When they moved up to her position and took over the firefight, she ran back to the cottage to help Grace. The cook stood at the front door lowering a rifle to her side. Any resemblance to a grandmother faded away in the swirl of dust near her. She was fierce and serious.
More shots were fired from the direction of the helicopter.
“Come with me.” Grace waved Emma into the kitchen, the rifle tucked under her arm. She wore jeans and a wool sweater as though she were headed out hunting, only her weapon of choice was an assault rifle, not a shotgun.
The gunfire outside intensified.
“Dawson tried to kidnap me,” Emma said through heavy breathing.
“I saw. Are you okay?” She scanned Emma and touched the blood on her face.
“I’m good. They killed him.”
Grace didn’t respond, and Emma couldn’t read her.
Toby arrived, and Grace’s rifle immediately pointed at him. She lowered it after he came into focus.
“What happened?” he asked Emma.
“Ian’s dead.” He’d taken a bullet for her. She had nothing she could give to him in return. The imbalance of it pissed her off. She couldn’t continue to be the victim in this nightmare. “Dawson is, too.”
“Stay focused and follow me.” Grace spoke with such authority, Emma followed. But doubt came as well.
“I thought no one knew about this place,” Emma said.
“Me, too.” Toby placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers trembling. Had he ever seen a gun battle? She hadn’t. Not like this.
Grace prodded them into the kitchen. “There are no absolutes. If you’re not prepared, then you’re dead.”
They stopped near the sink. Her mind was on autopilot. Grace paused, then turned to Toby. “Cover the back while I hide her in the closet.”
He ran out the back door, his rifle in his hands.
She pointed to a cabinet filled with pots and pans, not a closet. “Get in.”
“There’s no room.”
“Make room. We don’t have time.”
The flashes through the window from the helicopter and the firepower outside were the only light available. Emma could feel Fleming at her feet and paused. The cabinet would be one of the first places someone looked, and she’d be a sitting duck. She hesitated.
“Get the hell in the cabinet.” Grace’s hand landed on Emma’s shoulder and pushed her into a squatting position. “Now.”
The arm that been wrenched by Dawson flared in pain. Emma refused her, but Grace pointed her rifle to force her demand.
“Get in or I’ll have to kill you.” The cute old woman had transformed into an enemy. Maybe she was a traitor, too.
With the rifle aimed at her forehead, Emma twisted into the space, banging her forehead. The pots and pans clattered, except a few between her feet. It was as though someone had glued those to the floor.
Once she was settled, a faint smile appeared on Grace’s face. “Take care of yourself and tell Macknight I think you’re more than worthy of him.”
She squeezed Emma’s shoulder as though she hadn’t just threatened her with an M4 and shut her inside the small dark place. Everything became muffled, including the sound of men banging on the front door to come inside. This was a mistake. As she reached to get out of the cabinet, the floor literally fell out from under her. She fell down a slide into a more pervasive darkness, one that hadn’t seen light for a long time, if ever. Her hands went over her head to protect herself from everything falling on top of her.
She landed on hard ground, with the clamoring of pots on her head and all around. One of her legs slowed her landing, the other struck the floor at a bad angle. She could feel something tear before her ass hit the ground. Pain ripped through her knee. The damp, cold ground provided no comfort.
The air had a musty smell, but she breathed deeply anyway. She couldn’t see anything, and the thoughts running through her head skittered from guns to spiders to dying alone in this dark space. The last thought made her move. No way was she going to become a pile of bones discovered by random hikers in fifty years. If there was a way out, she’d find it.
She wasn’t sure how long until the armed men discovered this place, so she crawled forward using her hands in front of her to feel for a wall or some guide to lead her away from her location. Her arm ached, and her leg throbbed. Her life was in danger again, Ian and Dawson were dead, and Grace was up there continuing the fight. Her brain flashed through images of the gunfight and the fallen and the blood and the death. The blue eyes of the soldier she’d murdered kept looking at her, mocking her, cursing her, haunting her.
Faint gunshots from somewhere above warned that more could die. Several minutes later, the only sounds in her solitary space were her own movements and the slight rustle of wind from some unknown area. That would be her target. Her one lesson in spelunking, years ago, taught her a few things she could focus on besides the risk of dying inside a cold, dark, wet space. Head to the source of the air current.
The darkness made everything more grim and slowed her movements. But it was nighttime, and the sun wouldn’t arrive for hours, assuming light could reach this area.
The pain in her knee gave her focus and motivation to keep moving. Her fingers combed through spider webs and a chill spread across her. She hated webs more than she hated spiders. A stone, slimy wall stopped her. She could follow it somewhere. This must be an escape route they’d set up years ago. Hopefully, someone maintained it.
After a few minutes of crawling on her bad knee, she tried to stand, but the ceiling was low, and her knee ached with the added pressure. It was easier to remain close to the ground, both to avoid hitting her head and to keep weight off her weakened leg.
Had Russia invaded England? A week ago she would have said that was impossible, but she didn’t know anything anymore. One issue moved through her mind, making her trust in everyone evaporate. If British Intelligence wanted to protect their assets, it would make sense to kill her rather than send her to be tortured in front of her father. Logically, she was better off dead to them.
