She shifted toward the prisoner and stilled. This man didn’t look anything like the one in the photograph. Fluorescent light glinted off his shiny, shaved head. Had they brought the wrong prisoner to the interview cell? Lambert had provided her with a Marine Corps picture of a man in dress blues and a proud, defiant gleam peeking from under the shiny rim of his hat.
This man—the only word that came to mind: broken. No pride. No haughtiness. Six months in a Supermax would do that to even the toughest of guys. But one thing she hadn’t counted on was his size. Arms as big around as rocket launchers. Neck thick as a tree trunk and nearly missing due to the bulk—toned, tight bulk; none of the flabby stuff—he’d accumulated. His knees banged the edge of the table as he shifted and looked at her. Even bent forward, he hulked over the table, which seemed dwarfed as if he sat at a child’s tea table. Good grief—the size of those hands!
What if he was really guilty of capital murder? He could snap her neck like a twig with those enormous paws.
Rich brown eyes raked over her. He made a hissing noise. Shaking his head, he dragged his gaze back to the table. “You’re wasting your time, Doc.”
Oh yeah, this was him.
“Mr. Riddell, my name is Kacie Whitcomb.” She still liked that alias, even after all these years. It sounded sweet. Disarming. She dropped her briefcase on the table. “I’m here to interview you on behalf of—“
Palms splayed, he lifted his cuffed hands. “Just go back to your padded office and tell them I’m passive-aggressive. Paranoid schizophrenic. Delusional. Whatever it takes so we can go back to our very fulfilling lives.”
The attitude that rolled off him was as thick as his head. “Passive-aggressive, huh?” She folded her arms and stared down at him, because if she sat, she’d have to crane her neck to look up at him. “According to records, you brutally assaulted four men when you were taken into custody. Put one in the hospital. Cracked ribs of another.”
His jaw muscle popped, the dark complexion rippling. Smooth, satiny…
She blinked, regathering her thoughts. They didn’t have time for this. Speaking of time, shouldn’t the—
Boom!
Three seconds behind. She’d have to fix the timing.
Feet scrambled outside the door, followed by two thuds.
Griffin jerked, straining at the smoke billowing in through the small cracks along the door frame.
“Hold your breath.” She tugged back the edge of her briefcase, revealing a hidden panel.
He locked gazes with her, surprise dancing over his handsome features. “What is this?”
“Shut your mouth or you can call it your funeral.” She peeled out a device, pressed it over her mouth and nose, then hooked it up to a small pouch she tucked in her pocket.
A curt nod later, she knew he’d cued in on the fact that she was in control, which often was an issue with military types like him.
Kazi lifted out the files. Digging her nails into the bottom of the case, she worked out a small bladder. She hurried to Griffin, strapped a breathing strip over his mouth and nose and slapped the oxygen bladder against his chest. The glue patch would hold it in place.
Using her pen case, she unscrewed the cap and knelt beside him. Carefully, she poured the searing chemical over the first links. They sizzled and snapped. Within seconds the acid ate through and the chain fell loose.
At the door, she poured the rest over the lock. More smoky sizzling. She tried to open it, but the thing wouldn’t give. She yanked hard. Grunted. Why wouldn’t it open?
Griffin reached around and gave a solid jerk. It pulled inward.
Two guards slumped into the room, unconscious. She dragged them inside and started undressing the man. One of the benefits of rescuing a black-ops soldier was she didn’t have to instruct him in what to do next. He worked swiftly on the other guard.
The masks would only give them five minutes of the precious element, so she worked quickly and stepped into the clothes. Being petite served her well. Silently, she thanked her lucky stars that the guard was a younger, fit man. Most men were larger. The uniform fit just right. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Griffin.
If only she could smile—two inches of ankle whistled at her. The shirt tugged taut across his muscular chest. Even with the seal taped over his mouth and nose, she could see the glowering expression stabbing her. That made her want to smile even more.
They hurried into the hall and rushed toward the cafeteria. They could slip through the serving area to the waiting service truck. Shouts pinged off the all-cement building as they hustled down one whitewashed corridor after another.
