by Cherry Adair
DAKOTA TWISTED UP HER damp hair, dug the short black wig out of her bag, and pulled it on, shoving the long strands of red hair under it as she would beneath a shower cap. She found her Smith & Wesson on the counter in the bathroom. Nice of him to leave it for her. “I’m out of my damned mind!” she muttered, tucking the gun in the back waistband of her jeans. The thing was tiny when she wanted a—a bazooka!
What had Zak Stark been thinking when he gave her the .38 at Sea-Tac? “Point and shoot. Yeah. Right,” she muttered, looking around to see what else she might need. “A doctor? A gurney? Rand’s missing damn security team? An army of armed soldiers. A Navy SEAL? All of the above?”
What she had was a GPS location and a six-inch gun with five rounds. I hope there aren’t six bad guys, she thought with gallows humor. She’d never fired a gun in her life.
The chances of her hitting anyone farther than a few inches from the barrel were slim to freaking none. “Out of options. Woman up, Dakota Christina.” Not sure if the S&W, small as it was, could be seen under her thin T-shirt, she slipped on her black windbreaker, stuffed the GPS in one pocket and her phone in the other, and left the hotel, heading toward the entrance to the catacombs.
The sun was shining and there were people everywhere, enjoying the beautiful day. She walked briskly, even though she wanted to break into a run or turn around and go back to the hotel. The streets smelled of urine, cigarette smoke, and the dog poop left where it had been deposited on the sidewalk. Parisians loved their dogs almost as much as they loved smoking.
In the dark wig and sunglasses, she was hardly memorable or even noticeable. Just another tourist in a city filled with them. Still, she felt as though she had a large red bull’s-eye painted on her back, and her skin prickled with nerves. The stationary latitude and longitude numbers in her head showed her that Rand hadn’t moved. Still alive. Same for the bad guy, who hadn’t budged either.
They were down there, maybe a quarter of a mile apart. Neither moving. Dakota wasn’t sure if the fact that they weren’t together right now was a good thing or a bad thing. Do not think, she warned herself as her heart pounded and her hands, stuffed in the pockets of the jacket, grew increasingly sweaty.
Do not think about going—willingly—into catacombs.
Don’t think millions of dead people residing there.
Don’t think tight, confined spaces.
Don’t think seven levels of hell.
Don’t. Think. Claustrophobia.
The gun in her waistband was heavy for such a little thing. Her armpits itched with anticipated fear. She took a roll of hard candy out of her pocket and popped a butterscotch in her mouth to alleviate the dryness.
Think, she reasoned with herself as her footsteps got slower and slower with dread, of not going inside.
Imagine walking away. Imagine leaving Rand in there, injured or somehow incapacitated. Imagine no one ever finding him. Ev-er! “Damn, I hate it when I’m this logical.”
“Allez-vous bien, coup manqué?”
She shook her head. She didn’t speak French, but by the frown of concern on the older woman’s face, Dakota guessed she’d asked if she’d lost her mind. No, that she’d lost years ago. When she’d believed Rand when he’d told her she was the love of his life. That they’d be together forever. That they were two halves of a whole.
Forever was apparently eleven months, seventeen days, and a handful of meaningless hours. He should have listened to her when she’d told him love didn’t—couldn’t—last.
Obstinate bastard.
She’d been wrong, but she was still going to save his ass.
The line to get into the catacombs was around the block and all the way up the street. It was a tourist attraction. What had she expected? That she’d just stroll inside, one, two, three?
It was noon and too hot to be wearing even the thin jacket, but she ignored the discomfort as she walked all the way up the line until she was three groups from the entrance. Nobody said anything. They just presumed she was where she was supposed to be.
Taking out the map of the underground streets and tunnels, she memorized each path and branch that she’d advised Rand to take as the first group in line was allowed in. Five minutes between groups, she’d read. She shuffled to close the gap, closed her eyes, and walked the tunnels in her mind. Looked at the map again, then refolded it and shoved it in her pocket.
