Road Trip, Volume 2

by BA Tortuga

  “Sit, man. He’s got Duncan.”

  He didn’t have time for histrionics.

  “No. No, he’s not…. Something is wrong, Colby. They won’t get out.”

  His gut clenched, his hands tightening on the rifle for a moment before he made himself relax and aim again. “We stick to the plan, English. Period. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  NEIL DIDN’T particularly want to get shot either.

  Though between the explosions and the psychic noise, it might be the best way to go. Well, at least no one had drugged him this time. He decided the best thing he could do now was focus on Padraic, and on Duncan. If they got out alive, Neil might just have the will to go on.

  Padraic’s mind was surprisingly quiet, almost shockingly so, and Duncan’s was roaring with a mixture of panic and pain.

  Neil found the way in through Duncan to be far easier, and he made himself look through the man’s eyes, assessing the situation.

  The place was crawling with people—wounded and wild—and Paddy was in what looked like a boiler room, fiddling with wires. His lover was filthy, face pale as milk.

  God. Neil closed his physical eyes, watching the wires in his mind, trying to decipher the wires. What was Padraic doing?

  Neil. Paddy’s voice was strong, sudden. Clear. I love you.

  Those words sounded like goodbye.

  No. No goodbyes. Yes to love. Neil pushed with all his mental strength, asking his body and mind to do something they never had before.

  He had to help Padraic get out of there. Now.

  I can’t. There’s no time. There never was.

  It hit him suddenly, furiously. Duncan, Paddy, MJ—none of them were intended to survive this.

  Not one of them.

  That had been the plan all along. Greg’s plan. Kill them all. MJ wasn’t leaving Paddy to die. He was going after Greg, and Greg was making himself a target.

  A deep calm settled over Neil’s mind. Manning was perfectly capable of dealing with Greg. Greg hadn’t counted on the one thing that would break all of Manning’s conditioning.

  Sonny.

  No, saving Padraic and Duncan was up to him. He could only hope he was equal to the task.

  NO.

  No motherfucking way.

  MJ’s legs were screaming, and the fucking bastard was getting away.

  No.

  No.

  “Sonny!”

  It wasn’t fucking ending like this.

  The roar of a vehicle was almost drowned out by the crackling, shooting blaze and the secondary explosions. But it was there, coming up behind him.

  “Come on, Precious! Time to go. Let’s get those bastards.”

  He swung up into the Jeep. “Go. Go. It’s that motherfucker.”

  His fucking hero.

  Sonny could drive through the gates of hell and not miss a beat. He’d bet Greg didn’t know that little detail.

  He reloaded, stayed out of Sonny’s way, and cussed a lot. Made him feel better. “Fucking Rick’s in there. He won’t get out, for fuck’s sake.”

  “He’s smarter than they think, Precious.” They bounced through a ditch, Sonny’s teeth clenching so hard he could all but feel it. “Hang on.”

  His hands wrapped around the oh-shit bar, his ass bouncing.

  They were gonna hit the fence soon. They were approaching the edge of the compound. Hopefully Greg didn’t have a handy gate opener or some shit.

  Greg’s vehicle went through the fence, sparks flying, shooting up into the air. “There he goes….”

  “I got him, Precious.”

  Sonny sounded sure, but MJ wasn’t so positive. The big vehicle Greg was in had armor plating. It had opened a hole, but it hadn’t—

  Whoa. Greg’s vehicle rocked to a stop, nose down, when a crater opened up in front of it, the explosion all but blinding him. He heard a low chuckle over the headset.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Oh, babe. You fucking rock!”

  MJ fucking loved grenades.

  And launchers. And the fact that people were staggering out of the big Jeep thing in front of them and Cowboy was fucking picking them off.

  “He’s in there.” He looked at Sonny. “You stay out of range. That fucker won’t go easy.”

  “I’m with you, Precious. That’s that.” Sonny pulled his sidearm. “I’ll cover you, though.”

  “Okay. Let’s finish this.”

  He slid out of the Jeep, moving fast toward the car, spinning around the crumpled bumper and heading for the open door.

