Ky (In the Company of Snipers Book 13)
Page 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eden could barely move her little finger on her right hand. But she did. Gradually, the sensation of swimming in heavy concrete subsided. She flicked her wrist, not sure why she was weighted down like she was. Even drawing in a breath took effort. She labored to wake up. Her other hand tingled with the stabbing numbness of a cramped limb. Flexing, she exorcised the pain along with the stiffness.
Movement became more bearable. The simple act of breathing, too. She rolled her neck and stretched as, little by little, the oppressive sensation released the rest of her limbs. Sleep clouded her groggy mind, but the terror of having been abducted dictated wakefulness, something she struggled to achieve.
Warmth rewarded her first full breath, a pleasant change from all she’d endured since the Cessna went down. The fresh scent of evergreens was absent—a sure sign she was either dreaming or no longer in Canada.
Eden took a chance and opened both eyes. Somewhat dizzy, she lifted onto her elbows and found herself covered with a pale blue blanket on a narrow bed in an expansive white room. No leafy, emerald branches laden with snow overhead. No leaden clouds. No drifting snow.
No Tucker.
Instead, soft light poured from wall panels behind her. Metal rails lined her bed, one up, the other down. A single shiny silver stool with a black padded seat stood at her bedside. Apprehension slithered across her shoulders. More disconcerting, a full bag of fluid hung off the IV tree at her bedside. She lifted both arms into view, needing to understand what had happened to her while she’d slept.
Someone had inserted a line into her forearm, only it wasn’t attached to the drip bag on the tree. The sealed end of it had been taped to her bicep. This was no ordinary IV. It was a PICC line, a peripherally inserted central catheter. Cancer patients needed PICC lines. Not her!
She cast the blanket aside, angry at yet another intimate violation. Who’d authorized this procedure anyway? Sure as heck not me.
Her bare feet hit the gray ceramic tiles stretched below from wall to wall. Not good. A dizzying wave of shadows swarmed her poor head. She plopped gracelessly back onto the bed as the door opposite her bed opened. A short, slight man in gray scrubs the same color as the tiled floor entered, his feet covered in surgical booties. “Ah. You’re awake.”
It was him. Dr. Zaroyin. Same Eastern Bloc accent. Same wire spectacles. A surgical mask covered his face while a matching paper cap covered his shorn head, leaving just his bushy brows and dark eyes visible. “It’s okay, Miss Stark. You’re safe and warm now. No need to panic.”
“I was safe before, and I’m not panicked,” she lied, her heart pounding at the sight of him. “Why the heck am I in a hospital, and how’d I get here? What’s this PICC line for? Where’s Ky? Where’s Tucker Chase?”
Dr. Zaroyin approached slowly while she struggled with the cobwebs messing with her mind. “You’re not in a hospital. You’re actually quite safe for the moment. I’m sorry about all the cat-and-mouse games. Trust me. They were necessary. As far as your friends, I really don’t know where they are.”
“Overrunning our camp was more than a game.” She wanted answers, not the run-around, but she also wanted to stay upright for longer than half a second at a time. The room kept dancing, spinning her in circles. “You had someone drug me so you could stick that spider-thing in my head! But that wasn’t good enough, was it? Then you implant some kind of a locater inside my body. What’d you do, hypnotize me? Give me some of your mind-control drugs? God, what kind of a pervert are you?”
He lifted his palms forward as if to placate her. “I’m not the monster you believe me to be, Agent Stark. All will be revealed in—”
She borrowed Tucker’s belligerence to disguise her fright. “Bullshit! You’re behind everything that’s happened to me, and everyone who’s died. Start talking.”
“May I sit?” he asked softly.
“It’s your darned stool,” she growled, feeling behind her ear for another creepy spider implant. That would be just Zaroyin’s style. Stick things into her body while she lay drugged and unable to fight back. Her fingertips encountered nothing but the tender line where Ky had worked his first surgery—like that eased her suspicions. She had no recollection of being implanted before, either.