The couple before the family in front of her went inside. Her stomach turned agitated, impatient somersaults, not helped by the greasy smell of the burgers the kids near her were eating while they waited. Come on, come on, come on!
Her heart fluttered in anticipation. She glanced at her watch. It had been just over fifteen minutes since she’d lost contact with Rand.
Was she overreacting? She was imagining him unconscious and hurt. Maybe they’d just lost cell reception? She shuffled forward a few more steps. If that was the case, Rand would be furious if she followed him. God only knew, she’d be relieved if she didn’t have to go inside… .
The problem was, there was no way of knowing what the hell the situation was.
When the laughing, joking, noisy British family of seven went in, Dakota sucked in a stabilizing breath and went in with them.
It wasn’t as dark and confining as she’d dreaded. Just long stone walls with dim sconces every now and then, but her hands were still sweating, and her breathing became a little erratic in the narrow tunnel. There wasn’t much to see, as the two older kids just ahead of her pointed out to their parents, who were marching ahead of the pack at a nice fast pace. Dakota appreciated that. The air smelled more of greasy hamburger than anything else. Her stomach rumbled.
“Where are the dead people, Mum?”
Rand’s numbers glowed bright in Dakota’s mind’s eye.
A BEEP IN HER ear indicated a second call. Ham Relieved, she put Rand’s call on hold, and accepted the second caller.
“Rand’s down.”
“Mark?” Thank God Rand hadn’t gone in alone. “What ha—”
“Ma’am, this is Chris Raimi.”
Her heart was pounding so hard Dakota almost passed out. Not Mark Stratham. If this man had Rand’s phone, he had Rand. “What do you want?”
“I’m with Maguire Security, ma’am.”
Her breath came out in a whoosh of relief. “Thank God. You’re with him. Is he all right?” It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t. If he were, he’d be talking to her himself.
“We did not accompany Rand and Ham into the catacombs. We lost contact twenty-three minutes ago. We’re on our way to you at the hotel. Please stay where you are.” There was a faint click, but she was still getting feedback from Rand’s Bluetooth, which meant his line was open, he just wasn’t responding.
“Wait, I’m—” Here!
So Rand had lied when he’d agreed they’d follow the guy on their own. He had ordered his entire security team to rendezvous with him in Paris. No wonder no one had been in Monaco when she called. Instead of being angry, she was relieved that he had the right kind of help on the way. “Thank God.”
Only the reinforcements were on their way to the hotel.
And Rand’s GPS numbers were moving. Slowly and away from her. But moving.
She debated breaking her connection to Rand, to call him back, but decided against it. She was here, and had no idea how far away he was. When Raimi got to the hotel he’d call again, and she’d lead him to Rand and Ham then.
After making her way through the ossuary, she saw the wrought-iron gate Rand and Ham must have passed through. It was padlocked. Beyond it was nothing but black. Not only did she have no idea how to pick a lock, she didn’t have anything to even try it with. Dakota was almost relieved that she didn’t have to go beyond it, until she tried the padlock anyway and found it hadn’t been completely closed.
Foiled, she thought, trying to find a glimmer of humor in the situation. There wasn’t any.
A bead of sweat rolled down her temp
le as she struggled to compress the rising terror at being in an even darker, even more confined space. She assured herself that there was plenty of air to breathe, that the walls had stood for centuries. That thousands of people had walked right where she was, and they’d all gotten out the other side.
The pep talk helped only a little. Okay, not much at all. Made no damned difference. She was here, and she was going to find Rand. That was the only option right now. Finding Rand.
Now the passage smelled of old dead things and decay. Goose bumps pebbled her skin, both from nerves and the suddenly colder air seeping from the cross tunnel where she stood.
The good news was that Rand’s numbers were once again on the move. She let out a ragged breath.
“Move,” she ordered her paralyzed feet. Unhooking the heavy padlock, she pushed through the ancient gate, then pulled it closed behind her. She replaced the lock as Rand had done, so his men could follow her, just as she heard the next group passing into the chamber she’d just exited.