  “You always did have an amazing amount of friends, Manning.” Greg’s hand was wrapped around the edge of the door, pink skin unnatural.

  “I do. Get out of the fucking car.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Come give an old friend a hand.”

  “Don’t you go near him, Precious.” Sonny’s drawl was too close and unmistakable.

  “Back off. Stay clear.” He drew his weapon, took a wide berth around the car. “I’m not playing, fuckhead. Get out of the vehicle. I don’t care if you have to drag your crispy fucking corpse the whole way.”

  “Now, now. Is that the way to act? After I was so very good to you?”

  White-hot fury flooded him, and he stared into the inky blackness of the Jeep’s interior. Before he could convince himself not to, he rushed the car, grabbed hold of slick and slippery skin, and pulled, Greg’s screams perfect.

  He was going to tear the man limb from limb. He was going to feed the little bits of flesh to the fire and watch them burn.

  He got Greg on the ground, staring into the deformed, hideous face. “Game over, motherfucker. I’m going to make you beg.”

  “I don’t think so, my dear friend. You’re going to get me out of here. You’re a ghost.”

  MJ stopped. Blinked.

  “That’s right, Manning. My ghost. Now, please dispatch of this Neanderthal so we can go.”

  His brain was screaming, but his fucking arm lifted, Glock pointed directly in the center of Sonny’s forehead.

  “Sunshine. Run.” He croaked it out, fighting the conditioning with everything in him.

  The ground rolled, the earth seeming to hiccup as the world turned into Hell.

  IT WOULDN’T hurt.

  If Paddy stayed right here, close, it would be so fast that it wouldn’t hurt.

  Boomer wasn’t here to make something up, and Duncan was bleeding to death. It was time to do this.

  I love you, Neil. I’m sorry. It won’t hurt. I promise.

  “Hurry, little man.” Duncan was still moving, which was, like, the eighth wonder of the world or something. Moving. Crowding him.

  “I am. It’s almost ready. You need to go. Now.”

  Please.

  “No. I stay with you.” Duncan didn’t know him, had no ties to him. Why wouldn’t the man just go?

  “There’s no time!” He swallowed hard. “Go. Go. Go.”

  “You come.” Duncan started to pull at him, those hands amazingly strong for someone who was bleeding so bad.

  “Okay. Okay. I have to do this.” He could try. He couldn’t make it, but Duncan was a good guy. A really, truly good guy. Paddy connected the wires, hands shaking so hard that it took him three tries.

  His hands steadied all of a sudden, just long enough to arm the trigger mechanism Boomer was so proud of.

  There.

  There.

  “Duncan! Go!”

  He poured everything he was into his Neil. All the goodness, all the happiness.

  He felt Neil there with him, inside him, giving him everything back. It all flashed through his mind: the sun, the sand, the silly hat, and the bicycle. Neil.

  Yes.

  His heart burned inside him, and he felt the world burning around him. It won’t hurt. It won’t hurt.

  No, it wouldn’t hurt. Not with Neil there with him, better than sugar, better than fire and ice and all the things Paddy loved.

  All he could think of was Neil.
It wasn’t such a bad way to go.

  OUT.

  Out.

  Out.

  He grabbed the monkey man and ran, roaring.

  His Cowboy was out there where the bad men were, and he was going to get him.

  Now.

  Out.

  Out.

  Out.

  The world behind him was fire and death, and the world ahead was black smoke.

  Out.

  Out.

  The sound made his ears bleed, the ground shake, and his bones feel like powder. He kept going.

  His cowboy. His.

  There was—not light, there was no more light, never more light—but something ahead. Out.

  His Cowboy.

  His.

  Out.

  Out.

  He hit the wall at a dead run, something in his body going white-hot, then numb, but the wall gave and there was a hole.

  A hole to out.

  Yes. Out. There was the night out there, and it was on fire too, but there was air to breathe.

  He roared and slammed again and again, making the hole….

  One more sound and he went to his knees, eyes seeing the out, the place where his cowboy was. “Mine.”

  His.

  Out.

  THINGS HAD gone tits up damned fast.

