“Assuming that’s your first name—I never knew it—you must be really sure we’re going to die if you’re willing to break military protocol.”
“Not at all. I simply… felt that you might wish to use it, now that we’re…” He scowled, flustered. He wanted her to use it. That was all. But he couldn’t say that. Cadets didn’t use their commanders’ first names. They just didn’t. Unless she was given a permanent position in the company and an officer’s ranking, it wouldn’t be appropriate.
“Stuck in a little room and about to die together?” Calendula suggested.
“No.” Yes, why didn’t he say yes? That made more sense than him simply wanting to hear his first name on her lips. “Yes.”
She snorted softly, but some of the grimness had faded from her face. Maybe he had succeeded in comforting her. Or distracting her, at least.
“Then you should call me Val,” she said.
Yes, he had always wanted that…
“That’s acceptable,” Gregor said, hoping he sounded as nonchalant as he meant to, rather than like a little boy who had been offered his favorite kind of pie. Given that they were alone together, and nobody was here to observe whether they were following military protocol or not, maybe this lapse wouldn’t matter in the end.
“Glad to hear it.” She gazed into his eyes, and warmth that the frigid air couldn’t squelch sparked in his chest.
He grabbed his belt buckle and started unfastening it. Despite her words about dying together, Gregor had no intention of letting them die from asphyxiation in this freezer.
“Uh.” Her gaze lowered to his trousers. “I know you said staying physically active would help with the hypothermia aspect, but wouldn’t it also use up our air more quickly?”
“It would, but this shouldn’t require much energy.”
“You’re not doing something right if that’s the case.”
He frowned at her as he unthreaded his belt so he could use the sharp part of the buckle to, he hoped, lever that metal plate off the door. “Pardon?”
He applied the tip to the corner of the plate, but didn’t look away from her, confused as to her comment.
“Ohhh,” she said, watching him work. “That’s what you’re doing with the belt buckle.”
“Yes.” Gregor wedged the tip beneath the plate, trying to get enough under there to loosen the screw.
“I thought my earlier mention of quickies might have put notions in your mind.”
Gregor dropped the belt, stared at her for a shocked moment, then hurried to pick it up again. “No. I mean, I believe we discussed that a bed would be a more appropriate place for such activities.” Belatedly, he realized what she must have thought when he had unfastened his belt. That would be… an even more extreme representation of not following military protocol. Though it had put sudden thoughts in his head. Damn. He concentrated on the plate again so he wouldn’t have to look in her eyes, so she wouldn’t see that he was blushing. Were men supposed to blush? He didn’t think so.
“Yes, and we also agreed that taking the time to satisfy both parties is important under ideal circumstances.” She sounded amused now. Maybe she knew how much she had flustered him? Maybe she liked flustering him. On occasion, he had met women who did. “Still, when you’re dying, the rules can be bent, I’m told.”
“We are not dying.” Fueled by embarrassment, Gregor shoved against his makeshift lever. One of the fasteners popped open, and he was able to wiggle the panel off.
“That’s a relief then.” Calendula—Val—came to his side and crouched to peer at the back of the lock. “This is our way out?”
He knelt so he could also peer at it, though he was conscious of her body right next to his in a way he wouldn’t have been a couple of moments earlier. Or maybe that was a lie. He had been conscious of her body since she had walked on board the Albatross. Since she had walked into his classroom ten years earlier. His arm brushed hers. His was bare—thanks to the jacket thieves, he was wearing only a T-shirt—and hers was covered with nothing more than that thin blouse, so he could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. He gazed down, wanting to feel more of her warmth, more than a slight touching of arms.
“Gregor?” Val tilted her head curiously, doubtlessly thinking him an imbecile for staring at her arm.
“Yes,” Gregor croaked, then cleared his throat. Silly voice. “The mechanism is well protected, but if we can break the whole casing and pry out enough of the contents to reach the latch portion, I think we can get out.” Even though the cold air was uncomfortable, and he was on the verge of embarrassing himself again, he found himself reluctant to stand up and leave Val’s side.
