“No.” Gianni loosened his hold. “But people do.” He walked over to the desk, his back to her.
What did he mean by that? A tear slid down her cheek. She swiped at it with the back of her hand. He would leave now and get back in time. He would be safe. That’s what mattered now. It was all that mattered.
“Why did you draw these?” Gianni turned back, with her sketches in hand.
“They’re for my cover.” She set her jaw. She had revealed enough secrets. “I’m supposed to be an art teacher.”
“You could have drawn any subject. Why me?” He studied the pages, one at a time.
She twisted the bracelet around her wrist to keep herself from snatching the drawings out of his hands. “The storm lasted for days. I got tired of sketching furniture.”
Gianni looked up. His eyes held her captive. “Liar,” he whispered. He walked over to her and placed his hand on her heart. Held it there. “You are not your profile. You can choose what you want. What’s inside here. Your hopes, your dreams. I don’t want Jewel. Or anyone else. Just you.” Her heart hammered against his hand as if it would break through skin, muscle, bone. “Tell me what you want, cara, what’s in here.”
“I want … what I can’t have. You. And freedom.”
She twisted the bracelet again.
The string popped and beads shot out like mini-projectiles. One cracked open as it hit the floor and a tiny black rectangle fell out.
Her eyes riveted on the device.
A tracker. Too advanced to be Cuban.
Her stomach clenched and her hands curled into fists. She had been played this whole time. Damn Brad.
“How’d you get the bracelet?” Gianni asked.
“The people who own this place gave it to me. The tracker looks like — ”
“U.N.I.T.”
“Yes. It may have stopped transmitting. They’ll be coming here to find out why. We have to go.”
A quick scan outside confirmed they still had time. No dark unisuits on approach. Just sand, sea, and sky.
She pulled away from him and ran over to the framed poster of Che Guevara. Grabbed her passport and visa hidden inside the backing. “What transport did you use to get here? Jetbike?” She tossed the documents into the knapsack. The Glock followed. “We’ll take the back roads into Holguin. They’ll be a mess from the storm, but we’ll get as far as we can. From Holguin, you can take the train back to Havana.”
“You mean we’ll take the train to Havana.”
That stopped her.
“No, I’ll hitch a ride to — ” She caught herself. Don’t tell. Safer that way.
She dashed into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator. Still plenty of leftovers. She grabbed the containers.
“Why are you running?” Gianni hadn’t moved. “You accomplished your mission. You persuaded me to help you survive the solo. Why aren’t you going back to claim your reward? Your freedom?”
“There is no reward.” She shoved the containers into the knapsack. “U.N.I.T. wants me dead. They sent Salazar to the truck stop. To finish what the solo didn’t.”
The knapsack wouldn’t close. She pulled out two of the containers. “Do you have room for these?” When he didn’t answer, she hurried over to his bag and shoved the food inside.
“Are you sure Salazar was sent to kill you? Maybe he was told to retrieve you.”
“I considered that. But I couldn’t be sure. So I hitched a ride with a trucker. I was trying to get to the nearest safe house. Contact Second from there. On the way, the truck exploded. With the driver inside. Boris. He had a wife, a daughter.” A spurt of pain shot through her. “I was far enough away from the truck when it blew, or I wouldn’t be alive now. I found the bomb fragment in the rubble.” The pain flared, like a flame inhaling oxygen, as she visualized the bright orange strip hidden beneath the knapsack’s false bottom. “A U.N.I.T. prototype. That’s when I knew. There was no going back. I started running. Running and trying to contact you. Warn you.”
She tossed Gianni his bag, then returned to the bed and snatched up her knapsack. “Where’s your bike?” She started walking toward the bathroom and the back door. “Out this way?”
“Come back with me,” Gianni said.
“What?” She halted mid-stride. “I just told you — ”
“I’ll use my privilege to have you transferred. We’ll be together.”
Together. Her mind grabbed at the word. Not free, but … together.
“If I return, if they know I survived because of your help, you won’t get your promotion. You’ll be punished for disloyalty. Your best chance is to go back to U.N.I.T. twelve-oh-five. Act as if this rendezvous never happened. As if I died in the solo.”
“They can’t prove I helped you.” Gianni snagged her wrist. “Their only evidence is the message I left with Evan. The security discs from The Truck Stop restaurant will show a man who looks like me arriving for dinner, being seated at a table for two, ordering a bottle of wine, and when no one else shows, leaving.”
“I’m their proof, Gianni,” she said. “As long as I’m alive, they can make a case against you. I can’t take that risk.”
“I can.”
“No,” she said, even as a part of her shouted yes, yes, yes. “We have to go. Now.”
“Too late.” Gianni’s hand tensed around hers.
Chapter 30
A tidal wave of panic rose inside Anika and threatened to wipe out all reason. A low rhythmic drone, no louder than the rush of the ocean, penetrated the walls. No louder, but more terrifying. Her worst fear was about to come true. She was about be dragged back into the nightmare.
Thpp. Something thudded on the roof. Plastic netting slinked down the sides of the cottage.