As discreetly as possible, she smoothed her right hand down her thigh, her thumb feeling for the incision along the crease of her leg. No implant there, either. “I want my clothes. Where’s my stuff? I’m out of here.”
Instead of answering one single question, he pressed his palm to the wall behind her bed. A door-sized panel slid open with a soft whoosh. “You’re right. We do need to leave. The sooner the better.”
Oh. A closet. Darned nice to know, only those weren’t her clothes hanging there. Neither was that stunning floor-length fur coat with what looked like a silver fox collar or those darling red leather hiking boots with three-inch heels. Or the black jeans. Or the Henley knit shirt splashed with glitter.
“I said my clothes,” she set him straight. “I’m not walking out of here looking like, like that.” Sheesh! Did he think she was some brainless bimbo from Hollywood?
He lifted both shoulders, not reacting to her rudeness as he came to the bedside again. “These are clean, and they’re your size. You may wear them or the hospital gown. Your choice.”
Eden crossed her arms over her chest to conceal her quivering breasts under her thin excuse for clothing. He knew she wouldn’t choose partial nudity, but where was the nice, warm TEAM outfit Ky had given her? And her fluffy fur cap? Where was Ralph Lauren when she needed him?
Dressing in Zaroyin’s gaudy but very glamorous winter wear felt like betrayal, not only to herself but to Ky, too. Still, those were the only clothes in the closet. They would keep a respectable distance between her and the mad man. Okay, fine.
“So talk. Where are we going?”
He lowered to the stool, his hands on his knees. “I’m taking you back to America where you belong.”
That was no answer. “Where in America? Why?”
“Because like it or not, you, Miss Stark, are about to make history.”
“Bullshit!” Tucker would be so proud of her. “This is abduction, not history. It’s breaking the law, but you already know that. You’ve done it enough.”
Zaroyin tugged the mask under his chin. “Unfortunately, sometimes to advance historically and scientifically, the rights of the many must outweigh the rights of the few.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded to know, a sudden knot in her throat. She didn’t want to make history. She just wanted Ky.
“Get dressed. I’ll explain when we’re in the air.”
“Are you crazy? We can’t go anywhere in this weather.” Unless she’d been unconscious for so long the weather front had changed and the skies were clear. Panic crept up her throat at the black holes in her memory. “How long have I been under?”
He lifted both palms, placating her. “Only hours. Calm down. You really have nothing to be afraid of here. I won’t hurt you.”
“You already did,” she spat at him, her jaw tight, her fists clenched, needing a moment to compose her tough FBI persona. There she was, alone and fighting the world all by herself again. Ky had to be frantic. Tucker and Sam, too. Maybe even Tate. “Then get out while I change.”
Zaroyin nodded once. “I will leave you to your toiletry. Press your palm to the panel on the other side of your bed to reveal a water closet. You have fifteen minutes to freshen up and change, but know this, Miss Stark. There are two armed guards outside your door who’ll be more than happy to assist you with your attire.”
“More drones?” she quipped as sarcastically as she could, her throat gone dry at his threat. “What? Are they going to shoot me with one of their smart guns?” The scary question welled up in her heart. “Did... did you rape me?”
He narrowed his brows, nearly squinting. “I expected better of you. Your virtue has never been compromised. Why would you think that?”
He nodded, his lips pursed in a thoughtful way. This mad scientist was not the brash, coldhearted man she remembered from her first and only encounter. “Believe it or not, Eden, your psychic skills are world-renowned. The FBI tried to keep you a secret, but we’ve known for years where you were. More people sing your praises than you’ll ever know. Please don’t disappoint me after all I’ve done to acquire you. There’ll be time for further explanations later.”
Zaroyin’s East European accent seemed more pronounced than she remembered, but his shoulders sagged and that was enough of a clue. He’d even used her name, a clever ploy to establish a link between abuser and victim. She got that. She’d done it enough in the middle of life-and-death rescues, but something was off with the guy. Zaroyin seemed different. Subdued. Perhaps his association with Bick had exacted a greater toll on him than he’d expected. Well good. He and Bick deserved each other.