“How are we going to break it?” She smiled at him, her expression less glum now—she must have faith that he actually knew what he was talking about. “With the Chocolate Marshmallow Galaxy?”
Gregor touched her shoulder—a friendly pat on the shoulder was within acceptable commander-subordinate interaction guidelines, wasn’t it?—then crossed the freezer and pulled out one of the canisters of liquid nitrogen.
“Ah,” Val said, when she spotted the label. “Much becomes clear. But won’t that increase the unpalatability of our air if it doesn’t work?”
Gregor nodded, pleased that the thought had occurred to her. “It will work quickly. And if it doesn’t, then we simply shorten our remaining time, the end having been inevitable to start with.”
Given the ashen pallor that came over her, he judged that he had said the wrong thing. The possibility of failure concerned him, as well, and he certainly did not want to die, but he believed the odds were in favor of this working.
He was about to tell her to stand back, so he could start, but she bit her lip and looked into his eyes. Was there some question on her tongue? His gaze was drawn to the lip clenched between her teeth, something about the gesture arresting his attention. He swallowed, having trouble looking away. He had meant to tell her something. What was it?
“All right,” she whispered, “but be careful.” She should have moved away from him, away from the nitrogen he meant to blast at the lock, but she stepped forward instead and rested her hand on his forearm. She rose on tiptoes, and before he quite knew what was happening, she kissed him.
Gregor almost dropped the canister. Only the awareness that it might smash her toes kept him from losing his grip.
Thanks to the freezer, her lips were cool. His were too. But somehow their meeting, the pressing of her soft tender flesh against his chilled mouth filled him with a pleasant warmth that ran from his lips to his core, then flowed outward and made every nerve in his body tingle. A subtle floral perfume, or maybe that was her soap, tempted his nostrils, and he inhaled, drawn by its allure. Her allure.
Her moist tongue traced his lower lip, which she caught between her teeth, nibbling softly. The warmth turned to an inferno of heat, burning through his veins this time. His groin responded, growing taut, like an arrow pulled back in a bow.
The desire to reach for her, to pull her closer, stampeded into his mind at the same time as he realized he had been standing there, drinking in the kiss but doing nothing to respond to it. She would think him a manikin. Worse, she would think him disinterested.
The stupid canister hung between them, and he didn’t know whether to break the kiss to set it down—what if she pulled away and didn’t come back?—or fling it to the side, but the last thing they needed was for the nozzle to break and for liquid nitrogen to spray all over the place. So he left it between them, but he kissed her back, opening his mouth, inviting her wandering tongue in. He watched her through slitted eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. Was this a pity kiss and nothing more? A we-might-die-so-why-the-hell-not-live-a-little-first kiss? Was she enjoying it at all? Her eyes were closed. That was good, wasn’t it? Dear God, he had to stop thinking so much.
He stroked her tongue with his, willing his racing mind to still and hoping his touch pleased her. He was at least enjoying the kiss. And want
ing more. He had one free hand, so he reached over and rested it upon her waist, once again feeling the warmth of her skin through that blouse. He was glad she hadn’t listened to him and that she had worn it. With only one hand, his caresses were awkward, but he stroked her waist and her back, imagining how that skin would feel without the garment covering it.
The canister pressed against his thigh, against the hardness in his trousers. The sensation, the touch, made him twitch, shifting toward it, but he immediately felt foolish. It was a canister, not her hand. For a moment, he was confused as to why it had seemed to move until he realized she had inched closer to him, that she was pressed against it, as well. Maybe she wanted him to fling it aside.
Val leaned back, her tongue slipping out of his mouth, her lips leaving his. His body wanted to go into a panicked state of emergency—or at least to wrap his arms around her and pull her back, getting rid of that damned canister, and molding himself against her. Did she have any idea how long he had wanted her in his arms? How he had sometimes thought of her in the intervening years, wondering what had happened to her when she left the fleet, wondering how she was doing in the aftermath of Grenavine? Of losing her family?
