by C. J. Snyder
“Nah, I think we’re done.” The waitress knocked her to the ground with a very slight shove. From far, far away, Mykael heard Ghost and then a faint reply from Tron in her ear, but she kept her eyes on the waitress who stood over her. Music spilled into the air as the door of the restaurant opened.
“Did you think you had to drink it?” The waitress wondered. “Absorption through the skin is actually faster.”
“Greg.” Mykael tried to get the cry out, but couldn’t hear it herself. Footsteps pounded close and Mykael steeled herself to keep her eyes on the waitress, their only lead to Sean. But where the young woman had stood gloating, there was now only night sky. “I’m sorry, Sean,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Chapter Ten
Greg shifted in the standard-issue hospital chair. “What’d you get?” “Emily Bastock. Employed by the restaurant for six months. Age listed as 21, but questionable. Father unknown. Mother was an addict. Hooked from home to support her habit. She died when Emily was 15. Some gang activity, dropped out of school, disappeared. Resurfaced six months ago, apparently clean. Magnum runs his place by the book, including drug testing.”
“Any link up the chain?”
“Still checking. Except for the restaurant, meaning Caldera, none. Nothing to Azisi. Not that we have that much to link Azisi to anything. How’s Decoy?” “Spittin’ like a cornered pole cat. Out of the woods.”
“She’s awake?”
“Not yet.” Greg shifted his gaze. “Thanks, Tron.” Mykael, littered with tubes, thrashed in the hospital bed. He grimaced as she banged her arm hard on the bed rail–at least the fourth time he’d noticed. He folded her hand inside his, leaning close to brush her hair back from her face. “Maria,” he whispered. “You’re dreaming, angel. Go on back to sleep.”
Sleep would help, the dreams definitely didn’t, but time would be her biggest weapon. Eight to twelve hours, the docs at the lab estimated before the altered date-rape drug would be out of her system, allowing her to wake to a pounding headache. And sore arms, he thought distractedly, gently swiping the angry red mark with his thumb. She slept quietly now, her breaths and heartbeat monitored by a machine over her head.
Every once in a while–far less frequently now–her breathing would slow to unacceptable levels. Then the alarms sounded, doctors and nurses descended and Greg found himself staring at her closed door–from the outside. As he watched the numbers start a slow slide again, he sighed, fingers tightening over her hand, feeling only slightly less helpless than when he’d found her, limp and unresponsive, on the ground outside her brother’s restaurant. “Don’t do it, Maria,” he whispered. “Just breathe.”
Mykael responded with a deep sigh, then jerked her hand from his. “Snakes.” Greg closed his eyes, retrieving her hand, trying to stroke her out of the nightmare. The worst was when she stopped breathing, but her damn nightmares were a close second. “I know, Maria. I know about the snakes.”
“I can’t, Sean, not without a plan. They’d only strike both of us.” Her words were murmured, and uttered half in Spanish, but he knew Spanish, and he’d heard the same dream enough times to live it with her. Sean, a much younger, very panicked Sean, was surrounded by snakes. She had to figure out how to get him out without sacrificing them both. Which was why Greg had to have an answer for her by the time she woke up.
He wanted to leave her here, in the hospital, where she wouldn’t distract him. Had it been Decoy lying in that bed, he might have considered it. But it wasn’t. Decoy fought the drug, insisted on the recurring dream, but it was Mykael–Maria, he reminded himself who slept. Maria was defenseless. And a sitting duck. No, he had to keep her with him to keep her safe.
The doctor said he’d consider releasing her when she’d been stable for two hours. So far, they hadn’t reached go on the countdown. He lifted her discarded shirt, remembering how sexy and confident she’d been on the jet. How gorgeously she filled out the silky material. Now there was a bloodstain over her right breast. She’d been stabbed by a safety pin, a huge safety pin, anchoring yet another note. The kidnapper, whoever it was, would contact him in Virginia in just over five hours. They weren’t going to make the doctor’s deadline.