Turning on the narrow beam of her flashlight, she followed the uneven stone floor, stepping over piles of trash and trying to ignore the scratching of what she was positive were giant rats scurrying close by. A full body shudder slowed her steps for several moments.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.
Forcing each foot in front of the other, willing herself to keep going, she came to the spiral stairs that Rand had taken down to the next level.
The air became progressively colder and more stagnant, and she picked up her pace. She was scared going slowly, and she was scared going fast. Fast would get her out of there sooner. But it was dangerous. The floor was rough, uneven, and slick. Garbage of the stinky kind made the passage hazardous, and puddles of stagnant water were everywhere. The walls oozed water that caught the light of the flashlight, making her feel as if she were inside the bronchial tubes of some giant beast. Was the air getting heavier? It was certainly more of an effort to breathe.
She reminded herself again that there was plenty of oxygen, and she could indeed breathe. God, she wanted out of there. Now. Keeping the light on her feet as she took each step, she finally managed the dizzying descent and arrived at the bottom. Just about to step off the last step, Dakota swept the beam of her flashlight across the floor. Inches from where she’d just been about to step was a human hand.
Too frightened, too shocked, to cry out, she froze. Dear God … Rand? It took every ounce of fortitude she could muster to move. Raising her leg, she stepped beyond the extended arm at the base of the stairs. Another sweep of the light showed Mark Stratham, eyes open and unseeing, with a large, gory hole in the side of his neck. His shirt was saturated with blood.
“I’m so sorry.” Sorry you’re dead. Sorry I didn’t like you. Would someone find him soon, or would he lie here undetected for years? She rubbed her arms, grateful for even the thin protection of her jacket.
In her head, Rand’s numbers continued to move slowly ahead of her. Sidestepping Ham’s body wasn’t easy. The corridor was not only narrow but dark and spooky, and Ham was—had been—a large man. Once over—literally—the hurdle of Mark Stratham’s body, Dakota started jogging to close the gap between herself and Rand.
She stepped into a puddle of water and staggered off balance, throwing out a hand to catch herself. The wall oozed slimy wetness. With a grimace, she wiped her hand down the leg of her jeans and kept going. Faster when she heard voices and cries indicating there were people nearby.
At first she thought her heartbeat changed rhythm, pounding in her ears as she moved down the corridor. But after several minutes she realized that what she was hearing wasn’t her own erratic heartbeat but the faint sound of music. Not a melody, but the deep, resonating thump-thump-thump of the bass accompanied by shouting and laughter.
Her steps slowed, then stopped altogether as she listened. Definitely music and voices. Someone was having a party? Down here, several levels beneath the streets of Paris? Apparently.
A faint shimmer of lighter black indicated a light source down a side branch. Knowing Rand was somewhere close; Dakota took a left and headed toward the tiny pinpoints of light.
Disappointed, she came to a dead end where an intricate black metal grille set into the wall like a large window prevented her going any farther. The sound of voices drew her closer. The illumination beyond the grille cast dots of golden light against the adjoining wall. Intrigued and curious, Dakota peered through one of the tiny openings.
There was a large room on the other side. No, not a room. It looked like a bar—a club of some sort, with dim lighting and wide, white-leather backless sofas scattered about a shiny black floor.
Her breath snagged in her throat when she saw what was happening on those low couches, on the floor, against the walls. A dozen or more couples were having animated, very loud sex. Oh, hell. Here we go again.
Distracted by what she was seeing, Dakota took a few moments to realize that not only were Rand’s GPS coordinates stationary and very close, so were those of the guy he’d come down here to find. Was one of those writhing bodies Rand?
She pressed her face closer to the grille.
Even while her scientist’s brain knew these people had been dosed with Rapture, it was hard not to be affected by seeing them in the throes of uninhibited sexual pleasure. She didn’t smell roses, so they must have ingested the drug. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Suddenly, a steely arm wrapped around her midriff and a hard hand slapped across her mouth.