She fought back the primal urge to run. Even if she could get through the netting, the jetcraft would overtake her as easily as a cheetah hunting small prey. She forced her mind to focus. Hand towels. Wetted down, they would offer a few minutes of protection. Dropping the knapsack, she sprinted into the kitchen.
“Water on.” Nothing. “God dammit!”
She lunged for the faucet, jerked it on, and threw two towels into the sink.
Gianni reached around from behind. He held out a pair of eye patches and a nose tube.
“Okay. Better idea.” She slipped on the protective gear.
Canisters rained through the roof. One landed near her right foot and released wisps of gas. She imagined the dangerous scent of gardenia seeping into her pores.
She kicked the canister away. The heavy aluminum smacked against her exposed toes and pain darted through her foot.
“What now?” she asked. “Play possum until they retract the netting?”
“No. I take you back.” Gianni crushed her against him.
“What?” The question squeaked out.
“We have to start.” He spoke low against her ear. “They’re watching by now.” He lifted her up, pivoted, and tossed her over the counter.
She hit the living room floor, rolled, and scrambled to a crouch. A surveillance cam poked through the roof above her. She angled away to block its view of her mouth.
“Different plan. I take you back.”
She picked the closest canister, assessed the weight and distance. Let it fly.
Gianni ducked in time.
Nice save. Relief rippled through her.
He charged through the kitchen curtain. Seashells and beads scattered like buckshot.
She stayed low and kicked out. Bypassed his knee and connected with his shin.
He hauled her to her feet and trapped her in a painful hold. “Here’s the scenario. I suspected you survived the solo. Discovered anomalies with your tracking chip. I followed you to Cuba to retrieve you.”
She broke his grip and jabbed.
He blocked, then delivered a return blow. If he hadn’t pulled the punch at the last second, she’d be down on the floor, the wind knocked out of her.
She rammed forward, whipped her
arms around his waist, and took him down. “I’m still on mission.” She hunched away from the surveillance. “You’re rogue. I was taking you back when the retrieval team arrived.” She let him roll her over.
“Take a breath.” He ripped off her nosegear, closed his hands around her neck and squeezed.
She jackknifed her legs over his head. Crossed them in front of his face and pushed back. Her lungs burned.
His grip loosened.
She rocked up, forcing him onto his back, then plucked the nose tube out of his hand and slipped it on.
He grabbed her ankles, but she kept them locked together.
She clasped her hands in a fist, drove into his midsection, and scrambled away. Her shoulder caught the edge of the nightstand. The lamp rocked back and forth. She forced herself to take tiny breaths through the nose tube even though her lungs begged for deep gulps of air.
Gianni rolled to his side and started to sit up.
She grabbed the lamp and threw it at him.
He could have batted it away, but didn’t.
She flinched as the lamp struck his shoulder.
Gianni’s gaze landed on the knapsack, steps away from her. His trigger finger moved.
Her throat constricted, then she gave the tiniest nod of agreement. She commando-crawled for the sack. Dug inside for the Glock. Her fingers closed around the handle. She half-turned and fired at the spot where Gianni had been. It was empty.
Relief flooded her. Chased by pain. She cried out as fiery heat streaked up her left arm.
Gianni hunkered by the desk. He had retrieved his laser and prepared to fire on her again.
Move. He’s giving you time. Move, dammit.
She leapt into the corner between the end of the bed and the wall, her left arm limp at her side. Her chest heaved with effort and sweat coursed down her neck and back.
Gianni had stacked two living room chairs on top of each other. His dark-blond head angled out from behind the bright yellow cushions. The makeshift barricade inched toward her.
She fired.
Gianni’s head vanished.
The chairs slid forward.
She fired again.
The cushions burst open and spewed white puffs of stuffing into the air.
She blew out a breath then re-sealed her lips and inhaled through the nose tube.
The chairs were positioned directly underneath the ceiling fan. The blades rotated slowly, circulating gaseous air.
She waited a heartbeat, then another.
When the chairs cleared the heavy metal base, she extended her good arm and fired round after round. The base tore away from the ceiling and the fan plummeted.
Gianni rolled out from behind the chairs.
She jumped on top of the bed just before laser blasts scorched holes into the corner’s floor and walls. She blocked out everything but the target zones, held her breath and fired.
The first shot ripped the laser out of Gianni’s hand. The second tore into the side of his left thigh.
His mouth contorted in a silent snarl.
Her stomach heaved, but she swallowed back the bile. She took aim again and fired several rounds into the windows.
The delightful sound of shattering glass pierced the air and the sweet gardenia smell dissipated.
She walked over to Gianni and stood between him and one of the overhead cams.
“That blast to my arm hurt like hell.” She kept the gun trained on him.
“I … feel … your … pain.” His voice ground out each word.
“I chose the best spot to hit. Lateral thigh. Avoided the bone. And the femoral.”
“We have to finish this.”
“Okay,” she said. “I still have the — ”
His fist shot out and punched her knee.
Her leg buckled.
He grabbed for the gun, but she held tight. Twisted to face him. Raised her arm. Stopped.
“Do it,” he said.
“I love you.” She smashed the butt against the side of his head.
Pain flashed through his eyes, then steadied on her.
She read the message in his look: It’s okay. I’m okay.
