Deadlock (Uncommon Enemies: An Iniquus Romantic Suspense Mystery Thriller Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  Once Rooster saw the fangs pierce the guard’s skin, Rooster lifted the tail high in the air and smacked the snake’s head into the ceiling and then brought it down hard onto the concrete. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down—until the snake’s skull was cracked open like a walnut, and the brain stem was dislodged, leaving a gloopy mess on the floor. Rooster tossed the snake’s body into the ghost’s old cell.

  The guard sat on the ground with his hand to his neck in the middle of the hall. Rooster reached for him, but couldn’t quite make it. “Meg, can you reach him?”

  “That was a black mamba, wasn’t it?” Her voice shook in whispered horror. “You were in a cell with a black mamba.”

  “I got it out. It’s all good.” He worked to smooth down the spikes in his tone that would reveal that, yeah, that had been some scary-ass shit. Truth was, his heart was beating like a musician doing a frenzied finish on a conga solo. That hadn’t been a game he liked playing. “Can you reach the guard? Can you pull him over to you? Does he have a key?”

  The guard’s breathing was ragged and labored. Rooster imagined from the placement of the bite that the venom had gone into his carotid artery. His death would be quick. The guy’s legs swiveled, and Meg was grunting as she hauled him over. There was a clanking noise as she pulled keys from somewhere.

  “Open your door, hand me the keys, and go back to check on the fire. See if there are still ten men are over there.”

  As soon as he had the keys, Rooster let himself out of his cage. He slid down to the end of the hall. Things were quiet. It was dark in this part of the building without the moonlight streaming into the windows like Meg had. He went back to their hallway and opened the ghost’s cell door. It had been left unlocked. He lay the guard on top of the snake and worked the snake’s body into his hand. If someone came before they had a plan, they had deniability.

  Meg was standing in the hall beside her open cell door. He was over to her in one step, lifted her off her feet, and crushed her against him, burying his head in her neck. “God, woman. I couldn’t ask for a better partner. That was perfect. You are perfect.” He set her back on her feet. “How’s the party going?”

  “They’re stumbling around. I think one of them is passed out.”

  “I want you to go back in your cell, get your clothes and water, and get ready to leave. I’m going to go scope out what they have in the way of vehicles. I’ll be right back.” He leaned down and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  She clung to his arm.

  “Meg, if someone comes and sees I’m gone, I don’t want them taking it out on you. I want you to pretend to be asleep. I’ll be right back,” he said and again punctuated it with a kiss, but this one was softer, longer, deeper. He wrapped his hands on either side of her head and rested his forehead against hers. He waited for a sign. How did she want to go forward? He could accommodate her—it just put her in a hell of a lot more danger.

  After a moment, Meg stepped back, slid into the cell, and pulled the door closed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Rooster

  The Compound

  Rooster was in his element. His body adjusted to the mission as he slid into the shadows cast by the full moon and did a perimeter walk. Off to the side, he spotted the bulk of three trucks. He had picked up the guard’s rifle and checked the magazine. He could pepper the guys around the fire, but he didn’t know their full number. He didn’t know who, besides Momo, might be sleeping.

  As he worked his way over to the vehicles, he decided that, though he had told Meg they’d be escaping alone, now that the possibility was here, she’d balk at the idea. And when he’d made that decision, he thought each person had worth to Momo in the form of separate ransom payments. Now that he knew the terrorists weren’t planning to cash in, but were making propaganda films, he knew their fates would be sealed if he left them behind.

  With utmost care, Rooster lifted the hood on the first truck and lay across the engine—only then, with his arm buried deep in the crevice, did he flick on his flashlight, find the distributor coil and yank it out, leaving the vehicle useless. He lowered the hood just enough that someone glancing over wouldn’t see anything awry, then he moved on to the second vehicle. The third vehicle was the one he and Meg had been brought in. He recognized the numbers painted in white on the door. He had listened to the engine for hours, and knew it was in good shape. He crawled into the driver’s seat and made it ready for a quick hotwire job. And lastly, he disabled the Jeep that he was sure Momo had arrived in. He took both of the gasoline containers and loaded them into the escape truck. He gave the vehicles a quick shake and found nothing that was useful. No map. No sat phone. Not even a first aid kit.

  He rounded back to what he assumed would be the sleeping barracks. Momo was the ringleader. Without him, the others would be running around like chickens with their heads cut off until they could form a plan of action. It took time for a leader to emerge. There would be a scramble for authority that might give him precious minutes. Unless, of course, they had foreseen this and had a backup plan. But Rooster doubted that was true. Narcissists thought of themselves as invincible. Either way, Rooster didn’t know if Momo had bigger contacts involved in this who could swoop in and make things real bad real quick. Momo had to go.

  Rooster moved back to the shadows of the jail and used its walls to hide himself as he checked on the revelry. Things were winding down. The singing had stopped. The men were squatting around the fire, poking it with sticks. Laughter would erupt every once in a while. The night had grown quiet. And that was more dangerous.