Rounding a corner, she saw a flash of black. Guards disappeared around the corner. They rushed past the spot where she’d set the plastique. The explosion had been enough to cause chaos and confusion, but not enough to unleash two-hundred violent criminals onto an unsuspecting public. She wasn’t without scruples.
A variation of color on the floor registered one second too late. The sprinklers had come on. She tried to slow, but she hit the wet spot. Her feet spun out from under her.
Strong arms caught her, dragging her onward. Kazi scrabbled forward, using his momentum to launch herself on.
“Stop!”
She never did understand why they said that. Whoever stopped?
Shots rang out.
Plaster burst out at Kazi as she banked right, through the double doors to the cafeteria. Zigzagging around tables. Twenty feet ahead a guard emerged from the kitchen, looking backward over his shoulder. He carried his weapon lazily at the side. He hadn’t seen them yet. And if she had anything to say about it, he never would.
Deviating her course, she jumped onto a chair, then the table without missing a beat. She launched herself at the man, her right foot thrust forward. He whirled toward her, his gun coming up seconds too late. Her booted foot collided with his face. He whipped around.
She rolled out of the maneuver and came up running, then shoved through the kitchen door and aimed for a serving tower. Skidding up behind one, she grabbed both sides. A strong push sent it spinning toward the door—thud!
Griffin maneuvered another into position. The temporary barricade would buy them desperately needed time. She sprinted toward the back door. From inside her shirt, she peeled away a thin layer of latex, wrapped it to her finger and pressed it against the coded box. A row of round red lights flashed back and forth, then blinked green. Click!
Outside, she led him to the food van. They darted inside. She beelined past the pallets of food stuff, careful not to touch them and leave a DNA trail for the dogs. At the back, she squatted and palmed a panel. Griffin joined her, but she waved him back a step as she applied subtle pressure to the metal. At her feet—right where he’d been standing—the raised indentions glowed. She stroked one left, then another left, then one right. The back wall receded.
Kazi motioned Griffin into the narrow void, wanting to laugh at the way his shoulder blades touched the back and his pectorals brushed the front of the false wall. His face contorted. Was the big lug claustrophobic?
She moved in the cramped space, nudging him down a couple of inches. The door flashed closed. Darkness devoured them. Using her nails, she scraped the sticky oxygen mask from her mouth and nose. Had Griffin moved yet? That pouch would run out soon.
Unable to risk telling him to remove it, she reached up, her cool fingers tracking over his face. Smooth…stubble. There, the edge of the tape. She pried it back.
He caught her hand, making her spasm. The soft ripping of the tape drifted to her.
The sound of water spilling over the truck told her the plan was on schedule. Soon shouts reverberated around them. Dogs barked. The delivery truck rocked as the shouts seemed to devour the interior. The guards were inside, searching.
“Find anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, they came through the cafeteria. Larry’s unconscious and the back door was open.”
“They
aren’t here. Check for yourself, man.”
“Didn’t the dogs catch a scent?”
“Yeah, the scent of ground beef, I think. Stupid dogs.”
“Yeah, and you’re spoiling it,” a guy complained. “That ain’t coming out of my pay. Now, do you want to take the truck apart, or can I get going before I’m fired for being late with spoiled food?”
“Nobody’s leaving. We have an escaped prisoner.”
“Okay, guess I’ll have to call my boss and explain about the ruined food.”
“You sure you checked inside?”
“For cryin’ out loud. Check yourself.”
The bed rocked again, then shifted. Loud thuds boomed through the small space. Feet drew closer…closer.
Bang! Bang!
As the man knocked on the metal, clearly testing it for signs of weakness, Kazi remained calm. The false wall should give off a solid thud that matched everywhere else in the truck. But was should good enough?
“All right.”
“I’m clear?”
“Yeah. Go on.”
Kazi closed her eyes, listening as the driver climbed behind the wheel. Vibrations tickled her feet as the engine rumbled to life. It lurched forward—which pitched them toward the false wall. Or, at least it pitched her. Griffin was soundly wedged.
