Staring through the camera of the main safe room lens, I notice a satellite phone sitting on the table by the computer.
Curious.
Did a man leave it accidently? Surely not. I look closer, willing the camera to zoom in tighter. The phone is sitting on a note. I stare at it for a full minute, but I can’t read the words.
Very curious.
And it will have to remain a mystery because no way in hell am I taking us back there to look.
Tapping away from the security system, I do a new search for my name. Several new conspiracy theories and, hurray for me, I’m trending higher than a Kardashian.
#linkfinder
#ihopelinkduffyisdead
#fucklink
I officially hate most people.
Clicking on the ‘Link Finder’ hashtag, I’m happy to see they’re all hoaxes. Except one. It’s the guy from the deli where Grace rescued Fate. The asshole is saying he saw us, and that we stole his beloved dog after we robbed him and beat him with a broom. And, shocker, he plans to sue my family.
Fucker.
Going back to the conspiracy theories, I grind my teeth at the latest. One theorist has hit the nail on the head: Is Link Duffy a Delta Force Operative? The theorist has connected the dots between the failed Syria mission, the untimely deaths of special force operatives in the following month, and my injury from an ‘accident in Afghanistan’.
“Coincidence?” the man asks on his blog. He then goes on to catalog all the soldiers who have died recently. Suicides. Car accidents. Brain embolisms. Heart attacks. Robberies.
He notes that the number of suicides among the armed force vets are growing, but the percentage post-Syria is “off the charts.”
He goes on to talk about the physical shape special forces soldiers must be in. “And we’re expected to believe four of them died from a heart attack?” He then lists ways murder can look like a heart attack. He’s right on all of them, and left a couple out.
Speaking more on the Syria raid, he poses the question: “Who would want that raid to fail?” His main suspect is Russia. “Whoever beats ISIS wins control of the oil and the gratitude of the world. Russia is stepping up to that plate.” Interesting. It’s the same theory I’d posed to Grace just yesterday.
His alternate theory of who would want the raid to fail is our own government. “We are spending billions of dollars on a war we aren’t officially involved in. By killing those soldiers, it gives the US reason to step into the war officially and … control the oil and gain the gratitude of the world.” The man is clever.
The theorist is petitioning the government to release a list of the names of soldiers on the Syria raid so he can cross-check his theory. At the moment, he as a little over two-thousand signatures supporting the petition. It wouldn’t matter if he had two million.
As another alternative, he’s asking ‘hacktivists’ to use their technological stealth to hack into top level government officials’ computers and release the names of those soldiers involved in the raid. He lists the names of the officials who would have most likely been in the Situation Room during the raid. He goes so far as to ask them to also tap into the CIA since, “The CIA would have gathered the initial intel prior to those soldiers being sent in to fulfill the mission.”
In his summary, the man concludes that I served as a Delta Force operative in the raid. He believes I escaped, but was injured and that only my immense wealth has, thus far, saved me from the same fate of my colleagues. “If Link Duffy lived in a normal home, he would have been a ‘robbery gone wrong’ as well. Or a suicide. Or an accident. If Link Duffy is alive right now, it’s only because he has the resources to hide, resources his comrades, unfortunately, didn’t have.”
He’s right on that one as well.
I power off the iPad, feeling the guilt of being alive once again consume me. I shouldn’t be here right now. I shouldn’t have made it out of Syria. Grace shouldn’t have pushed me away from that bullet. How many fucking soldiers have the fucking money to hire a private nurse?
Even now, it is only my money that has saved us. If I hadn’t had the money to install that safe room and security system and those cameras, Grace and I would be dead in that bed right now.
Hell, there wouldn’t have been a Grace. I would have been in a rehab hospital. I would have been a brain embolism just like a few of my friends.
I start the truck and reverse from the parking spot. Dammit. How many people can just buy a fucking truck and keep it stored in a fucking storage building ‘just in case’ it’s needed. Me. I can do that. Only me because my daddy’s sperm connected to my mommy’s egg and nine-months later I was the lucky fucker who popped out into the world.
