She followed him, crunching as she went. “There’s a party-barge of alcohol, too. And sugared sodas.” She helped herself to another bottle of water from the case she’d opened.
“But no radio,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “What kind of bomb shelter doesn’t at least have a short-wave? There’s a landline in the living room, but it doesn’t even have a keypad, plus it’s dead.”
“It was probably connected to the main house,” Tash said as he led the way back out to the central living area. She spoke in a Ustanzian accent, faintly British-sounding with a tinge of French, “We’re running low on Glenfiddich. Have one of the more comely serving wenches deliver it to me here in the party bunker. I’m pretty sure this hasn’t been anything close to a real bomb shelter since Prince Tedric-the-first renovated it. Nuclear annihilation was low on his likely-to-happen-in-1995 list—way, way below having sex with powerless servants, assuming there were no wives-of-his-friends in the vicinity.”
Thomas crossed the room, pushed the heavy door closed, and locked it. There was a deadbolt on this side of the door, and he threw that, too, with a very solid ca-chunk. Only then did he put down the rifle, leaning it against the wall.
It was clear that he finally believed they were safe—or at least safe enough. Tasha took a deep, steadying breath, because the reality of what they’d been through—and how close Thomas in particular had come to being killed—was a tad overwhelming.
“The toilet’s not chemical,” he told her, motioning for her to give him back the peanuts. His seeming non sequitur completely blew her up.
“The what’s not... what now?” she asked as she passed him the jar.
“The toilet,” he said, crunching peanuts. “In the bathroom. It’s a real flush toilet.”
She rushed to look. “Oh, my God, Thomas, you found me the peeing-tree of my dreams!” The gleaming bathroom was about as big as the kitchen, with a soaking tub, double sinks with more of that gray granite for the counter, and a glass-encased shower. She opened the medicine cabinet to reveal—yup—dozens of trick-kits—packets of personal care items for “unexpected overnight guests.” She ripped one open and found the toothbrush, but then realized, “Is it safe to use the water?”
“There’s a high-end filtering system in the utility room, so yes.” Thomas stood in the open doorway, watching as she washed her hands using the soap that was out on the counter, then blissfully, gloriously brushed her teeth. “There’s also a hot water heater that was left running.”
“Hot shower’s already on my to-do list,” she told him around the toothbrush and the foam, “right after checking out clean clothing options, and a sumptuous dinner of cornflakes and it’s-usually-disgusting-but-tonight-it-will-be-delicious almond milk, and I know, I know, I’m brushing my teeth before I eat, and that’s insane, but the fuzz-mouth was driving me mad.”
“You never even mentioned it,” he said.
She shot him a hard look. “Yeah, like I’m going to whine about that to you, No-Jacket-Clown-Shoe-Crazy-Pants-Man? Plus, it was the least of my complaints. Hunger, thirst, mountain-madness from all those freaking relentless trees—and just wait’ll you see the foot-sized blister on my foot.”
“You have a foot-size blister,” he said, “that you didn’t think I should know about?”
“It’s so big I’ve been considering naming it.” Tasha hung her toothbrush in a holder attached to the wall, and wiped her mouth on a towel. “This rack’s mine,” she informed him. “Is there heat?” She didn’t let him answer as she went past him and back into the living room. “I mean, there’s obviously heat. It’s warm-ish in here—much warmer than outside, and I appreciate that. But can we maybe turn it up? To, like, eighty? I’d really like it to be eighty, even just for an hour or two.”
Thomas laughed, but shook his head as he followed her. “There’s a furnace, and a thermostat—set to sixty, but I don’t think we should touch it. A change in temperature might catch someone’s attention. There were a lot of blankets in the bedroom closet, though. We can make our own heat. I mean, with the blankets.”
Yeah, she knew what he meant.
“Let me look at your foot,” he said.
“You can meet Melvin after I shower,” she said, heading into the bedroom. “Hopefully we’ll both be a little less gross.” She turned on the light. Yikes.
Thomas’s earlier comment, Bedroom—whoa, suddenly made sense.