Eden dropped off the edge of the bad, instantly dizzy again. When he grasped her wrist to keep her from falling, the vision rolled over her in a wave. She saw it all. The man strapped to a metal platform in a dark, dark room. His arms, wrists, and ankles manacled. A solitary bright light glared overhead. Sweat dripped from his short, black hair, running in rivulets down his brow and temples. He groaned, but turned toward her.
He would’ve had a beautifully sculpted face if not for the lines of torment stretched out from the corners of his eyes and his mouth, or the thin streams of blood running from his delicate, straight nose. His aristocratic brows were thin and drawn.
It was him. Black Eyes.
Awareness dawned. That was no examination table he was on, not with the perforated stainless steel panels beneath him and the metal buckets on the floor. Not with the matching stainless steel splashback to his left. Faucets with quick-access triggers instead of handles. A woven, metal hose looped over a metal hook at his right. A sink next to his head. Levers to raise and lower the incline of the table.
Oh God! Her heart jumped to her throat. The poor man was laid out on an autopsy table. Across the distance, she took stock of his mental and physical condition. Weak pulse. Barely breathing. Desperate, but alive. He didn’t open his eyes, but she swore she heard her name breathed out from his parched lips. Eden? You came?
She nodded, fully aware that Dr. Zaroyin had moved in much too close and that he still gripped her wrist. What are they doing to you? she asked mentally. Where are you?
Don’t... come, Black Eyes murmured into her mind. It’s... a trap.
Her empathy for all things living took over. She breathed her message of hope back to him. Don’t give up. I have friends who can save you.
N-no. S-stay where you are. It’s hopeless.
There is always hope.
His shallow breathing all but stopped. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The blackest, saddest gaze lasered straight into her. Eden’s heart dropped to the floor of that distant prison. This was the little boy who’d loved kittens, now made to suffer alone. He wasn’t mean at all. Nor evil. Just tortured. Like Ky had been.
The barest smile tugged at his lip. Her name was Hoi-Toi. She lived to be a very old cat.
That was all Eden needed in order to trust him. And you loved her.
She was my only friend.
Eden made up her mind. He wouldn’t suffer alone. I’m coming for you. I’m your friend, too.
No. Stay with Ky.
She delved deeper into his energy. Black Eyes wanted to die, but he was more worried for someone else. Oh, snap. Me? Why are you worried about me?
Not you. Our child. Our perfect child.
But we don’t have a child.
If you come to this place, we will.
She shifted her bare feet on the cold tile floor, uncomfortable with the implication that she and he might be together that way. Who’s doing this to you? Where are you?
Don’t worry about that; just don’t come. We were never meant to be. You love Ky. Stay with him. Live for him. Be happy.
Where are you? What’s your name?
The faintest grimace flickered over his beautiful, weary face. I’ll never tell.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ky followed Alex’s coordinates, his ornery boss deep in his ear canal the entire way. He didn’t stop until he and Tate were in sight of a concrete bunker built into the low-lying granite hill. It wasn’t much larger than a two-story building, and thick rows of icicles draped its southern face.
“We may lose this connection the moment you step inside,” Alex warned. “Jed’s satellite is state-of-the-art, but it can’t pierce the cloud cover.”
Alex must have been relying on TEAMsky, the industrial satellite placed in orbit by NASA but owned by Alex and his close friend, the billionaire defense contractor, Jed McCormack. As much as Alex disparaged technology, he nonetheless relied on Jed’s eye-in-the-sky.
Ky scanned the impregnable structure. “If I can get in.”
“You’ve got two gun turrets topside, one at each front corner,” Alex instructed like he had no doubt Ky would get in. “The best approach will be from the north. Climb the hill behind the bunker and enter through the roof. All buildings have ventilation ducts topside, but be careful. I can’t detect every dirt bag at this altitude.”
“There are bound to be a few,” Ky muttered, still trying to catch his breath after the five-mile run. Every strand of muscle burned up his legs and down his legs. He tasted blood—not like that was any big surprise. Felt like a normal day drilling at Lejeune.
Tate pulled up alongside him, a layer of frost on his goggles. “You ready to do this?”