As the chassis lumbered onto the main road and gained speed, she relaxed finally. “In an hour, we’ll rendezvous with a Cessna. We’ll fly to the Caribbean—“
“Hold up!” Although he’d removed the strip of what felt like duct tape, Griffin still couldn’t breathe any easier. Why on God’s green earth had he just escaped a maximum security prison? “Who are you? Why did you bust me out? I mean, I appreciate your help, but now I’m a wanted fugitive.” Madyar had to be shouting a few “Oh sweet Jesuses” right now in heaven.
“In two hours you would’ve been dead. A hit had been hired out on you.”
A hit? Why? He was behind bars, immobilized, paralyzed. “Who wants me dead?”
“What you need to know is why you’re out. They’re all down.”
This was crazy. “Lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He couldn’t believe he’d followed Lara Croft’s sister out a Supermax without a second thought. The eyes. She flashed those innocent eyes at him and knocked him senseless. “As soon as we can, I’m hoofing it back. No way I’m going to let my respect—“
“Your team, Mr. Riddell. The team has been flatlined.”
Nightshade? “Not possible. Nobody knows who we are.”
“They found you, didn’t they?”
Oh sweet Jesus.
“From what I’ve been able to uncover, Midas is imprisoned in Venezuela. A place, as you know, Mr. Riddell, is very unfriendly to Americans on the wrong side of the law. A place where nice guys like your buddy disappear and nobody hears from them again. The newest member, the assassin, faces execution one week from today in a Hamas safe house.”
The news looped his heart into a knot.
“Cowboy was arrested in London and faces charges of terrorism.”
The knot tightened. He couldn’t breathe.
“Marshall Vaughn is hooked up to a machine and not expected to live. Someone found your Shack, grabbed the men, then blew the building into the Hudson.”
Unbelievable. Griffin leaned against the wall, rubbing a hand over his face. No wonder Colton missed their weekly meeting—arrested. On terrorism charges. The Kid on life support? It made him sick to his stomach. Metcalfe…“Frogman. Where’s Max? And Squirt?”
Her green eyes met his. “Unknown. Both disappeared two weeks ago. Frogman made a call to his wife, then vanished. His wife was shot, but it wasn’t fatal. She and the other wives and children are safely tucked away, out of sight and mind.”
Whoever had gone after the team hit hard and in a way that would decimate any chance of the team recovering.
A slow burn worked from his toes, through his legs, stoked by the sickening feeling of being hunted. It surged through his chest with volcanic fury. He’d handpicked the team with Olin. And he’d be among the damned if he let someone disassemble Nightshade. “What’s the plan?”
CHAPTER 6
Winter had crowded out the heavenlies and silenced the familiar song of the cicadas as they waited along a barren runway. Griffin remembered sitting on the front porch with Madyar, rocking. Talking. Enjoying. Doing nothing but listening to one another. To nature. To God.
Strangely, God had been as quiet as the stark night that stretched before him. An icy wind rustled the tall, uncut grass waving under the dull glow of the winter moon. Eerie silence drifted through the starless sky. Pop-Pop had taught him to watch for God in the small things, the whisper of the wind, the smile of someone unknown. Was this woman sent by God?
No, Lambert sent her.
Griffin had to be a fool to cooperate with the escape—but Nightshade needed him. He had to get the guys back together. And the only way to do that was to be free. Wrestling with the notion that he served time for a crime someone else committed—well, God would have to sort that one out.
Cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing hot breath provided little warmth. Griffin remained quiet, ignoring the bitter cold worming through the thin scrubs. Beside him, Wonder Woman sat like a loyal guard dog, watching. Her wide eyes sat glued on a fixed point down the airstrip. She shifted onto her toes and crept forward a few feet.
“There,” she whispered as two lights blinked in the distance.
Slowly, the thrum of a plane droned into his awareness. Red wingtip lights grew brighter.
“Let’s go.” Kacie patted his shoulder and, in a hunched run, approached the runway. Staying close, Griffin prepared himself to overpower the pilot of the plane.