It’s not fair.
I don’t deserve this. Any of this.
I did nothing to earn it and had it at my disposal my entire life. Sure, I can justify that I made things better for a few people. Sure, I tossed a few hundred million out as a salve to my conscious. But a fucking few hundred million means nothing to me. It’s like normal people stuffing a twenty into a tip jar. In three years, I earn all of it back in interest. In fucking interest!
Doing nothing. Nothing! NOTHING! To earn it.
I look down at the sleeping woman beside me. My hand creeps out to touch her hair. No. I pull it back and latch it to the steering wheel, gripping and releasing the leather.
I don’t deserve her either.
I’ll get her to Tennessee, to her family. I’ll make sure she’s safe and then I’ll leave. I’ll discover who is targeting me and I’ll kill that person. If I’m still alive, I’ll rejoin Delta and help rebuild the program. The Army is my life. It’s where I belong. Not in this fantasy.
Glancing down at the speedometer, I realize my foot has gotten heavy and I’m pushing ninety. I ease off the gas, then pop the lid on one of the soft drinks and drink down another jolt of caffeine.
Straight through.
In an instant, I decide that we’ll drive as much as possible, daylight be damned. I want to be there by tomorrow. Get her to her family by tomorrow. Leave her tomorrow.
It has to happen quickly.
No more romantic hotel rooms.
No more long talks.
I press the cruise control button and settle back in my seat. It’s better this way.
For her and for me.
Chapter 11 – Grace
Sound comes before sight as I slowly groan myself into wakefulness. Music is blasting from somewhere, the thump-thump of a bass so loud it must be vibrating windows. The scrape of metal against metal. The whine of Fate at my feet.
I have a terrible crick in my neck and I push myself up into the truck seat, stretching it from side to side. We’re at a gas station. Link is pumping gas, his wool hat low on his forehead, reading glasses covering his eyes.
Noticing the time, I can’t believe it. It’s a few minutes until noon. I slept for nearly ten hours. No wonder my neck hurts. No wonder I have to pee. No wonder I’m starving and my lips are so dry they stick together when I open my mouth.
Hooking the leash to Fate’s collar, I open the door, but stop when Link opens his. “Wait a second,” he says, then rummages in the back and pulls out a hat and takes off his reading glasses, handing them both to me. “Stuff your hair inside the hat and put these on.”
I do as he says, ignoring how curt he sounds. I’d be an asshole too if I’d just driven over ten hours on zero sleep.
Walking Fate over to a grassy spot, I try to blink myself more fully awake while she finds a good spot to pee. Taking her back to the truck, I pour her some food and water and she digs in while I round the truck to see if Link needs anything from inside. I look at the pump. He’s already at fifty dollars. How many gallons of gas does this thing hold?
“Think you’re up to driving awhile?” he says in way of a greeting, after giving me the quickest of hugs. He turns toward the pump, nearly putting his back to me. “I’d like to get there by tomorrow.”
“Sur
e,” I say, giving my shoulder a gentle stretch. “Mind if I get something to eat inside and some coffee? Maybe an audio book to make the time go faster?”
He digs out his wallet and hands me a hundred. “Get anything you need.” He meets my eyes and grins for the first time and I feel myself relax a little. “I ate all the snacks a while ago.”
I frown at him as he turns away, then head inside the store. It’s one of the huge places that offers about everything a trucker would ever need. I use the bathroom, then splash water on my face. I pull the hat off and then re-fix my hair into a better bun.
Back in the store, I grab some drinks, snacks and a pimento cheese sandwich from the fridge section. I find a pair of cheap sunglasses and, yes, gum! Then head to the books where the selection of audiobooks is better than I could have hoped for.
Terror? No thank you, quite enough of that in real life.
Romance? I snicker as I look at Fifty Shades and also at Grey. Better stay away from those, although I squirm as I remember Link spanking me between my legs.