  He walked the perimeter of the barracks. He peered into each window opening. The panes, if they ever existed, were long gone, just like in the jail. The openings were set too high in the wall for an average pair of eyes. It was enough to bring in fresh air and light, but it kept the predators, except for the snakes and the mosquitos, out. There was only one door. If Momo was in there, Rooster had him trapped. If he went in and the hostiles returned, Rooster would be trapped.

  Rooster weighed his chances. From the angles, he could see, there was only one lumpy bed. The other cots were empty. Rooster considered how he’d arrange things and decided Momo wouldn’t go to sleep without a watchful set of eyes. If a guard was posted and got off a warning shot or called out, the nest of wasps would fly at him. Drunkenly. But Rooster knew, drunk or sober, just how deadly that could still be.

  He walked the perimeter again, expanding his sense of hearing to search for a shuffle of tired feet, a cough, or a sniff. Reaching out with his sixth sense, he tried to take the temperature of the situation. As he crouched in the deepest shadow, Rooster made out a hostile sauntering in his direction. This was the break he needed. He’d get information here. Rooster shifted into his statue mode, calming his systems, putting himself in neutral, his foot hovering just over the clutch, his hand ready to jam his gears into go mode. He waited.

  The tango was steadier on his feet than Rooster would have thought. He knocked on the door in a distinct tattoo that Rooster memorized. Another hostile unlocked the door and swung it open with a squawk. “Brother, there is still a place for you at the fire. It is my turn to guard the leader.”

  “You have been drinking?”

  “Yes, I had two cups, but it was early in the evening. I knew I would have duty at midnight.”

  “The phone call did not come in as planned. Leader Bourhan says to wake him immediately. Do not answer the call yourself.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Rooster watched as they changed places.

  The new guard went into the building and the old guard moved into the moonlight. He had a pistol at his hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder. Rooster tracked him, moving on silent feet from the shadow of one building to the shadow of the other.

  As the tango moved to pass the jail, he called out to his friend inside. “Ramo, I’m going to the fire. Is your replacement here?”

  No one called back in Somali. No one c
alled back at all.

  The tango brought his rifle around and stalked toward the door. “Ramo?” he called.

  As the hostile moved into the dark, open entry of the jailhouse, Rooster reached his left hand around the man’s face and yanked him back, pinning the Somali against his chest. Rooster’s right hand landed on the gun barrel and he stretched his arm straight out, jerking the man’s finger from the trigger, Rooster let the rifle fall to the side, clattering and skidding across the floor. The tango reached for his pistol but Rooster trapped his hand in place. The man was stronger than Rooster could have imagined. He was long and thin, but even with the power of Rooster’s height and weight, it was going to be a struggle. Rooster’s ribs were screaming from the earlier assault. His left arm had lost most of its power. He needed this to end now.

  Rooster leaned backward. He could and he would fight through this dizzying pain. Focus. Rooster body slammed the shithead into the cement wall, twisting the tango’s weapons hand until he released his gun. Rooster dropped it to the floor. He reached out with his foot and gave it a kick. It skittered across the hall. Stepping back to give himself room, with a quick pull, he snapped the tango’s neck.

  Rooster crouched beside the dead body. He clamped his hands over his ribs. The breath he was sucking in wheezed and hissed. His knee came down hard onto the floor. He planted a hand and gasped for breath. Mind over body.

  He felt around for the guns. Then moved back to check on Meg. “You hanging in there?”

  She was standing outside of her cell. Rooster wished he could see her face and read her thoughts.

  “What happened?” Her voice sounded strong. Good. He needed her.

  “Tango down. I brought you a present.” He ran his fingers over the 9mm, checking for safeties, feeling the weight of the magazine to make sure it was fully loaded, pulling back the slide to find a bullet already chambered. “It’s good to go. Give me your hands.” He moved her hands into the proper position, her finger running along the outside of the trigger guard. “Point at the bad guy’s chest with this finger, then put it on the trigger and pull. Simple as that.” He kissed her forehead. “Just try to remember that there are good guys here. You don’t want to send bullets flying in their direction.”

  He felt more than saw her nod.

  “You’re going to stand here at the end of the corridor. If anyone comes into the opening, you shoot, then run to the trucks. They’re in the northwest corner of the compound. Hide there.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Meg, you can do this. You might have to stare down a lion. But you’ve done that before. You made me a promise. Tell me the promise.”

  “No matter what, that’s what I’ll do. That’s what I’ll keep doing. I will never give up.”

  He tipped her head back and kissed her lips. “I’ll try not to be too long.”

  Rooster made his way back to the barracks. If there was a changing of the guard at the jail, things were about to get rocky. At least they still had surprise on their side. Could Meg pull a trigger and kill someone? You never knew until you knew. Even for the battle-hardened men he’d fought beside—sometimes the brain is a primed machine doing what it was trained to do best, and sometimes there was a stutter. No sense in debating it, it would be what it would be. Slow and steady wins the race. He pulled the knife from his belt and slid his index finger through the loop, making it an extension of his knuckle when he made a fist. It had an inch and a half blade, but it was razor sharp. He stood to the side of the door and tapped out the signal knock.

  The door swung open and a head stuck out, twisting left in Rooster’s direction. Rooster couldn’t tell if the guy had a weapon on him or not. Either way, he’d get this done.

