Or rather, she tried to move her body. It didn’t budge, because she was tied fast.
Panic slapped through the mist of unreality, warning her that the situation was very, very real. Her heartbeat accelerated and her blood fired in her veins, telling her to run far and fast.
Or stand and fight.
Slow down, she told herself when her mind started to race in terror. Think it through. For some reason, she heard the last three words in Fax’s voice. Instead of making her mad or sad, as it probably should have, the sound steadied her. It made her think of his warm, solid body and the mask he could drop over his eyes, making it seem like he was running cold when she knew from experience that the blood running in his veins was very, very hot.
She closed her eyes and pictured him, imagining the worry lines that cut beside his mouth from having taken on too much weight for far too long, and the unexpected dimple that winked on one cheek on the rare occasion when he smiled for real.
Holding that image in her mind, she consciously slowed her breathing and counted her heartbeats.
The panic receded somewhat. It was still there, no doubt about it. But it was manageable, more or less. She could think. She could plan.
Okay, she thought, opening her eyes. What’s the deal?
Unfortunately, calming down hadn’t improved her immediate situation much. She wasn’t in danger of hyperventilating anymore, but she was still bound to a big tree at the edge of the landslide.
Worse, she could see a heavy work boot sticking out from behind the precarious tilt of the earthen overhang.
She recognized it as one of Tucker’s boots. As she watched, it moved, swinging from side to side as though he was fighting the same sort of bonds she was.
Her heart seized on the sight and she gave a low cry of horror.
A masculine chuckle—low and nasty—greeted her response, and Muhammad stepped around in front of her, moving gingerly on the shifting soil at the edge of the slide.
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes blatantly lingering on her breasts then flashing back to her face as though daring her to say something, challenging her to a fight she couldn’t possibly win.
When she said nothing, merely glared at him with all the hatred that pounded in her veins, he sneered and turned his attention to the overhang. “You should’ve died that afternoon at your house, bitch. Then your friends wouldn’t have gotten dragged into this.” He fiddled with a small, flat handheld unit that might’ve been a PDA, might’ve been a phone, and said with a fake-sounding note of revelation, “Granted, then they probably would’ve been down at the stadium helping with crowd control and listening to that horrible excuse for a band. Which means they would’ve died anyway, once I did this.”
Without warning, he lifted the handheld and pressed a couple of touch-pad keys.
“No!” Chelsea cried, realizing the unit was a detonator of some sort. “Don’t!”
But it was already too late. There was a series of sharp explosions nearby, six of them, one after the other, rat-tat-tat, like machine-gun fire.
By themselves, they were little more than firecrackers. Combined with the instability of the ground, though, they were devastating.
A low rumble started, humming in her bones and rising up through the audible wavelengths, shaking the tree she was bound to, making it sway and dip.
Looking surprised that the earth shift was fanning that far out, Muhammad shoved the unit in his pocket and started backing up, moving quickly but carefully. When he reached stabler ground, he sketched a wave in Chelsea’s direction. “Bye, bitch. I hope it hurts.”
The hatred vibrated in the air between them, less because of what she’d done to complicate al-Jihad’s plans and more because of what she was—an American and a woman.
Her stomach twisted in knots at the thought that Muhammad, and men like him, were going to win this time.
The tree shuddered, dipping alarmingly, and she cried out. Her words were lost beneath the growing roar, and suddenly the world was moving around her, underneath her. The overhang gave way and crashed like a breaking wave, sending tons of earth and rock onto the place where she’d seen Tucker’s foot.
Chelsea screamed as her closest friends died. Tears blinded her and she choked on her sobs, on her terror. Then the earth was moving, faster and faster, gaining mass and momentum as it went, crashing its way toward the stadium. And Fax.
“Jonah!” she screamed, knowing there was nobody up on the mountain with her anymore who cared about her cries, except to feel pleasure in her pain.