A speck of light appeared in the distance in front of her. Tiny, yes, but a destination. Her spirits lifted.
Please. Be her exit.
As her movements sped up the larger the beam of light grew. Not a brilliant white, or a shiny ray of sunshine. More a glow, perhaps from the moon. A deep golden hue. It didn’t matter. She wanted out, and this was her chance.
A thin opening into another part of the cave blocked her path to the origin of the light. She moved one arm through the hole and then her shoulder and her head. The walls pressed into her face, scraping her cheeks, her ears. Her other shoulder went through without too much resistence, but she became stuck when she tried to work her hips through the hole. Half in, half out, she rested for a moment.
When she tried again, the open wounds and scrapes of her previous attempts stung, sending shockwaves across her back and legs. Her eyes watered, and a slight gasp escaped her lips as she forced herself forward. When her hips wedged into the stone again, she took a deep breath and forced all the air out, tightening all of her muscles. Her abs, her ass, her legs. She used her arms to pull herself through. The jagged edge of a stone ripped through her jeans into her skin. Her wail echoed down the walls of the cave. Yet, at the end of the agony, she was through the opening and closer to the light.
She caught her breath, trying to ignore the pain in her knee. A knee that had held up through countless lacrosse games as a youth. Now she couldn’t straighten it or place weight on it without an unbearable amount of pain. She crawled a few football fields to the opening, a three-foot hole, looking over the countryside and to freedom.
A gloomy, rainy morning lifted the blackness of night, covering the open fields in a gray mist. It was the most welcome sunrise she’d ever seen, all clouds and rain. Blood leached through her jeans, leaving large areas stained in crimson. She tried to stand, but her knee couldn’t support her weight. She slithered
backward, returning to the cave. There wasn’t a house or road in sight.
The patter of raindrops landing in puddles masked all other sounds. The helicopter could be long gone, or maybe it had been stopped by whoever was left protecting the safe house. Escape was her biggest priority. Her leg wasn’t cooperating enough for a long hike out of there. If she could rest a few moments, she might have the energy to continue. She let her eyes shut and the pain float away in the rain.
Chapter Nineteen
With Owen’s life in danger, Macknight could barely function. He forced down a chicken sandwich during their transport to the airport. Now his stomach was rejecting the meal.
He and Jack remained silent for most of the drive to the airport, until Derek called.
Windfield was under attack. No other details were forthcoming.
His gut wrenched at the thought of something happening to Grace or Emma. He fought to control his rage at how karma continued to beat the crap out of him.
The drive took forever, over country roads and through nameless villages. He wanted to knock Jack from the driver’s seat so he could get to Windfield quicker. It wasn’t a good idea. He couldn’t think straight, and Jack was already handling the car at the highest speed possible to get them to the airport alive.
It took less than a half hour for Derek to have a military flight ready to transport them back to the U.K.
Throughout the flight, Macknight had no contact with Grace or Dawson. The second they landed in Bristol, much closer to Windfield than London, he and Jack hopped into a car and barreled to Windfield. Fifteen minutes and a lot of sharp corners later, they arrived in the remnants of a war zone. The sun had risen enough to allow them to view the damage. Flames spewed from the barracks. Firefighters were on the scene, but their efforts seemed futile against the wall of fire in front of them.
One of the cops stopped them. Between Macknight’s bruised face and the tattoos covering his arms, he seemed more hoodlum than law enforcement. Jack, without a fault in his appearance, flashed his identification, and the cop waved them into the facility.
As Jack checked in with the investigators, Macknight ran to the cottage. He pushed past two police officers standing over a body in the field by the house and dodged around another body a few yards away, then realized it was Ian. Macknight almost stopped. Someone had shot the kid in the chest. His insides twisted. Who else hadn’t made it?
One of the police officers pointed across the grass at his question. Dawson was dead, next to some other guy, not one of theirs. GRU. It was obvious from the weapon at his side and the Russian-made wire behind his ear. The Russians had found Emma. Macknight ignored the clenching of his chest. If she was here, he’d find her, and if she wasn’t, he’d hunt down the bastards who stole her away.
Inside, he scrambled from room to room calling out names. There was no answer, but the overturned furniture and broken items shattered across the floor told him someone had pushed through in search of something or someone. When he arrived in the kitchen, he checked for any signs of their escape. The cabinet with the escape hatch was only half full of pots and pans. It hadn’t been used for years but was one of the best means of protecting someone in case of Armageddon. Someone had climbed into the small space recently.
He turned from the spot and entered the pantry in search of anyone.
What he saw ripped a hole in his life, in his heart, in everything. The world slowed to a stop. His reserve broke down.
“No. Fuck, no,” he cried out, the pain unbearable.
Grace was lying in a crumpled heap, blood staining her chest, her beautiful eyes open. Pain stole his breath as he fell to his knees. She’d nurtured his soul for years, and now someone had stolen her away. Grace was dead, Lucy was dead, his entire family was dead.
He could steal war plans, kill terrorists, and bomb the headquarters of their biggest enemies, but he was unable to keep his loved ones alive. She’d been his rock. He couldn’t imagine continuing without her.