  When the man twisted his head to look the other way, Rooster slammed his fist into his carotid artery then grabbed his shirt and pulled him to the ground. The tango dropped his rifle as he flailed to staunch the blood. Rooster knew the man was in his last moments of life. He’d check him on the way out.

  Rooster snatched up the rifle and moved farther into the building, checking each room before he moved to the man still sleeping in his bed. Rooster simply wrapped his hand around the man’s trachea and squeezed. Momo came awake fighting for his life, but Rooster pinioned him under his knee, leaning the full bulk of his near three-hundred pounds onto his chest. After a minute, Momo fell unconscious. Rooster used his knife to exsanguinate him.

  He was dead.

  Rooster went to the door to read the compound. All was as it had been. Rooster used the micro-flashlight to go over the place, and he found a sat phone sitting next to Momo’s bed.

  He dialed.

  “Nutsbe,” he gasped into the receiver, calling Iniquus Headquarters. “This is Honey. I’m in need of an assist.”

  Gunfire exploded into the silence.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Meg

  Jail

  Inside the jail, on the corridor with the other scientists, it was black as pitch. They had hissed at her. “Let me out!” “What are you doing?” “What’s going on?” Rooster hadn’t said to let them out. He must have had a reason. She wouldn’t do anything that he didn’t tell her to do. Guard the jail. That was her task.

  “Shut your mouths and keep them shut.” Words like that had never been uttered by Meg before. She’d never used that tone of voice before. And she’d never raised a gun toward somebody’s chest before. She couldn’t make out much, but a figure had moved toward her, framed in the doorway. He stood out, barely, as a silhouette against the night sky, the full moon illuminating the ground around him. Meg knew she was invisible until she moved. That’s how animals reacted, they sensed movement. Her finger stretched along the gun. As the silhouette came closer and closer, she brought her hand up farther and farther. Now that he was in the doorframe, she was pointing directly at his chest. Her finger curled back without an acknowledged command and squeezed down on the trigger. Her hand jumped in the air.

  For a moment, she stood there, staring wide-eyed at the space that had been filled by the tall, thin shape. Now it stood empty. Shouts came from the other men over at their fire. She knew they’d be scrambling for their weapons. Meg’s brain still hadn’t fully engaged, but her feet didn’t seem to need special instructions. Rooster had said shoot and run. And that had been the mantra she had chanted until the shot rang out. Now all she had left was run.

  Run. Run northwest. She pivoted. Her teammates behind her were screaming for her to let them out! Let them out! They rattled their cage doors. But she bolted from the jail. She ran in the direction she had been given, out into the night, searching for the trucks. Find the trucks. Hide there. Hide. Hide in the trucks.

  She crawled under the middle one and curled herself into a tight ball up against the inside wheel, pulling her black windbreaker over her head. If they had a light, it might get absorbed by the dull finish of the fabric.

  The night exploded. Rifle fire and screams—some in agony, others in desperation. Calls in English and Somali. Another scream. Another shot. Silence. A long, long, long silence. She held the coat tight against her and supported her body weight with her forehead against the ground.

  “Meg?” It was Rooster’s voice. He wasn’t disguising his tone. This wasn’t a clandestine whisper, but a bellow. “Meg!”

  “I’m here.” Meg lifted her head and called back through chattering teeth.

  His hands reached under the truck and grabbed her under the arms, dragging her out. Rooster fell back from his crouched position and pulled her between his legs, wrapping his whole body around her. She could feel him trembling. He brushed the filth from her forehead and kissed her hard. He tucked her head into him and stroked a hand down her hair. “I couldn’t find you.”

  “I did what you said.” She spoke into his sweat-soaked shirt. At least, she hoped it was sweat. She pushed her hands up and massaged his chest and arms, looking for open wounds. “What’s happening?”

  “The threat’s been eradicated
for the time being. Panther Force is in the air. We’ll have an exfil soon.”

  “Eradicated? We’re safe?”

  “We’re watchful until we’re in the air.”

  “The others?”

  “Safe. Injured from their video shoots. Nothing permanent.”

  Meg squeezed her arms around Rooster. He sucked in a pitched gasp and tapped her arm. She instantly loosened her hug. “You’re hurt.”

  “I might need a look-see when we get back to civilization.”

  “What should I do?” She gripped at his shoulders, feeling desperate. “What can I do?”

  “Just lie still in my arms for a bit. I need to feel you—to know you’re safe.” He pulled her back to him and dropped a kiss into her hair. “I’ve been in and out of situations like these for almost twenty years now. I can tell you for certain, I’ve never felt as scared in my life as I did when I heard that gun go off.” His hand rubbed down her back and drew her hips tighter into his body. “It blows me away that we just met two days ago. It feels like a lifetime.” He tipped his head back, scanning the night sky, then brought another kiss down on her hair. “I saw Randy’s picture of you laughing and I knew.” He stalled, then whispered, “I just knew.”

  Meg felt his stomach muscles contracting under her hand.

  “When you fired that gun, and I wasn’t sure if you were shooting or getting shot. Thinking in that second that someone had hurt you…” He shook his head.