Then the tree she was bound to pulled free of its root system, or the earth gave way beneath it, she wasn’t sure which, she only knew that she was moving, tilting, and starting to slide, then stopping again as the entire mountainside paused, teetering on a pinpoint of balance that she knew could give way at any second.
Tears poured down her face. “Jonah!” she screamed again, even though she knew there was no hope of an answer.
Yet incredibly, she got one.
“Chelsea!” He was suddenly there, appearing out of nowhere, his face streaked with mud and sweat and set with horrible tension as he skidded along beside the tree she was tied to, yanking at her bonds. “Hang on!”
“What—” she gasped. “How?”
“Long story.” He met her eyes briefly, and she saw a light in them that hadn’t been there before, a mix of anger and something else, something that was simultaneously softer and hotter than his usual expression. “Short version is that you were right and I was wrong, but I’m not apologizing. I’m telling you I love you instead.”
He gave a huge yank and the ropes came free.
Heart pounding from surprise and fear, and more adrenaline than she’d ever weathered in her life, she threw herself against him. “Jonah!”
He grabbed on to her, held her hard and started dragging her up and across the mountain face, moving fast, not seeming to care that the earth sponged and fell free beneath them, that their mad dash for safety was triggering small landslides that merged into bigger ones.
“Hurry,” he urged, dragging her along. “We’ve got to get out of here before—”
A huge freight-train roar cut him off, and the side of the mountain collapsed onto itself, and hurtled down the slope toward Bear Claw.
“Up here!” Jonah dragged her up onto a huge rock ledge, one that shuddered but held as the earth and smaller rocks pounded past it. He pulled her up, wrapped his arms around her, and held on so tightly she couldn’t breathe.
She hugged him back just as tight, crying. “Jonah, the others…” she managed between sobs. “They were under the ledge when it gave.”
He said something that she didn’t catch, sure it was the roar of the avalanche. “What?”
Putting his lips close to her ear, he said, “They weren’t under the ledge. I got them free while you distracted Muhammad. I sent them down the hill and told them to—” He broke off as a new sound echoed above the freight-train rumble, a heavy thump of detonations, one after the other, not the rat-tat-tat that had started the landslide, but the deep throated whump-whump-whump of heavy-duty explosives.
A cloud of earth shot up into the sky at the leading edge of the slide, and the avalanche changed course, flattening and dropping off, fanning out and eventually stopping.
The terrible roar diminished to a hiss, then a scattering of pebbles.
Chelsea stared, mouth agape. Then she turned to Fax, hardly able to believe what had just happened.
“You sent them to blast a channel between the slide and the stadium,” she said in wonder.
He followed her gaze. “Looks like it worked.”
“You let them go,” she said and started to shake. “You took care of them first before you came for me.”
Fax stiffened against her. “That doesn’t mean—”
“No, no.” She shushed him with her lips on his, letting him feel the smile in her kiss. “You trusted them to get the job done, and you trusted m
e to stay alive long enough for you to come for me. You did it right, Jonah. You saved us all.”
A shudder went through his big body. “I almost didn’t.”
She heard him clearly, heard the pain and fear in his voice, because the landslide had trailed all the way to silence, piling into the trench her friends had blasted using explosives from the lower Quonset hut.
“But you did. Thank you.” She pressed her lips to his, and he hesitated only a moment before he leaned into the kiss, opening to her and—
The click of a semiautomatic weapon being racked for firing echoed on the suddenly still air, freezing them both. Only for a second though, because before Chelsea could react, before she could even process the fact that they were in danger, Fax had twisted, bearing her to the ground and covering her as a bullet whistled over them both.
Then Fax lunged up with a roar, and charged Muhammad, who must’ve come back to make certain she was dead. As Fax came, he scooped up a handful of clay. Chelsea saw him grab Muhammad’s gun with the hand that held the soil. Then Fax let go and danced away.
Al-Jihad’s second in command roared something in a language Chelsea didn’t know, spun toward Fax and fired point-blank.