*** Mykael surfaced once, saw Greg, searched for Sean and the snakes, but the pain was too much. Then Sean cried out again, in panic and fear, and Mykael fought her way back to the surface. Pain or no pain, she had to save him. Sean was eight, paralyzed by fear. She was thirteen; saving him was her job. The snakes, placid at first, were restless now, slithering to close the circle around Sean. There was still time for her to step in, but not to get them both out.
Wrestling her way out of the darkness that seemed to claw at her, she bolted upright, instinctively swinging her feet to the floor. Then, as the darkness followed her up, lashing at her head with giant hammers, she reached out for something to steady the world.
“Right here, angel. I’ve got you.” The low rumble of the voice came from her right ear. Of course–the earpiece. She struggled to string enough coherent words together to tell him what he needed to know, wondering if the microphone still worked at all. “Caldera,” she began, then moaned as her head threatened to explode.
“Mykael.” Hands around her own, touching her face, easing her back down. “No,” she whispered. “I have to–” This time as she sat the darkness didn’t cling quite so fiercely.
“It won’t hurt so bad if you lay down.”
Now she could see him, or almost see him, if it weren’t so bright. He knelt beside her bed, only. . .it wasn’t a bed. “Where am I?”
He smiled, brushing her hair back behind her ear in gesture that seemed so familiar. “Welcome back.” Damn but her head hurt.
“How much do you remember?”
“Everything. At least I–” She searched the corners of her mind where fog still lingered, but didn’t find what she was looking for. “A lot,” she substituted. “Restaurant?”
“Waitress. The drug went through my skin.”
“Bingo.”
“Did you get her?”
“Not yet, but we will. Tron’s on it. He’d adjusted your microphone for the music level in there, but not the rowdy group next to you. But he got everything she said. What else?” “Snakes.” She shuddered, started to shake her head and met his eyes instead. “No, that was something else.” “Sort of, yeah.”
“What do you mean?”
“You dreamed Sean was a boy, surrounded by snakes and you couldn’t get in and then get both of you out.” She could feel her eyes widen. The sensation wasn’t pleasant. “How do you know that?” He chuckled. “Now Decoy, you know a good agent doesn’t reveal his secrets.”
How could Greg possible know? It had to have been a dream, Sean had been a little boy, certainly not the grown man he was now. “Did you find a way to get him out?”
“No. Is it the drug setting off the fourth of July in my head?”
He smiled at her description, but his eyes were sympathetic. “Yeah. Another four to six before the headache’s gone for good. It’ll be better if you lie down again.” She let her gaze roam the tiny room. “Ice’s jet?”
“Right again.”
“Where are we going?”
“How’s your focus?” He handed her a sheet of paper enclosed in plastic. Unit Commander Greg Lassiter: 0700 telephone call at base “And yours said, thanks for the good word, sis.” “ I’ll see you in Virginia,” she finished for him.
“We land in 30.”
“It says Greg Lassiter.”
“Yeah.” He sounded as grim as she felt.
“Sean doesn’t know you’re Greg Lassiter.”
“Somebody does.”
“How long have I been out?”
Greg checked his watch. “About six hours.” He touched her cheek as she settled back on the couch he’d fashioned into a bed for her. “Glad one of us got some sleep.” Mykael sat up two minutes later, only Tron had replaced Greg at her side. “Where is he?” Tron jerke
d his head to the right. “Flying.”
“Oh.”
“Whatcha need?”
“Who was flying before?”
“The computer. But I watched.” He gave her an engaging grin. “I brought you some water, too.”
She accepted the cold bottle gratefully, then struggled to open it. Tron didn’t offer to help, and she was glad for that “Were you there, last year, when Viper went nuts?” Tron shifted his gaze to his hands, hanging loose over his bent knees. “Yeah.” “Was it bad?”
“Very. Do you want me to get Ghost for you?”
He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. That couldn’t be helped. . .she had to know. “You knew Ice?” “I did.” He still wouldn’t look at her, was beginning to look quite uncomfortable, actually. “Trust him?”