EVEN IF DAKOTA WEREN’T seeing Rand’s exact GPS location inches from her own, she’d have known it was him by the scent of his skin and the contour of his body as he pressed against her back. Tempting as it was to lean backward into his heat, Dakota wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged his hand from her mouth. She turned her head to look at him, and raised an eyebrow. Probably hard to see under her faux bangs.
She trembled as he tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, feeling the caress in every receptor cell in her body. Looking down, she allowed him access to her exposed nape. A lover’s pose.
He leaned close, whispering, “What are you doing down here? It’s dangerous.”
“Our bad guy’s in there.” The erotic sound of multiple people having noisy and energetic sex just a few feet away was extremely distracting. “We lost contact, and you weren’t moving for a while.” Dakota was pleasantly surprised to hear how calm and rational her voice sounded, considering the circumstances. “I thought you might need help.”
“Ham was shot. He’s dead.”
And the possibility that it was you terrified me enough to make me overcome my claustrophobia and come find you. “I saw. I’m sorry, Rand.”
His body radiated heat. She shifted so her bottom snugged against his groin. His braced legs bracketed hers, and she was surrounded by the heat of his body and the salty soapy fragrance of his skin. The bristles on his jaw rubbed against her temple. It was too dark to see more than the speckles of light from the grate shining on his black T-shirt and the lower part of his face.
“What about you?” she asked quietly. “Were you hurt?”
“I’m good.” He put a finger across her mouth as several men in the room started talking, disconcerting because they were all in various stages of undress, and having sex at the same time.
Dakota didn’t speak French, but Rand did a simultaneous translation quietly in her ear, and she closed her eyes because she really didn’t need the sight of all these strangers having sex to remain imprinted on her brain for all time.
“Our guy is offering more samples. The buyer just pointed out that the Bad Guy happens to be boinking his favorite girlfriend.” Rand’s voice indicated amusement as he continued. “Buyer guy says he doesn’t need more samples. He’s ready to place a large order.” Rand’s breath moved strands of her hair across her face. “How soon? In production now. Three weeks. Buyer wants his shipment sooner, and wants to be the exclusive Eu
ropean distributor.”
Dakota didn’t need a translation. She opened her eyes again. Bad Guy laughed as he shoved the woman off him, then rattled off another stream of dialogue. It might’ve served as a distraction from feeling like the roof was about to close in on her head, if she’d understood what everyone was saying. Since she didn’t, and having Rand safe and sound beside her, her claustrophobia was closing in on her. She tried to regulate her breathing, but she was prickly hot, then icy cold as wings of panic beat against her.
“Our guy just told him he can have France. Big concession, he says. Everyone wants Rapture, buyers are easy to find.”
The buyer threw his legs over the side of the couch, shoving away the hands of the two naked women, who carried on what they’d been doing without him. He rose, gestured for Bad Guy to give the women more of the drug, and snapped his fingers to a man waiting in the shadows.
“He’s telling our guy to call in his order. Arranging a down payment. Scheduling delivery …”
Dakota tilted her head as Rand kissed her ear, while the two men made the arrangements and the dozen other naked participants were handed what she knew to be paper-thin wafers with dots of Rapture imbedded in them. They each eagerly placed the dose on their tongues. It would dissolve in seconds… .
“God, I hate this thing.” He pulled her wig off, letting her damp hair tumble around her shoulders in wild abandon. “You’re beautiful, no matter what color hair you’re wearing, but this”—he tugged on a long strand—“is my favorite. I used to have fantasies about your hair.” His voice cracked, then roughened. “Damn it, woman, you should have stayed in the hotel room.”
A hint of what he used to feel for her? Then wham, shut it down again. Way to keep a girl on her toes, Dakota thought. “Don’t yell. They’ll hear us.”
“Doubt it,” he whispered dryly, his lips against her cheek. “Are you turned on by them?”
She gave a dramatic shudder. “Ick. No.”
“Then slow your breathing before you hyperventilate. I’m right here, and this place has been standing for thousands of years.”