The bullet impacted the pebbles and clay Fax had jammed down the barrel, and the weapon roared and jammed, blowing back in the terrorist’s hands. He screamed and grabbed for his wrist as it spurted blood, and Fax took him down with a roundhouse to the jaw.
Muhammad went sprawling, bleeding and howling and clutching at his injured hand.
Fax kicked the gun away and then stood, breathing hard, staring down at his fallen enemy.
Chelsea gave the deep lacerations a quick look, and glanced at Fax. “He won’t bleed out as long as he keeps pressure on.”
“Then we’ll tie him so he can.” With more expediency than gentleness, Fax bound the sobbing man hand and foot, and searched him, dumping the contents of Muhammad’s pockets into his own.
Seeing the transfer, Chelsea arched an eyebrow. “You planning on sharing that with the cops?”
Fax stilled, then turned slowly, that cool blankness dropping down to shield his expression, although she sensed that his blood was running hot and hard beneath. “Jane betrayed me—she was working for al-Jihad all along. Which means there may not be any way for me to prove my story, and even if I can, the authorities could still decide I’m a liability and a criminal.” He drew a deep breath. “What if I said my next stop was Mexico?”
If it was a test, it was the easiest one Chelsea had ever taken. “Then I’d ask if I could swing by my place for a bathing suit.”
He straightened, crossing to her and taking her hands in his, fitting their fingers together. “And if I said I wanted to turn myself in and offer up evidence against Jane in exchange for WitSec protection?”
She swallowed, knowing this was it, this was the rest of her life, staring at her with cool blue eyes that hid nothing of his feelings, once she knew where to look. “Then I’d ask if I could say goodbye to my friends before we left.” Her voice shook a little on the words as she continued, “How about you? What’s your opinion of taking on a most likely unemployed, blackballed medical examiner who’s wishing she’d gone on that FBI interview way back when? For that matter, given that WitSec would make me change jobs anyway, what’s your opinion of being with someone who suddenly doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up?”
He inhaled a long, shuddering breath, then blew it out slowly so that he was almost whispering when he said, “I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Employed, unemployed, spy, doctor, pathologist…I don’t care what you wind up doing next, as long as I’m part of it.” He dropped his forehead to hers. “I love you, Chelsea. We’ll figure out the rest of it together, okay?”
Hope bloomed inside her, hard and hot, expanding to fill every inch of her body as she nodded, feeling her smile stretch so wide it pulled at the skin of her face as she rubbed her cheek against his, against the place where that elusive dimple flickered to life. “I love you back, Jonah. And, yeah, the rest will wait. This won’t.” She turned her lips to his, inviting a kiss, demanding it.
He’d just groaned and opened to her when a Bear Claw PD chopper buzzed up from below and hovered right above them, tilting to give its occupants a clear view.
Hoots and hollers filtered down, and Chelsea felt a laugh bubble up as she raised her hand and waved at her friends. “Guess they made it okay,” she said, counting five heads pressed together in the windows. “And I’m guessing at least someone in the PD is grateful for our help. They sent the chopper after all.”
Fax straightened away from her, although he kept an arm looped protectively around her waist as he surveyed the helicopter. She saw him look at the tree line as though considering making a break for it, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t even think of it. These are my friends.”
He looked at her for a long moment unspeaking, then nodded. “Mine, too, if they’ll have me.” He raised a hand to the chopper, gesturing for them to throw down a line, as there was nowhere to land.
And as he hooked them in and they were lifted up into the sky, Chelsea, who’d never been a big fan of heights, clung to his solid bulk and watched the ground fall away, knowing that as long as she was with him, she could do anything. Even fly.
The exultation was short-lived, though, because her friends weren’t the only ones in the chopper—there was also a grim-faced man who immediately grabbed Fax and engaged him in low-voiced conversation, somehow isolating the two of them even in the crowded quarters of the helicopter.
The moment they touched down near the stadium, that same man whisked Fax away into a dark sedan with tinted windows and government plates.