The question surprised a glance out of him. “Yeah. He was solid. Didn’t always play by the rules, but neither do I. What are you getting at, Decoy?” She swung her legs over the side of the couch. “Something I need to discuss with Ghost.” As before, he didn’t ask if he could help her. This time, he scooped her off the couch and carried her up the short narrow aisle to the cockpit, where the sunrise had her head exploding all over again. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Get her some glasses,” Ghost ordered. Unnecessarily, as Tron was already handing her a pair of sunglasses. They offered only minimal relief, but that couldn’t be helped. She turned sideways to relieve the worst of the glare, pressing her hand hard against her forehead where the explosions seemed to be centered and waited only until Tron left. “We’ve got a mole.”
“Charlie-Alpha-Seven-Three-Niner, copy. Tower,” he explained to her. “You look like shit, Decoy, I thought I told you to lie down.” “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I think you’re right, now go lay down.” He frowned at her glare. “I don’t need the distraction right now, understand? Tron?” A head of dark, unruly hair appeared between them. “Yes, sir.”
“Get her out of here, will you? And buckle up. Did you double-check transport?”
“I did before we left San Diego. Calla wasn’t real happy about the oh-two-hundred phone call, but then Calla’s never real happy about anything.” Mykael heard the conversation, registered it with a small part of her brain, but the other was staring. Over Greg. Out the tiny window on his left. The ocean. The old dream played out in front of her eyes: Melina’s tiny plane, a fiery explosion, her body thrown free, plummeting into the frigid, salty water of the Atlantic Ocean. Or burned to a crisp, with only ashes to waft down from the sky. Either way, Death loomed, just seconds away.
Greg banked left. The frigid Atlantic raced up to meet them. Painful tremors racked her limbs. “Noooo,” she moaned, drawing the attention of both men.
“Tron?” Greg sounded furious. Mykael didn’t care. She couldn’t look away from the ocean, Melina’s real killer, now claiming her.
“On it, sir.” Tron pulled her to her feet and Mykael fought. She had to stay, to watch, to see what Melina had seen in the seconds before her death. Tron was stronger. He caught her flailing hands in one of his and hoisted her over his shoulder. “Sorry, Decoy.” She sat in the back, shuddering, waiting for the plane to explode. This was where Melina had died. Where her nightmares always led. Tron wrapped one hand around both of hers and just held on while she squeezed her eyes, tight, rocking with the memories, waiting for the end.
***
“I can walk,” Mykael protested as Greg swept her up in his arms and carried her out of the jet fifteen minutes later.
“I know. But Tron enjoyed carting your sweet ass around way too much. Him or me and I chose me.” He raised his voice. “Where’s the car, Tron?”
“Not here.” Greg deposited her on her feet, but kept hold of her upper arms, which was a good thing, because despite her protestations, she was still way too wobbly for her liking. That Greg knew it was bothersome. That he hadn’t asked about her breakdown on the plane troubled her even more. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Tron gestured to the small terminal and a conspicuously empty parking space. “It’s not here.”
“Ring Calla.”
“Already did. She’s not answering. Any number,” he continued when Greg opened his mouth again.
“Dammit! Is it Sunday?” Calla didn’t work Sunday mornings unless the country declared war.
“Friday. Taxi’s on its way. I’ll drop you two at the base and swing by Calla’s house afterwards.”
“Maybe something happened with her mom.” Mykael felt useless, which left her frustrated. So far, on this trip, she’d done nothing. Nothing but cause trouble. Greg snapped up his communicator, still keeping one hand on Mykael. “Go sit,” he ordered, gesturing over her shoulder to a bench outside the small building. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was already fierce. She stumbled toward the bench, heard Greg swear. “Just a minute, Senator,” he called, and lifted her easily in his arms, gaining the bench in five long strides, depositing her like a sack of potatoes and lifting his communicator back to his ear. Mykael sighed as she drew up her knees on the bench, shielding her eyes with her arms, absolutely miserable. She should be helping, organizing, making phone calls, and instead it was all she could do to stay upright.