The relatively small room was almost completely filled by an enormous bed covered by a deep red comforter, but it was the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every single wall that warranted that whoa. And yes, thank you so much, creepy Uncle Tedric, there was even a mirror on the ceiling.
It was dizzying—all the reflections, and reflections of reflections, of her standing there, bedraggled and grubby but undeniably alive.
The closet—its mirror-covered sliding door pushed back—had shelves that were, as Thomas had noted, filled with thick blankets, towels, and bedding. Two extra-large plush red robes hung in the closet with slippers in their pockets. Okay, that was nice, like a four-star hotel.
The closet also held a system of four large drawers. Tasha opened them, hoping to find anything—T-shirts, boxers, clean socks—but they were all empty. As if the place was ready to be AirBnB-ed, damn it.
So okay. This wasn’t perfect. There weren’t clean clothes ready and waiting for them and—hah, listen to her. How perfect did she need perfect to be, really? They weren’t going to freeze to death, they weren’t gonna starve, there was a hot shower available plus the glorious ability to flush and wash their hands after nature called, and even if the bad guys did find them, they wouldn’t be able to get through those heavy-duty doors to kill them.
That sounded pretty damn perfect—as long as the heat and the water and the lights stayed on.
“After we shower, we can maybe wash our clothes in the kitchen sink,” she said, but then realized that Thomas hadn’t followed her this time.
It was possible, after coming just once into this too-sexy-for-its-bed bedroom to make sure bad guys weren’t lurking in the closet, he would never venture into its mirrored red decadence again.
At least not while she was around.
Tasha took both of the robes from the closet and went out into the living room to find Thomas checking out the ancient TV system.
“Are you ready for some football?” she asked, and this time she’d non-sequitured him. She rephrased, because even though he didn’t let himself look tired, she knew he had to be exhausted. “I bet you’re looking for internet access.”
“I was hoping there’d be something hardwired,” he confirmed her guess. “But nope. There’s just an old DVD player and an ancient gaming system.”
“I was just wondering,” she said, “about the power that’s running this place—lighting the lights, heating the water. Is there some kind of generator?”
“Yes,” he said, “there is a generator, but no, it’s not being used. It looks like it’s never even been tested, which is... really irresponsible. It’s a recent model, so that’s good, I guess, but the rest of the backup power system—the batteries—gotta be originals from the 1960s. Like museum pieces. Also probably never used.”
“So this place is powered by...?”
“Regular, local electric utilities,” he told her, then smiled tightly at her disbelief. “Yup. It must’ve been wired separately from the main house, or we’d be in the dark right now. It’s probably got an underground power line, considering the climate and terrain. Underground is harder for hostiles to cut, because they’ve got to find it first.”
“Assuming they even know this bomb shelter is here.”
“This is definitely not a bomb shelter,” Thomas said. “It’s not even a panic room. More like a... secret hide out.”
Tash had to smile at his choice of a PG option over the mirrored-ceiling obviousness of sex-pod.
“Hurry up and take a shower,” Thomas told her, “then I’m next, then I get
a look at Melvin.”
“And I get a better look at the back of your head,” she reminded him. “As long as we’re playing doctor.” She heard the words as they came out of her mouth, and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“Take a shower,” he said again.
She headed for the bathroom. “Good idea.”
Chapter Twelve
Most people were staying off the roads, no doubt hunkering down and searching for news via shortwave radios, if they had ’em.
The police cars were few and far between on the highway, and even though no one stopped them, they were looked at, hard.
And Rio looked back, just as pointedly. The homegrown tangos who were behind the current wave of death and destruction had a toehold just about everywhere in America, including—especially—law enforcement and the military.
So maybe the mutual glaring was a good sign.
After a solid day of driving, as the last of the sunset lit the western sky behind them, Rio was behind the wheel again when a text alert came in from Admiral Francisco.