  Cowboy took stock of the situation in a heartbeat. MJ was about to shoot the redneck, which was a damned shameful waste of an amazing ass. Sonny was not running, which meant that Cowboy was gonna have to take MJ out with a headshot.

  Also a damned shame.

  Neil, well, Neil had gone catatonic at some point, completely blank and slack in the face, all of his shit focused inward. Cowboy had done the favor of removing the guy’s ear and throat unit. No sense in blowing out his ear when the shit went down even harder.

  He steadied the sniper rifle on the lee of rock he’d found on the high ground and took aim at MJ. He started the mental countdown, knowing he had a few seconds while MJ fought the programming. A man hated to pull the trigger prematurely.

  His finger slid between the trigger and the guard, and his senses narrowed to the target. MJ’s hair was just now growing out to where you could tell what color it was.

  “Sorry, Jay-Jay,” he murmured, about to pull the damned trigger.

  Which was when the building to the left went off like a rocket, windows bursting out, pieces of roof exploding like weird helicopter rotors.

  He turned to look, eyes searching the grounds for Red, for his Doc. No way they were….

  There.

  There.

  Doc.

  There was a hole, and Doc was bashing the rock away, more blood than Colby’d ever seen pouring down. Duncan was screaming, “My Cowboy! My Cowboy!”

  Oh, Jesus. Fuck. Jesus-fuck, even. He didn’t think of laying down cover fire, or Neil, or even his best friend on earth, Jay-Jay. He dropped his rifle, grabbed his sidearm, and pelted down the damned hill.

  Fuck this shit. He had to go get Doc. The one thing in the fucking world that meant more to him than the damned job.

  He swore he could see those green eyes staring at him.

  Then the kid—what was left of him—came flying out, Duncan throwing him like he was a fucking javelin.

  Red bounced, and Doc came out like a juggernaut, moving slower with every step. He saw Doc grab Red by one arm and drag him, and goddamn, it felt like they were all swimming in molasses.

  Then the fucking building looked like it was breathing—sucking a huge breath in, out, in….

  Duncan pushed Red forward, hard, head turned to look.

  “Doc!” He needed Duncan to run. Now. As hard as he could.

  Cowboy made it within maybe half a football field to reaching Duncan, to trying to get his Doc out of there. Then the whole fucking place went up, pieces of the building coming apart like those Lincoln Log toys from when he was a kid.

  The last thing he saw before the concussive force threw him back and slammed him to the ground was a wall the size of the side of a barn, coming down in a single sheet.

  And taking Duncan with it.

  SONNY STARED at MJ, who wasn’t looking at him. The man was staring at the gun in his hand, the gun that was pointed straight at Sonny.

  He smiled a little, moving closer. “MJ isn’t gonna shoot me, are you, Precious?”

  “Sunshine. Run.”

  “Do it, Manning. I’m quite ready to go, little ghost.”

  He was gonna stomp that motherfucker into mud.

  “I don’t have to run. Look at me, Precious.” He needed to see MJ’s eyes. Needed to see them and look into them and let MJ know he wasn’t a ghost. Then he’d kill Greg.

  Those bright eyes were in pure agony, but they met his.

  “Manning, do your job.”

  “I got you, MJ. Remember that. You’re not gonna shoot me.” He moved closer, skirting MJ and going for Greg, who looked like a man starting to realize something was terribly wrong.

  “Stay back. Stay there. Manning, this is a direct order, shoot him!”

  The pistol moved, but slower than he did, his Precious fighting hard.

  “No, Mr. Program. You think you got him so good, but he’s stronger than that.” Sonny wasn’t even looking at MJ anymore. He was studying the grossly misshapen man who had caused this shitstorm.

  There was no way this fucker was gonna live, no way. Burned and broken, one leg pouring out blood. “Strong enough? What? Do you think the idiot fucking loves you more than he needs to stay alive? One word and I trigger his kill switch.”

  “Uh-huh. You think I’ll let that happen?” Maybe it was wrong to wallow in having the upper hand, and God knew he’d seen enough movies. No monologuing.

  But still.

  “You’re the one who dies, asshole.”

  “Yes.” Greg coughed, a great splat of blood hawking out. “But I won’t go alone. Manning. Time to graduate.”