His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground.
She resisted the impulse to reach out and caress him, to give comfort where she had caused pain. She rose to her feet, swaying a little as she stood. She lifted her head to stare into the surveillance cam.
“Target down. Move in now.” She moved her lips with deliberate care so there would be no misunderstanding. She ran into the bathroom where she gathered up towels to staunch the bleeding.
The netting started to lift from the cottage. The drone of the jetcraft cut out and the sounds of the ocean once again whispered through the air.
When Salazar burst through the front door, she was sitting on the rattan sofa amidst the broken glass, puffs of synthetic stuffing, and jumbled furniture.
Her still-numb arm and gun rested in her lap. A hint of gardenia lingered.
“Drop the gun.” Salazar pointed his laser at her.
Anika looked up at him. “You’re making a mistake.”
He fired the laser at her feet.
She glanced from the now-smoking hole in the floor to his face. “The owner isn’t going to like that.”
“Want to lose the use of your other arm?”
She raised an eyebrow at him and picked up the gun with her index finger and thumb. Set it down on the floor and slid it toward him.
“Weren’t you watching through the cams?” she asked. “I’m on your side.”
“That’s what they all say, sweetface,” a voice said from the doorway.
Anika whipped her head around. It can’t be.
Mac stepped over the threshold, grinning from ear to ear. “What’s wrong, sweetface? You look like you’re seeing a ghost.”
“I thought — ”
“You thought what? That you’re the only one smart enough to survive a solo?”
“Yeah.” Salazar snorted sarcasm. “It helps when your solo gets canceled.”
“Shut up,” Mac said.
Still smirking, Salazar snapped ankle restraints on Gianni, then turned him over and secured his wrists.
Gianni didn’t flinch.
Thank God. Anika breathed out some tension. The pain blocker she had gotten from his bag must have kicked in.
“Where’s the transport?” she asked.
It couldn’t be too far, judging by how fast Salazar and Mac had shown up. The less distance Gianni had to travel, the stronger he’d be to help her take them down.
“Hands behind your back.” Salazar dangled another pair of restraints.
“Like I said, I’m on your side. I’m still on mission. I was bringing Gianni in when you two got here.” She lifted up her limp arm with her other hand and let it drop. “The blast I just took is more effective than any restraint.”
“Get up.” Salazar leveled his laser at her torso. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”
She stood, but didn’t pivot. “I’m taking my orders directly from Command on this one. It’ll be your heads when we get back.”
“Forget the restraints, Salazar.” Mac clamped his hand on Anika’s shoulder. She exaggerated her wince. Let him think he was the boss. “I’ll cover her. She won’t get away.”
“Like you covered her at the truck stop?”
“You were at the truck stop?” She stiffened.
Mac glared at Salazar. “If you hadn’t hit that beggar bitch and pissed off all those truckers, she wouldn’t have gotten away.”
“And if you had followed orders,” Salazar shot back, “you would’ve put a tracker on the truck instead of an explosive.”
“It was you? You blew up the truck?” Anika’s anger spiked.
Mac leaned toward her, filling her vision with his broad face. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“You killed an innocent. He had a wife. And a daughter.”
“So?”
Her muscles coiled, like a snake ready to strike. She wanted to smash her fist into Mac’s face, wanted to hammer that sneer into the back of his throat. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw Salazar steadying his laser on her.
“I owe you.” She spoke like the quiet before a storm.
“That the best you can do?” He dug his fingers, like steel claws, into her shoulder.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.
“We need to remove the bullet from Gianni’s leg before we transport him.”
“Negative,” Salazar said. “It can wait until we’re back at U.N.I.T.”
“No, it can’t. He could die before then.”
Salazar shook his head.
“Don’t you remember?” Impatience edged her voice. “First year primitive weapons class?” She looked back and forth between Salazar and Mac. Their hesitation encouraged her. “Bullets kill in ninety-five minutes.” She recalled the name of a poison from a classic vid she had watched once during a sleepless night. “Especially if they’ve been treated with arsenic.”
“That true, Salazar?” Mac asked.
“Shut up.”
Salazar’s eyes quivered back and forth, as if his mind were searching through data files.
“My orders are to bring him in alive,” she said.
“Okay, you do it then.”
“The procedure requires two hands. And the right equipment. I know a doctor. A local. She can get here in time.”
“How are you going to explain this to a civilian?” Salazar’s eyes swept the damaged room.
“She’s not a civilian,” Anika replied. “She’s one of us. She’s U.N.I.T.”
Chapter 31
“¡Dios mio! What happened?” Maggie froze on the threshold of the cottage door in a convincing display of concern. She removed her sunshades. Her voice sounded the right notes of alarm.
“It’s called a retrieval mission.” Anika stood and faced her. “You know the term, right?”
“Retrieval? No … I don’t know … Are you all right? I was at the resort when I got your page. About your fever returning.”
“Yes, I did that so you’d come right away and bring your medical bag. But I didn’t want to alert anybody else who might be monitoring your messages. You’d better get used to that — someone always watching, always listening in. Now that you’re part of U.N.I.T.” She stressed the name of the covert organization.
Die Run Hide Page 21