She quirked a smile up at him, her eyes warm, playful. “I guess we shouldn’t be kissing around something that could explode at any moment.”
All too aware of his penis pushing against his trousers, it was all he could do not to blurt a promise that he wouldn’t do that, not until she had been sated anyway. Fortunately his mind—yes, this was the brilliant mind that had impressed so many of his professors once—realized what she was talking about before he said something stupid. “The tank should be sturdy enough to prevent such a mishap.” He was staring down, his gaze arrested by her lips and also by the hint of a pert nipple outlined against her blouse, and he forced himself to look into her eyes. “So long as I don’t drop it and break the nozzle. That thought did enter my mind.”
“I’m glad we avoided that calamity then.”
“I am too.” Gregor hesitated—he would gladly put it down in a safe spot if she wanted to jump back into his arms and return to kissing, maybe more than kissing…
But she stepped away. “Shall I wait in the corner?”
No. He wanted her to wait in his arms. “Yes, you’ll want to stand back.”
Val nodded, and he stifled a sigh. Right, back to work. Maybe if he got them out of there, she would want to spend time with him again.
“Watch out for freezer burn,” she said when she had scooted into the back corner.
Freezer burn, indeed. Gregor had neither the proper goggles nor gloves for handling the material, so he would have to be careful. He aimed the nozzle at the back of the lock, extending his arms as far from his body as possible, squinted, and squeezed the trigger.
Spray hit the metal, but the air filled with a white cloud, obscuring the effects. He held the trigger down, aware of, as she had pointed out, the danger of nitrogen-filled air in a confined space, but aware, too, that it would take time for the steel to freeze. Seconds ticked by with more gas particles clouding the air. He didn’t want to pull away too early, but he heard Val shift uneasily behind him and knew what she was thinking.
He released the trigger and set down the tank. He batted at the air to clear it. When the mechanism came into sight, it hadn’t changed much but it was frosty and—he hoped—brittle. He turned, stepped back, lifted a leg, and slammed the heel of his boot against it with a side kick. The crack of frozen metal breaking rewarded him. He kicked a few more times, smashing the lock to oblivion, then rushed forward, hoping he would indeed be able to work the latch free.
The frozen metal burned his fingers, but he plucked at the shards anyway, ignoring the pain in his haste to clear them out. He didn’t know if a guard had been posted outside, but he wanted to move quickly, to take anyone stationed out there by surprise, just in case. There was the latch, accessible now. He stuck his finger in, trying to wriggle the cold metal loose, but he struggled, his hands too big to maneuver in the space.
“Calendula.” He twisted his head, expecting her back in the corner, but she had already joined him.
“Val.” She rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes,” he whispered. It wasn’t the time for feelings, for kisses, for any of it, but he allowed himself, for the briefest of moments to think that maybe something had changed, that maybe once they got out, once they were no longer facing death, she might….
“Need a hand?” she asked.
In so many ways, yes. All he did was nod and shift away from the door. Reminding himself that guards might be outside, waiting with guns, he kept his hands to himself as she bent forward, gravity pressing her breasts against the blouse even more than usual. It would be so easy to reach up, slide the back of his finger along one enticing curve.
No. He watched her hand instead, pushing back into a crouch as she fished out the latch.
“I think that’s it,” she whispered. She must be thinking of guards too.
Gregor grabbed the edge of the hole they had made in the door. “Ready?”
Val backed up a few steps, nudging aside the shards of metal lying on the floor all around the door. They needed to be able to run out without worrying about slipping.
Gregor pushed the door open, prepared for guards or an empty hallway.
The hallway wasn’t empty. The lone guard had been leaning against the door—maybe even listening to try to figure out what they were doing—so he stumbled. He was slow to bring up his rifle. Too slow. Gregor rammed a palm strike into his nose. For the second time that day, someone’s cartilage smashed beneath his hand. This time, he was damaging a worthy enemy, an obstacle to their mission, not some foolish thug in a bar.