  MJ gave a wild, desperate sound, and that fucking hammer came back, the barrel of the gun pressed to MJ’s temple. That was the endgame, right? MJ was supposed to kill himself at the finish, complete the circle.

  Fuck that shit.

  Sonny took aim at Greg, staring into the man’s eyes for one more second before he pulled the trigger. The only one with a bullet in their head today was Greg.

  The death rattle hadn’t even stopped when Sonny was on MJ, knocking the gun away and slamming the man to the ground. “I don’t think so, Precious. That’s mine.”

  MJ screamed, eyes damn near bugging out of his head, fingers squeezing rhythmically, pulling an invisible trigger, over and over.

  Sonny waited, holding MJ down. The man had been able to overcome everything else. He’d get through this. “Really, man? You really gonna do what that fucker told you?”

  “Fuck you.” MJ stopped moving; those eyes met his, head-on. “You’re fucking heavy, redneck.”

  “Am I? I thought I’d been slimming down.” Sonny grinned, feeling the wild adrenaline rush that came from MJ and explosions. “No shooting yourself.”

  “You need to start running when I have a bead on you, man.” That trickle of blood was sliding down MJ’s nose, and damn, wasn’t Sonny tired of seeing it. “We need to vámonos.”

  Sonny reared back a little and smacked MJ on the cheek. “You are not a Mexican named Jaime.”

  “Not today, motherfucker.” MJ grabbed his arm, flipped him to one side. “Ask me tomorrow when we’re in fucking New Mexico.”

  He did love his Precious’s recovery time.

  “New Mexico, huh? A little landlocked there.” He hoisted himself to his feet, grabbing MJ and yanking him up.

  “Gotta get back to the marina somehow. New Mexico is easier to get into from here.” MJ staggered over to Greg, moved the man’s face with the toe of his boot. “I win, motherfucker. I win.”

  Then MJ turned. “Now, let’s go. Assess damage, rescue who we can, and get the fuck out of here.”

  Sonny nodded, relieved that MJ hadn
’t gone for the gun again. Looked like the urge had passed. Thank God for tiny attention spans. “Sounds good, Precious. We have a retirement party to go to.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “THERE’S A storm coming. Nothing hard-core, just lights and rain.” MJ stretched out on the blanket, spread his legs so his inner thighs would get some sun.

  Sonny glanced over, or at least the bald head tilted. It was hard to see through the dark glasses. “Uh-huh? You think we need to move farther in? There’s that inlet….”

  “Up to you. I don’t mind getting wet.” He shrugged lazily, the deck warm on his belly. The wind was blowing his hair, tangling it into a mess, but there wasn’t going to be anyone to complain.

  Sonny fucking loved his hair. Said it made a great handle. MJ grinned.

  “Cool. We’ll stay out unless it gets bad, then. Get a little bit of a show.” Sonny flipped over, giving MJ a show—all long, tanned limbs and heavy dangly parts.

  He hummed, stretched a little bit. “Look at that. My very own redneck, all spread out pretty for me.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Wouldn’t want my butt to get burned.”

  He wasn’t sure Sonny could burn anymore. There wasn’t a pale spot left. Man, sometimes you took sun and water for granted. He’d learned never to do that again. Life was too precarious to leave anything unappreciated.

  Sonny’s cell phone beeped, and he looked over toward where it lay on the little bench that was cut out of the hull.

  “Don’t, Precious,” Sonny warned, shaking a finger at him.

  “But….” They—they being Cowboy and Sonny—had agreed that the farther apart all of them were, the better. There had been the tiniest confab after they’d helped Cowboy dig Duncan out of the rubble. The man was amazing. A real freak of nature.

  Cowboy and Sonny were fuckers.

  “No. Don’t make me toss it overboard. Your babe and the Doc are better off without us. You know that.”

  That was a heavy threat. Sonny didn’t really let MJ have technology much these days. Losing their only phone might be bad.

  He stuck his tongue out, needing to make the token argument. “Jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch. Homicidal mania, now? That suits me.” Sonny rose up, peering at him over the glasses, those sloe eyes just dancing with amusement.