single message, and he’d surely have questions. She hit Add Friend and waited. If he was as frantic as she was right now, he’d be waiting anxiously by his phone. But would he pay attention to a social media notification?

  Under normal circumstances, no. But Ubrigg Lichti’s name would likely get his attention. A soft ping sounded from the speaker.

  Brock Wyler accepted your friend request.

  She quickly tapped the notification. She had to hurry. If Ubrigg received notifications on his phone, he’d see the new-friend alert—unless she’d gotten to it soon enough. On Brock’s profile she selected the Message button and then tapped the Video Call icon.

  Brock answered immediately. “Dani, is that you?” His face filled a window on the screen, and she leaned forward. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

  “Yes,” she said. Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t have much time. Ubrigg took me.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She bobbed her head. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re bleeding. They hit you.” The statement rolled out on a menacing sheet of ice.

  The throbbing in her skull intensified, and she became aware of the dried blood crinkling the skin of her scalp. “It’s fine. Just a knock to my head.”

  His mouth hardened and sparks flew from his eyes. “Where are you?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. He said we’re at his colleague’s lab. Did he call you?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to meet him right now, but out of town. It’s a fifty-minute drive, so if he’s not with you now, he has no intention of bringing you.” A beat passed, and Brock’s hawklike eyes flashed across the room behind her. “You need to find out where you are. Get an address or something.”

  She breathed through her nose and turned in her seat.

  “Look for something personalized. The name of the lab, a stamp—anything.”

  She swept her gaze over the desk. Blank notepad, pens, calendar. She shook her head. “There’s nothing,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Dammit, she should have asked Ubrigg more questions.

  “There has to be something. Does the desk have drawers?”

  Pressure coiled up her neck. If Romy decided to check on her, she was screwed. She reached her fingers under the arm of the chair and tugged on the drawer handle. Then she spun the chair back around and lowered her face to the contents. A sealed letter sat on top of a stack of papers.

  “I think I have something,” she whispered. Leaning forward, she picked up the envelope with her teeth and flipped it over. “Centre de Biologie Gagne Paris,” she read. She rattled off the address beneath it. Brock kept his gaze down but she saw his eyes jerking in small movements as he jotted down the information.

  “I’ve got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Google Maps says I’m twelve minutes away. Hang in there, babe. Whatever you do, don’t draw attention to yourself. And if they try to take you anywhere, stall.”

  Fear restricted her airway. “The shooter is stationed outside the lab room. He’s armed, Brock.”

  Brock’s face turned to stone. “So am I. Those fuckers are going to be sorry they took you.”

  She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to prevent the tears from rolling down her cheeks. She had to stay strong. He was risking his life for her and she wouldn’t let him worry any more than he was.

  “Be careful.”

  He winked at her, and his playful grin made his hazel eyes sparkle. Butterfly wings beat from her belly to her heart. “See you in a few.”

  The camera clicked off and she choked back a sob. It took all her focus to remember which tab Ubrigg had left open, return to that page, and put the screen to sleep. She repositioned her arms around the chair and rolled back to where Ubrigg had left her. Relief should have taken hold, but instead unease sunk its fangs into her. Brock will be here and everything will be okay, she told herself. It had to be. Brock had never failed at a heist, and he’d never let her down.

  The knots in her neck bound themselves tighter. She lifted her gaze to the clock.

  Ten more minutes.

  CHAPTER 19

  For fuck’s sake. Brock hit the button for the parking garage and the elevator headed down, more slowly than he would have liked. He could take a cab to the laboratory, but getting out with Dani would be another story.

  The metal door rolled open and he stalked through the second level of the concrete complex. Rows of shiny vehicles filled the garage. It had been damn near a decade since he stole a car, but the delinquencies of his youth were deeply stamped in his memory.

  He didn’t have time to be picky. He moved through the columns of vehicles, flicking the driver’s side handle of each car. If he had more time and the correct equipment, he could unlock any one of these vehicles.

  He lifted the handle of the tenth car and grunted in frustration. Someone had to have left their car unlocked. He did the same to a large black Ford Explorer and the interior light came on. Satisfaction loosened some tension in his joints. He rolled the seat back, climbed inside, and took out his cell phone. After turning on his flashlight, he removed the plastic cover under the steering wheel that hid the electrical work.

  He sought the wires, bit off the plastic tips, and touched the copper together. A tiny spark lit between his fingers and the engine purred to life. He adjusted the seat and started the GPS navigation on his phone. The valet paid him no mind as he drove past.

  Pulling into the street, he saw the moon dangling high above the Eiffel Tower. The Iron Lady glowed as if utter devastation hadn’t fallen at her feet hours before. He hadn’t listened to the news yet, and right now the last thing he wanted to know was the body count. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel as he drove along the Seine.

  Pressure closed in on his chest. The image of Dani’s sparkling eyes overlooking Paris from the Eiffel Tower danced in his mind. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he’d never forget the awe shining on her perfectly sculpted jawline and the smile that had curved her mouth as he held her.

  They’d kill her.

  If he didn’t make it to her before Ubrigg realized something was up, they’d put a bullet in her head without a second thought. By now, Ubrigg would be halfway to their meeting point. It wouldn’t take long for him to figure out Brock wasn’t going to show. Once Ubrigg called his guard, they were fucked. Urgency knocked against his ribcage. He followed the next turn and glanced at his phone to see where he’d need to go next.

  A small notification at the top-right corner of the screen alerted him to a missed call. How could he have missed
a call? His ringer was on. He lifted the device and tapped the notification.

  A San Diego area code caught Brock’s eye and he read the contact name: Rhett.

  Finally.

  According to the time of the missed call, Rhett had phoned while he was on the call with Dani and he’d been too anxious to notice. The GPS chimed out another direction and Brock followed it, tapping Rhett’s number at the same time. He hit the Speaker button and the call rang out in the spacious interior.

  A couple more blocks and he’d be at the lab. He had two minutes tops to give Rhett a rundown. He approached an intersection as the light turned red. Brock pressed his foot to the gas and cursed. It was after 1:00 a.m. and the street was deserted. He could probably run the red light without—

  Crash!

  Glass pelted Brock’s face. He covered his eyes, but tiny fragments nicked his cheeks and hands. His mind raced as he assessed the threat. Black gloves and a mask-covered face lunged through the driver’s side window. Brock reached for the gun at his back, but a fist barrelled into his jaw.

  Rage rushed through him with the force of a flash flood.

  “Hello? Brock?” Rhett’s concerned voice barely penetrated Brock’s consciousness.

  He pulled the door handle and then threw his weight into the door, sending the attacker flying backward. Another man quickly approached as he got out of the vehicle, but Brock jabbed his fist into the man’s throat. The first attacker trained a gun on him.

  “Don’t fucking move!”

  Adrenaline heated his veins. Fuck it. He had to get to Dani and he wouldn’t let these bastards get in his way. He jutted out his arm and caught the man’s throat still struggling to catch his breath.

  He pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants and pressed it to the cocksucker’s head. “Take another step and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

  He didn’t have time for this shit. He backed away from the door, his gaze trained on the first man. The second man didn’t fight him, but his bulky build slowed Brock’s backward retreat. As soon as he rounded the vehicle, he’d fire off a couple shots and run. He tensed as footsteps scuffled behind him.