The moon peeked through drifting clouds, accenting the glossy body of a single-engine plane as it rolled into view.
Griffin anticipated Kacie’s move and darted toward the craft with her.
“Other side,” she said.
He whipped around the front, avoiding the pointed steel tip that guarded the propeller. The sleek hull was new, but it was still a single-engine plane. He hated single-engines. He’d been jiggled like Madyar’s homemade butter on one too many flights. At the side, he tugged up the gull-wing door—and froze.
Kacie sat in the pilot’s seat. Headphones on and pressing buttons. Her eyes darted to him. “What?”
He glanced to the backseat. Empty. “Where’s the pilot?”
“You’re looking at her. Now get in or I’ll leave you.”
Mind tangled, he folded himself into the ultracompact compartment and drew down the door. Before he could fasten the three-point harness, she was taxiing down the runway.
Even with the divider between their seats, her cool skin brushed his. Frustration wrapped him tightly as he squished his left arm against his side. He rolled his neck and pushed his thoughts to the team and away from the speed as they ramped up to take off.
Metcalfe holed up in a guerilla camp. No doubt held by someone loyal to Bruzon, whom Metcalfe had taken down. Torture. They would torture the man until he screamed and ratted out his friends.
Colton. His Recon buddy held by British authorities on charges of terrorism, which was asinine! Where was Piper? And his mother and daughter?
Aladdin would face a humiliating execution—and no doubt the men holding him would make sure to display the traitor’s body for all to see. A week. He only had a week.
Max…Max… Where are you, Frogman?
Gravity pressed Griffin against the seat. He gripped the leather and clenched his teeth as the plane dipped to the right and—wobbled. “Did we just wobble?”
“It’s called flying, Mr. Riddell.”
He pointed to the panel where blue sat on brown. “J–just keep it straight, okay? That should stay straight.” Again he wagged his finger at it. “Straight. Got it?”
“If I did that, we’d end up in China.” Glowing under the lights of the instrumentation, her smile s
piraled out at him and struck him in the chest. “Are we scared of flying?”
Clicking his tongue, he shook his head, doing his best to regroup his thoughts. And that’s all they were. He wasn’t afraid. He’d faced worse. “You’re crazy. I hop flights all the time.” He roughed a hand over his face. “I just don’t like planes where my shoulder could push the window out.” Her laughter did nothing to ease the irritation seeping into him. His fingers ached as the heated air chased off the icy coldness. “Where are we going?”
“Private airstrip in Texas. We’ll gear up and head to Afghanistan.”
“We?”
Another smile, this time as she read the gauges. “You have something against a woman helping you?”
“I—I—no—that’s not what I meant.”
Her laughter bubbled out, so light and infectious it finally dragged a reluctant smile from his own face. She punched a button on her left, then shifted and reached into the back.
“Hey!” Griffin reached for the stick on his side—only he didn’t know how to fly this thing. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be looking out there?” He jabbed a finger at the windshield.
“Why? So I don’t rear-end a 747?” As she drew her arm back, she brought out a large black bag and dropped it in his lap. “Get changed.”
He rummaged through it. Pants, a shirt, shoes. He eyed her. Probably had a full dossier on him, which explained how she knew. How was he supposed to change? He couldn’t even stretch out his legs, his shoulder grazed the window and her elbow, and she wanted him to change? “Excuse me while I step outside…”
Her lips parted, another grin threatening. “Watch the first step. It’s a killer.”
He would not laugh. This was not funny. But the pressure in his chest built. Finally, he let out a breathy laugh and covered his mouth with his fist. “Baby Girl, what do you think I am? A conniptionist?”
She arched an eyebrow at him, her white-blond hair practically glowing from the instrumentation. “You mean a contortionist?”
Wring her neck. Strangle her. Get it over with. He knew how to parachute—if there was one in this thing. It’d been a long while since he’d mangled his words like this in front of a woman. He tried to tuck aside the irritation at the way she took charge, ordered him around, and gave no explanation, but it only made him angrier.
Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) Page 7