Focus!
Mystery? Yes, but nothing too sinister. I settle on a Kate Morton book I haven’t read yet. It’s over twenty hours long and should distract me for a nice long time.
After paying, I find Link parked by the curb. He’s letting Fate out again, letting her poop out her lunch. I smile at the two of them. He’s so big and she’s so small, but they seem to be getting along much better. She’s still shy and quiet, but I can see how badly she wants to trust full out. She even hops up on her back legs when he bends to pick her up. Progress.
Taking the driver seat, I pull off the hat before I quickly eat the sandwich and take several slurps of my drink, knowing I can’t multi-task one handed. I nearly groan as I slip gum between my teeth. Oh gum, how I have missed you. Finally, I adjust the seat and mirrors and slip the sunglasses over my eyes.
Link gets Fate settled in the backseat, although she probably won’t stay there for long. From the console, he pulls out a map and traces the route we’re taking with a pen. I-70E to I-64E to I-57S. My heart warms as he traces I-24E to I-40E. I-40E takes me home.
“If you aren’t sure about an exit, wake me up.”
I swallow and look at the dashboard of the expensive looking truck. “Doesn’t this thing have GPS?” I’m embarrassed to tell him I haven’t had to look at a real map since high school. All the squiggly lines that are too small to make any sense. Who uses a map these days anyway?
“It does, but it isn’t hooked up. GPS makes you traceable. No one should be able to link this truck to me, but I’m not risking it.”
I eye the map again. I-64E is my goal.
Taking the audiobook from my lap, he tears off the wrapping and pops a disc into the player.
“Thank you,” I say and lean toward him for a kiss. He brushes his lips against my forehead before leaning his seat all the way back and pulling his cap down over his eyes, leaving me to simply stare at him.
Sighing, I turn back to the wheel and reach across myself to put the car into drive. Dammit. It’s my right arm in a sling. I can’t even reach over and touch him. Connect with him.
I sigh again, feeling overly dramatic. I’m sure everything is okay. He’s just been through a lot the last few days and he hasn’t slept in nearly thirty hours.
Everything’s fine.
The soothing, familiar voice of the narrator fills the speakers and I focus on the story as I pull onto the interstate. I hope I’ve chosen a good book. One with a happy ending.
I drive for six hours straight, careful not to drink too much so I don’t have to wake Link to stop and pee. He’s slept fairly well. Two dreams, but nothing too bad. He cried out a few times. Groaned a few others. Then settled down pretty quickly.
Until now.
Fate whines, sitting on my lap, staring at him with her ears back. Link shouts out something I don’t understand, punching at some haunting specter that only he can see.
“Link! It’s okay. You’re safe. Everyone’s safe.”
He arches in his seat, pulling taut like a bow, screaming in agony. I slow down, taking the next exit and pull as far as I can to the side of the ramp. It feels safer. I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t know if he’ll lash out in my direction. Or if he’ll try to grab the wheel.
I reach across myself to shove the transmission into park just as he screams and lashes out with an elbow. It connects with my face, sending me backwards as the warm metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
He jerks awake. Jerks straight up in his seat. Jerks in my direction.
He curses and slams his fists on the dash when he looks over at me, the hand covering my mouth unable to stop the blood from dripping down my chin.
“Fuck!” he screams again and opens the door, shoving it with his foot and stepping outside. The heels of his hands are pressed into his eyes, his fingers digging into his scalp.
“Link,” I call out to him after finding some napkins and stopping the blood. “I’m okay. It wasn’t your fault.” I look around. There are too many cars. Too many trucks. He doesn’t have his hat on. He could be recognized. “Get in the truck right now!”
My demand seems to stop his pacing. He looks around and then heads back to the truck, coming around to the driver side. He yanks open the door. “My turn to drive.” He looks at my lip and his jaw tightens, then his face softens for the briefest of moments. “Are you okay?”
I nod and smile. “Yes. I promise.”