Dave jerked awake and scrambled for his phone. His disappointment was palpable when he realized the text wasn’t coming in on his personal number. Still, contact from the admiral was vital, so he quickly dropped his phone and was instantly alert and ready to assist—even though he probably wanted to take advantage of their rare glowing bars of cell service to send H-less-Jon another Are you ok, please check in text.
Always optimistic, Rio had already connected their SAT phone to the SUV’s computer. He hit a button on the screen, and the vehicle’s voiced-texting clicked on.
“Have temporary SAT access,” the bland female computer voice recited Admiral Francisco’s text. “Calling now.”
Rio was already scanning their surroundings—they were in a relatively flat part of the country, so they had plenty enough sky for the SAT phone to work. And the vehicle had an external antenna, which meant—in theory—they’d be able to pull in a satellite call while on the move. Still, he swiftly pulled over, steering the SUV as far onto the shoulder as he could.
It would be bad form to drop a call from an admiral, and they were going to do their damnedest to make sure that didn’t happen.
The phone rang, and Rio was ready. He hit the button on the screen, connecting them. “Rosetti, sir,” he said, and quickly reported their longitude and latitude.
“Two things.” Both the signal and the admiral’s voice were remarkably clear as the man didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “One: the Ustanzians left their compound early Sunday morning. They report receiving a tip about the coming wave of attacks, and the queen and her family were moved to a safe, undisclosed location.”
“Whoa, who gave them a tip—” Dave started but Rio silenced him with a sharp look. Shit yeah, that news was worth a full Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, with a dozen Holy Christs thrown in. But discovering who knew what in advance of these stateside attacks—although important to national security—was not part of their assignment.
“Did they leave any staff behind at the compound, sir?” Rio asked.
“Just one man—a caretaker,” Admiral Francisco reported, “which brings me to two: I just received satellite images—stills from SARs that aren’t stopped by cloud cover. They reveal the compound’s been destroyed by fire since the Ustanzians departed.”
Dave’s expressive face was a full Daaaamn, that’s not good, and Rio knew his was reflecting that same sentiment as the admiral continued.
“The ski lodge was still burning as of yesterday before the sun set, when these images were taken. Weather in that area ruled out lightning strike, plus the main gate appears to have been breached. It’s hanging open.”
Dave quietly opened the map of the area around the Ustanzian compound, and Rio knew he was already starting to plan their route in, since driving up to the gate was no longer a good option.
The admiral kept going, “A second heavy smoke signature, some dozens of miles down the road from the compound reveals the shell of a vehicle, possibly an SUV—” he cleared his throat, no doubt because Thomas’s last report placed him and the admiral’s niece in a black SUV “—also destroyed by fire. At that time, there were no other vehicles on the roads in that area.”
But these SARs images were literally snapshots, so that last bit was mostly useless—well, aside from the intel that the mountain wasn’t teeming with too many hostiles to hide.
“I’ve sent those coordinates separately,” Admiral Francisco continued, “in the event the images don’t get through to you. I’ve also put in a request for infrared video imaging, see if we can get any human heat signatures in the area, but the response lag time is significant.”
No shit the lag time was significant if an admiral didn’t receive pictures taken late yesterday until right fucking now. If that pattern of delay repeated, he wouldn’t get the infrareds until Rio and Dave were on top of the compound.
“Your mission is...” Francisco cleared his throat. “Extremely low priority.”
“For Patterson and me, sir, it’s our only priority,” Rio reminded him. “Whatever intel you provide, it’s better late than never. But we won’t wait for it, sir. We’ll proceed as planned, stopping first at the burned vehicle, factoring in the potential for hostiles in the area.”
“Get moving,” the admiral ordered. “Just get there.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Dave cut the connection as Rio pulled back out onto the highway and pressed his foot to the floor.
As the text with the coordinates for the burned out SUV came in, Dave turned his attention to finding the location on the map. “Direct ETA to the SUV is thirty-two hours,” he reported. “But we’re gonna want to disconnect and hide the gas tank before we get there. I’ll do that math, see what our options are.”
Rio nodded. That was a good plan. Disconnecting the hitch to the gas tank would make them far more nimble—and less likely to explode if one of the hostiles got off a lucky shot.