She tried to tell herself she could have handled it fine if it hadn’t been for the stupid drug still whacking out her system. The platitudes didn’t help a bit. The taxi driver was foreign, with limited English, but he understood the Benjamin Franklin Greg waved under his nose just fine. “Tarrington, fifteen minutes, yes, boss.” Greg wrapped his arm around Mykael’s shoulder and she let him. He was so solid, so real, and so alive. The miracle that he’d safely landed the jet still had her reeling. Concern for Sean blanketed everything. Was he still alive?
“Take her here,” Greg ordered, sliding Tron a piece of paper.
As the only “her” involved, Mykael focused back in on her surroundings. They’d stopped in front of a non-descript office building next to a small strip mall. “No.” She might be foggy, but Sean was her brother and Greg wasn’t going to ship her off out of the way somewhere. “I’m–I’ll be fine. They might want to speak to me,” she added when Greg’s jaw clenched.
He sighed and she knew he’d rather growl. She didn’t blame him, felt rather like growling herself. Greg paid the driver, then instructed him to wait. The sign out front listed three tenants: J & N Investments, American Security, and WKBG, LLC.
“You share office space?”
“No,” Tron replied. “The other two companies are fronts. They get deliveries, but only for show. Senator Caruthers uses one of the spaces for file storage.”
“Let me guess,” Mykael said, following Greg into the office building. “We’re American Security.”
“Nope. Welcome to WKBG.” Tron sounded cheerful as Greg swiped a keycard in a door labeled “Private”. Expecting a small, one-person office, Mykael was instead escorted into a large room. A conference table took center stage, but all the chairs were against the wall, save one. The table was clear, but she could imagine it filled with pictures, blueprints and all the trappings for a secret operation.
A tidy desk sat squat against the far wall on her left. The back wall was a maze of electronics, some of which she recognized as security monitoring panels, others had her eyes narrowing. Greg moved to the desk, flipped open a rolodex and retrieved a card, which he handed to Tron.
He rolled the office chair to Mykael and gestured her to sit. Tron left, the door closing with a solid thwunk behind him. She sat, but used her legs to turn her in a circle, surveying the incredible display of technology.
“Calla wants one of those giant screens you see on television, but I like the compartments of the small screen.”
“Calla usually win?” She nodded to the single giant screen over the conference table on the other side of the room.”
“Always,” Ghost gave her a quick smile. “Suf
fice it to say, if Air Force One was out of commission…”
“The President could come to Tarrington, Virginia?” She shook her head, noticing the full arsenal available under the monitors. “Who all knows about this place?” “Black Fire.”
“And?”
Ghost only shook his head.
She frowned, not liking the implications of that, but without the time to go into it. “What time is it?” “Five til.” Greg flipped on a few of the machines, then went to the phone and pressed a single number. “It’s not her mom,” he announced a few minutes later. “She’s got a message asking her to call her. She left last night at six.”
“Something might have happened overnight.”
“You all right?” Greg was still at the desk, not looking at her, which was fine. Her eyes caught and held on a tiny red display directly across from her: 06:56:15. They’d cut it close, again thanks to her. Mesmerized, she watched the seconds slide away, heart hammering as her palms grew moist. 06:57:21. 06:57:22. “Make them let you talk to him,” she urged, voice sounding loud and panicky in her ears.
Greg didn’t answer but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the clock long enough to see what he was doing. 06:58:02.
Nausea burned her throat, had her trying to gulp air. The sudden chime of the phone startled her. Sean, be alive. God, please let him be alive.
Greg watched Mykael jump. He caught up the phone and walked with it behind her, where he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Yes.” “A package will arrive shortly.”
“I want to talk to Sean.”
“No. Wait for the package. Follow the instructions.” A soft click ended the conversation. Greg stood motionless, unwilling to let Mykael know it was over, as his mind raced. Definitely Azisi. The first time he’d spoken to the man and he knew his voice. Why?. A package–a bomb? Why would his brain immediately go to a bomb? He closed his eyes for just a moment, trying to pull the fragments in his brain together into a coherent picture.