Ky nodded, still surveying his target. “Zaroyin’s men have got to be waiting for us.”
“They’re just FBI. We can take them.” Over-confidence, another Tate identifier.
“Alex thinks we should enter through the roof, but I’m not so—”
A burst of rifle-fire coming from the bunker resolved that question. Ky and Tate dropped to their bellies and dug in. They weren’t going anywhere.
“I could light them up,” Alex muttered a long way from Kenora, “if I were there.”
Ky barely heard him over another burst of machine-gun fire. Spotlights flashed on from the rooftop, illuminating the fog. He bobbed his head up over his shallow snow bank for one quick look at the enemy’s position.
Both rooftop gun turrets were lit up, the FBI snipers hard at work laying down suppressive fire. The gunners swept right to left, then back again instead of focusing on any specific position. Zaroyin didn’t know he and Tate were out there, but something had definitely rattled the bastard.
“They’re not shooting at us. They’re just shooting,” Tate grumbled.
“Copy that,” Ky returned. Alex kept his mouth shut, a good strategy when his men were trying to stay alive on the ground.
The onslaught continued until a more ominous sound replaced it. The steady thwack, thwack, thwack of rotor slap in the night air. Brilliant white columns burst upward from the rooftop into the snow-laden clouds. Landing lights.
“Shit. They’ve got a chopper coming in,” Ky growled.
“In this storm?” Tate barked. “Idiots. They’ll get themselves killed.”
“Either that or they’re drones.” That pilot had to be out of his mind. The wind had died down, but the steady snow would’ve grounded most aircrafts, and a smart pilot would have known better that to fly in poor conditions. Slowly, the craft descended.
Ky recognized the re-purposed USMC workhorse by its sheer size and the twenty-degree cant to the tail rotor. Except for the flat-black paint, the stud, as it was affectionately called in the field, aka the Sikorsky CH-54E Super Stallion, was the same heavy-duty, armored beast he remembered from his tours in Afghanistan. The USMC helos had a proud history in covert operations. Several CH-53
s just like this one had secured Camp Rhino, the first land base in Afghanistan, in 2001. Others had dared heavy fire to rescue evacuees from the United States embassy in war-torn Somalia back in the 1990s.
This bad boy hovering just above the bunker had the capacity to haul as many as fifty-five troops and three combat gunners. If armed, and Ky had no doubt it was, it could dish out chaff, flares, and a helluva lot of hellfire from its window-mounted GAU-15A BMGs, as in the powerful Browning Machine Guns. Call it interdiction or call it eradication, Ky wouldn’t take on that lethal weapon or its wicked ordnance.
Except for Eden...
“I’m going in,” he told Tate, his mind made up
“Knew you’d say that. Go wide. Those dumbass gunners are kicking up enough fog they’ll never spot you. I’ll do what I can to keep them busy.”
“Like what?” Ky hated that he might have asked his buddy to die.
“Let me worry about it. Go!”
Ky rolled to his left away from Tate. Zaroyin’s paranoia had inadvertently aided and abetted. Every hot round fired into the snow raised mist and vapor, enough cover that a guy in white and gray winter cammies stood a chance if he crawled on his belly and stayed low. A loud explosion far to the right of his last position had to be Tate’s diversionary tactic.
Getting in close was not the problem. Ky skirted the building until he was at the west wall. Finally able to stand, he took cover and took stock. The gunners had both focused where Tate’s incendiary device blew. An occasional spray swung west, but the dozen guards at the main door stopped Ky cold. Overhead, the steady beat of that damned stud grew louder. That Sikorsky was the problem. His heart sank.
If he couldn’t get inside before the helicopter took off, Eden would be lost to him.
Eden woke to the steady burst of gunfire. Groggy again. Zaroyin sat across the aisle.
“What’d you do to me?” she demanded, vaguely remembering a poke in her neck.
“I told you what would happen if you stalled.”
“I wasn’t stalling. I was...” What could she say that wouldn’t reveal her connection to Black Eyes? Nothing. Eden played dumb.