“I hope the admiral can get us those heat signatures soon. It’d be nice to know how many hostiles we’re up against,” Dave murmured. “Two SEALs against twenty, no problem, but two against two thousand...?”
“Three,” Rio corrected him.
Dave clearly wasn’t following, so Rio clarified.
“Three SEALs,” he said. “You, me, and Lieutenant King.”
The rush of understanding in Dave’s brown eyes was combined with something else—kindness and compassion. “Rio, that SUV,” he started, but he stopped himself and simply said, “This could be really bad.”
Rio shook his head as he coaxed their own vehicle to move a little faster. “You don’t know Thomas King. Not the way I do. Just... Look, take advantage of cell service to nudge your loser ex, then do the math for the gas tank.”
“Yeah. Thanks, I... will. I... wish I didn’t care.” Dave was embarrassed, because Rio knew the whole story. Jon had, without a doubt, treated Dave like shit. “I shouldn’t care.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t work that way,” Rio said.
“I’m not sure what to say.” Dave sighed. “I’ve already sent him three texts.”
That was a wincingly high desperation level, but... “You’re assuming he’s gotten them,” Rio pointed out. “Go with that: Service sucks, texting sketchy, not sure I’m getting through, please check in.”
Dave nodded, typing with his thumbs. “Cordially matter of fact. That’s good. Thanks, man.”
“He might be in a place with no cell service,” Rio said.
“Or he’s being extra douchey, seeing how many texts I’ll send him before my head explodes,” Dave muttered grimly. “Payback for the booty call I refused to answer last week.”
“Okay,” Rio said. “All right. That’s it. I’m calling bullshit. We’re done with Jon, okay? He’s an asshole. After we get back to California, I’mma introduce you to my cousin, Luc. He just moved to San Diego. You’ll like him—it’s Luc without a K or an E. That’s not
why you’ll like him, that was just an FYI. You’ll like him because he’s... well, he’s smart, he’s funny, and he looks a lot like me—not too much, just enough—and well, I’m adorable.”
Dave laughed a little at that. “Remember how you said It doesn’t work that way? I wish it did, but... It kinda doesn’t work that way. You don’t just call bullshit and fall out of love.”
“I hear you,” Rio said. “I do. But not answering a booty call from the asshole you love because you’re out with someone new and funny and cute versus not answering a booty call from the asshole when you’re home alone, crying into your beer? I’d go with option A.”
Dave sighed. “All right. Set me up with your cousin. He better not look too much like you, because that would be weird.”
“Nah,” Rio said. “I mean, weird, yes, it would be, but no, he’s, like, a prettier me. Like, imagine I got photoshopped to look like I’m in a boy band.”
Dave closed his eyes and shook his head and let out an even heavier sigh. “All right,” he said again. But then he checked his phone. Still no text from the loser.
“I’ll give Luc your number,” Rio said. “In the meantime, get your distraction on by doing some math.”
“I’m on it.” Dave reached for the map.
“Do you remember that night I babysat for the McCoys, and I called you in a panic?” Tasha asked as Thomas finished up bandaging her foot.
“Syrup of ipecac night or the massively bleeding head wound one?” he asked. Her entire heel had been bloody and raw. Her feet were small but still very Fred-Flintstone—wide and square. In her tweens, she’d complained, loudly, about the way they looked, and he used to tease and tell her she was lucky—she didn’t need flippers when she went for a swim.
But Fred definitely didn’t take care of his feet the way Tash did. Hers were soft, with carefully pedicured toenails that were painted a very bright shade of pink.
The blister was bad—and he’d seen more than his share. Chafing and the damage it caused were a common Navy SEAL experience, and one of his many important tasks as the team’s hospital corpsman was to teach his teammates methods and tricks to avoid blisters. Prevention was absolutely the best medicine, but he also knew plenty about how to stop a blister from going full-Melvin after it started.
King's Ransom: (Tall, Dark and Dangerous Book 13) Page 10