He lunged out into the hall, following his blow with an elbow strike to the solar plexus. Even as he attacked, he glanced in both directions, not wanting to be caught unaware by some second guard stationed nearby. But the corridor was empty. Good. He drew back his arm, ready to throw another punch, but his target had fallen to the floor, groaning and clutching his nose.
Val stood in the doorway, the liquid nitrogen canister hefted to her shoulder, her eyes on the guard. If he made a sudden move, he might get that hammered into his head. Gregor gave her a nod of approval, glad he had the “backup” he had hoped for in bringing her down here.
He plucked the guard’s laser rifle from the floor. “Get up.”
A groan answered him. The bleary-eyed man looked up, not appearing particularly fierce with tears on his cheeks, but Gregor kept the weapon trained on him anyway.
“We locking him in a freezer?” Val didn’t sound like she would mind the turnabout.
“Someone seems to have destroyed the lock.” When the guard didn’t hurry to stand, Gregor grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pushed him into the freezer.
“There are other freezers.”
“We’ll tie him up and leave him in here. I don’t want to kill anyone, despite these men’s willingness to condemn us to that fate.” He pushed the guard into the corner. “Sit.”
The man glowered at him but did so. Gregor returned to one of the crates wrapped with straps, figuring they might prove useful after all. He was debating how to unfasten them and hold the rifle on the prisoner at the same time, but Val figured out what he was up to and waved him aside. She made short work of removing the straps from the crate, then tied up the guard, perhaps with more vigor than the task required. By the time she finished, he looked like a chicken trussed up for the oven. A chicken with his face smashed into the floor. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
“Now what?” Val asked.
“Now we hope we’re not too late to extricate the admiral from the generator room.” Gregor worried that, as Val had mentioned earlier, the kidnappers may have moved him. If they had identified Gregor as a part of Mandrake Company, they might worry that more mercenaries would be on the way. He and Val could start there at least. If the admiral had been
moved, Gregor had memorized his list of thirty-one other possible hiding spots.
“There were six men in that room,” Val said, “that we saw on the camera. And they have at least three other friends left out here.” She waved to the trussed guard. He had been one of the four who had come out of the lift. “Any chance there was a nearby armory on that map you were memorizing in the closet?”
“No armory.” Gregory offered her the rifle. “But I’ll trade you. I think you may actually have the more disruptive weapon.”
She snorted and eyed her canister. “It does make a pretty cloud of gas.” After a minute of consideration, she handed it to him.
A wise trade. He was likely more comfortable with improvised weapons and unarmed combat than she. He had to admit that she was right and that the odds wouldn’t be in their favor. He hoped they could surprise the guards. Perhaps it would be best not to use the front door.
6
If Val had known Commander Thatcher—Gregor, she reminded herself, still surprised he had invited her to use his first name—would drag her into the ductwork behind the freezers, she wouldn’t have hesitated before trading weapons with him. The bulky nitrogen canister couldn’t be fun to drag through the tight passages. Even the rifle was clunky, and she had to work hard to keep it from clanking on the metal sides.
Here and there, they passed vents that allowed narrow slats of light into the ducts, but for the most part, the insides were dark, cold, and claustrophobic and smelled of mildew. Val, trusting Gregor had memorized the route, crawled after him in silence. Besides, nothing was as claustrophobic as being locked in a freezer.
She shuddered at the memory. A career pilot ought to be used to spending time in confined spaces, but between the threat of running out of air and the threat of freezing to death, she had been certain she would end up dead before they could escape. And then who would watch after her brother? No one. Neither of them had anyone else in the galaxy. Funny how being trapped with the threat of death looming brought such thoughts to mind. She was glad Gregor hadn’t been so burdened with doubt. He had acted calmer and cooler than an ice block, as if he had known all along they would escape. Maybe he had as soon as he spotted the liquid nitrogen. She hadn’t been so certain that would work. That was, of course, why she had kissed him. Because she hadn’t known if they would truly make it out and because… that was what people did when the end was near. Even near strangers could be so motivated in a desperate situation.
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 35