With Owen imprisoned, it was as though hell had opened up and swallowed every part of life that gave Macknight a reason to go on.
“Where’s Emma?” Jack appeared in the door. He must have seen Grace at that point, because he swore and ran to her. “Son of a bitch.” He closed her eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated.
“I think Emma got out. The trap door’s been moved,” Macknight answered in a cold, emotionless manner. He couldn’t say anything else. His throat had tightened, and he was choking on his grief.
A whimper came from under the desk. Fleming was curled on her side. She lifted her head when Macknight knelt by her. Ian was dead. Dawson down. Fleming hurt. And Grace. He couldn’t think about her without falling apart.
Focus on finding Emma. He took a deep breath. Movement helped.
“Hey, girl, you okay?” He brushed his hands over her. She cried out in pain when he touched her side.
He reached under the desk and lifted her into his arms. She whimpered, but she had to be moved. His arms trembled as he held her. She had a gash on her leg and some blood around her nose.
“Is she all right?” Jack asked, stroking the fur on her ear, his eyes casting back to Grace as he spoke.
“Internal damage at a minimum. It feels as though someone broke her ribs.” The muscles in his neck tightened as he tried to hold back his grief. He swallowed hard, a lump in his throat making it near impossible.
She whined in his arms, and he shifted her position, keeping her as comfortable as possible and using her affection to keep him moving.
“Bastards.” Jack walked back to Grace. He was shaky in his movements. He knelt beside her and hugged her, his connection to her perhaps as close as Macknight’s.
He had to turn away. He buried his head into Fleming’s fur, his eyes burning.
Jack stood and placed a hand on Macknight’s shoulder. They’d trained for tragedy, but this was too much to handle after Lucy’s death. Macknight handed Fleming to Jack and then bounded up the stairs, working his way through each room in search of Emma.
Returning to the ground floor, he found Toby coming in through the back door. His steps were off, like he was trying to make it home after a bender at the local pub.
Jack arrived. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Toby said with a stilted affectation.
“Have you seen Emma?” Macknight asked.
“Grace was helping her. I heard them arguing about Emma leaving. Grace hid her in a closet whether she wanted to go or not.” Toby rubbed his fingers behind Fleming’s ears. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wasn’t fully coherent.
Hiding in a closet was not protocol, but Toby didn’t know that. It would make more sense if Grace were forcing Emma into a cabinet. But the escape route was forty years old and not in great condition. If she was down there, she could easily get lost. “We need to find her.”
“What the hell happened?” Jack asked Toby.
Toby paused and pointed to the area where Dawson was found. “Everything was fine until the helicopter arrived. Then nothing went as planned. Several of the guys tried to protect Emma against Dawson. She fought like crazy, ended up breaking his nose as he tried to drag her to the bird. They had her onboard at one point, but she escaped. Grace protected her. A true hero, she was.”
Macknight waved away soul-crushing thoughts of Grace and focused on what Toby had said. “Dawson?”
“From what I saw, Dawson was working with the enemy. The bastard deserved to die.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack asked.
Everything Dawson had ever said to Macknight flashed through his mind. His constant complaining, his lack of upkeep on the perimeter. When Macknight had ordered the issues fixed, the enemy came in with a helicopter in a move out of a Mission Impossible movie. All for Emma. If she escaped, they’d still be looking for her.
His blood pressure boiled. The implications of a mole on the property for years were enormous.
He was going to find Em
ma, and then he’d kick someone’s ass at HQ for not finding out about Dawson. Fleming whimpered in Jack’s arms.
Macknight rubbed his fingers behind her ears, one of the only places that didn’t seem sore. “Get her out of here. I can’t lose my dog, too.”
Jack nodded and headed to the door. Fleming struggled in his arms, but he held her tight. “I’ll transport her to an animal hospital after I talk to the fire department about our munitions storage.”
“Take Toby as well. He needs to see a medic.”
The young soldier shook his head, although his balance was off. “I’m fine.”
“You’re in shock. Go.” He pointed to the front door.
Jack escorted Toby outside to a medic while Macknight headed to the car.
Lucy, Grace, and Owen had sacrificed themselves for the greater good, but they’d made that choice. Emma had been thrown into the middle of an international incident without any preparation. Macknight had promised her Windfield was safe. It wasn’t.
They’d never had a need to use the escape tunnel, but from his recollection, it came out near Somerset Farm. He raced through the countryside.
He arrived at the back entrance of the farm and looked around. Nothing appeared familiar. The last time he was there was about six years ago on a tour of the facility. The opening to the tunnel had been tricky to find even back then.
He wandered up and down the acreage, but there was nothing but sheep and rolling hills. He called Derek to see if he had any idea where to find the tunnel entrance, but he was unavailable, the son of a bitch. He called the underground helpline for MI6 operatives. It was always used as a last defense when things went hairy. They had access to more classified information than the Prime Minister herself.
“Authorization code?” the operator asked on the other line.
“678165.”
“Liam Macknight. What can I do for you?”
“I need the location for the Windfield tunnel exit.”
“Please hold.” The sound of cello music took over for a few minutes.
London Calling Page 13