I reach for him and he backs away, then holds the door more fully open for me to exit. He waits, not looking in my direction. A truck races past us, blowing his hair up, causing his shirt to ripple over his skin.
Exhaling, I pick up the dog and walk to the other side. I leash her and give her a moment to pee. Give myself a moment to stop the tears from burning the back of my eyes.
Both of his hands are on the wheel when I get back into the truck. He pulls it into drive the moment I buckle up. “We’ll get you some ice and something to eat on this exit,” he says, his voice as lifeless as a ghost. He pulls back onto the ramp and drives us down to the array of gas stations and fast food restaurants at the bottom.
I hold Fate close to my chest and listen to the narrator continue the story.
Funny, the man in the book suffers from shell shock, the term they used for PTSD back in World War times.
Not funny, the wife fears he will harm their children. He fears he will harm their children.
Please God, let this book have a happy ending.
“Grace.”
I hear the word echoing around me.
“Grace.”
A warm hand is on my shoulder now, giving me a gentle shake.
I open my eyes and push myself up, lean my seat forward. Look around. It’s dark and the outline of mountains are all around me.
“Not sure where to go from here,” Link says, pulling my attention to him. I look around again, gaining my bearings.
It’s nearly four-thirty in the morning and we’re crossing Clinch Mountain. In fact, we’re nearly on the other side. “Couple more miles. I’ll show you the road.”
We travel in silence. A deep silence. Nothing but our breathing and road noise.
“Here,” I say when we reach the narrow turn-off. “Be careful, this road is just about one lane and the curves are terrible.”
“The goat path?” he asks.
I smile. “No. This is like the yellow brick road compared to what’s up ahead. We’ll only be able to go so far and we’ll have to hike in the rest of the way. There’s a grove of trees where you can park. It should hide the truck well enough.”
He nods and curses when we top a hill and he has to take a sharp right around the curve.
I smile again. “Told ya.”
“Is this what you call redneck engineering?” he teases.
“No. This is what you call ‘kill the damn foreigners before they can get back to your land’.” He pulls the wheel to maneuver a very sharp left. He cur
ses again and I laugh. “You really might want to slow down.”
To my great amusement, he flips me the bird, but I notice he slows down considerably. We top another hill and veer sharply to the right. “They should rename this Sphincter Control Road,” he mutters.
Oh, it feels good to laugh, especially after so many hours of tension. Link barely spoke to me for the rest of the drive. Didn’t place his hand on mine when I touched his thigh. Snapped at me when I asked what was wrong.
So I’d grown quiet and eventually fell asleep, hoping things would be better when we were in papaw’s hidey hole.
We drive for another fifteen minutes before I tell him to take a left on a road that is much worse than the one we’re on. This one is gravel. Well, it used to be gravel. There’s a little of it left, but not much.
Turning on the four-wheel drive of the truck, Link navigates us around a huge pothole. Tries to navigate us around it. It’s a bit difficult to get around something that takes up everything.
In another ten minutes, we crest the top. He brakes and says, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Nope. Just don’t kill us until we get around that bend.” I point to the curve that is barely wider than the truck. “One wrong move and we basically fall off the side.”
“Shit.” He inches forward until we can’t even see over the front of the truck, then we come down on the correct path. “How do you get back here in the rain?”
“You don’t. Papaw won’t even let us take the four-wheeler back here when it’s rained bad. The road is slick as glass.”
He frowns. “Stop calling it a road.”
“Sorry, the goat trail is slick as glass.”
Around the bend, I show him the little tree covered area where we’ll have to park. He backs us up as far as he can. “How far of a hike?”
“Not bad. Twenty minutes. The elevation is higher on this side than the other.”
He pulls out a couple of flashlights and tosses one across to me. I get out of the truck and hook Fate to her leash. Letting her find a spot to use the bathroom, I listen to the choir of home. Insects singing. The hoot of an owl. The murmur of the river below.
Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance Page 37