Fax didn’t look back as the vehicle pulled away. And in the days that followed, he didn’t call. There was no word of him, not even a rumor.
It was as if he’d disappeared.
Chapter Fourteen
It was three long, agonizing weeks before Fax’s boots hit Colorado soil once again.
The last time he’d arrived in the Bear Claw area, he’d been cuffed and flanked by blank-faced U.S. Marshals, who he suspected would’ve shot to kill and enjoyed it, believing that he’d tortured and murdered two FBI agents.
This time he was alone and dressed in casual civilian clothes. The jeans and button-down shirt still felt a little strange after living so long in prison clothes.
He was carrying a duffel bag filled with new clothes, because when he’d gone back to the storage unit he’d rented right after Abby’s death, the things inside the musty garage-size box had looked tired and irrelevant. So he’d picked out a few boxes of stuff he thought he might want some day and donated the rest to a local shelter.
Then he’d cleaned out his offshore bank account, which had grown fat with the undercover pay Jane had funneled there through a shell company, and used the money to buy some essentials during the few breaks he’d been allowed between debriefings.
Those breaks had been few and far between. The grim-faced agents in charge hadn’t outright refused to let him leave the bunkerlike maze of rooms located beneath an innocuous-looking building in downtown D.C. They’d made it clear, though, that the more he stayed put and answered the same questions over and over again, the higher his likelihood of making it out of there with some hope of a continued career within federal law enforcement.
He’d stayed and he’d given up everything he knew or even suspected about the op that he’d thought had been designed to draw out al-Jihad’s conspirators, but had really been intended solely to help the murderer escape from the ARX Supermax prison. He told them everything, not because he wanted his career back, but because his main motivation for having entered the world in the first place remained unchanged. He wanted to help bring down al-Jihad and others like him, who attacked U.S. politics by killing noncombatants: women and children. Families.
Out of necessity, the info flow hadn’t just been one way. The agents questioni
ng Fax had revealed that al-Jihad and Lee Mawadi remained at large, as did Jane Doe. Worse, she had managed to use her equipment to feed misinformation to the cops on duty along the parade route.
That, combined with the chaos at the stadium and the lack of manpower on the mountain, meant that not only had all of al-Jihad’s men escaped—with the exception of Muhammad, who was staying grimly tight-lipped so far—the conspirators remained undetected.
For a time, the investigation had focused on FBI agent Michael Grayson, the man who had arrested Fax in the stadium the day before the attack. Even more damning than his seemingly not-so-coincidental presence at the stadium, was that he’d also been the point of failure for a carefully worded warning sent by Seth Varitek early on the morning of the parade.
Grayson had received the information, determined it was a prank, and unilaterally decided not to add the manpower Varitek had suggested. In doing so, he had very nearly helped doom thousands of Bear Claw residents.
Despite that sign of complicity, a thorough investigation turned up no evidence that Grayson was linked to al-Jihad or any other terrorist. Instead, it turned out that the agent was suffering through the tail end of a very nasty divorce and had been living on caffeine pills rather than sleep or food.
Not surprisingly, he’d been pulled out of the field and would undergo major reviews and potentially lose his fieldwork status. But while it was a good thing to deal with an agent on the edge, with Grayson cleared of suspicion, they were left with few theories and even fewer clues regarding the structure of al-Jihad’s terror cells or the whereabouts of the terrorist leader, Jane Doe or Lee Mawadi.
One of their few leads was Lee Mawadi’s ex-wife who lived in a remote area roughly between Bear Claw and the ARX Supermax prison. She had divorced him shortly after his arrest for the Santa Bombings, claiming not to have had any idea of his criminal involvement. She’d quit her job as a magazine photographer and changed her name and had all but gone into seclusion in an isolated cabin high in the mountains. All of which was consistent with her claim that she hated her ex…except for the fact that her cabin was less than thirty miles from the prison.
Manhunt in the Wild West Page 17
