Blaze (37 page)

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Authors: Joan Swan

BOOK: Blaze
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“I'm not going to rehash all the details now.” Jocelyn didn't give a shit what had happened or how, because all the employees here would be terminated—one way or another—once this mission had been completed. “All I want to know is, how much of his final experiment can you replicate?”
Abrute's mouth shut. His eyes went distant, then returned to Jocelyn with the spark of understanding. “Of course. I was very involved with Cash's experiments. I kept my own notes on his procedures and progress. We often discussed alternate strategies.”
“And these notes are . . . where?”
“At home.” Immediately understanding his misstep, he shook his head. “I know, I know, we aren't supposed to take anything from the facility, but I did it for just this purpose. The experiments were so important and I thought if the notes ever got . . . lost or . . . whatever . . . I keep them in a bulletproof, triple-locked briefcase, ma'am. No one knows they're in there but me. No one knows the combination but me.”
“Speaking of combinations,” Jocelyn said, settling her best interrogation stare on Abrute. “Cash has a very important key—a physical, metal key—and we haven't been able to find it.”
“Oh . . .” His gaze dropped, skipped around as he thought, then shook his head. “I don't know anything about a key. I haven't seen it.”
“Sergeant Decker,” Jocelyn called.
“I'm sorry,” Abrute's face flushed beneath his dark skin. “I—”
“Take Mr. Abrute back home to get his notes, please.” Then she turned her attention to Abrute. “As long as that briefcase comes back to me tonight, notes intact, you will suffer no harm. Do you understand?”
Breathing hard now, eyes watery, Abrute exhaled a quick breath. “Oh, yes, ma'am. I understand, ma'am.”
When the door closed behind a blabbering Abrute, she kept her gaze on the blobs of color progressing down the stone hallways in the adjacent building. Once this was over, she would research Abrute. If he'd had associations with anyone less than pristine, if Cash's accusation of Abrute smuggling secrets was true, the man was dead.
But, first things first.
“Commander.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“It's time to get rid of this team.” She could already feel the relief. “Get your men down there. Get every member of that team herded into one location and blow . . . them . . . up. And while you're at it, destroy the lab. Make sure there is nothing left of them or that facility when you're done.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Everything, ma'am?” The tremor of disbelief in his voice didn't instill Jocelyn with confidence. “This is a state-of-the-art facility with—”
She gave him her do-it-or-else stare. “What part of
nothing left
didn't you understand, commander?”
 
Three.
Cash crouched into the corner of the holding cell.
Two.
Wrapped his arms over his head.
One.
Took a deep breath and held it.
The explosion washed Cash with fiery heat. Compressed his body against the concrete wall. Smashed his eardrums. His heart slammed against his ribs. A voice in his head urged him to
move out
.
When he lifted his head, Cash swore his brain slid sideways inside his skull. Smoke filled the cell and he had a moment of complete disorientation. He pressed his palms against the cold concrete, inched himself to his feet. Blinked away the bright white spots floating in his vision and shoved off the wall. Hands out in front of him, he groped through the now empty doorway and turned left.
“Freeze.”
The female voice shocked the hell out of him. And he couldn't see a goddamned thing. With one hand on the wall to orient himself, he pushed his shoulders back and faced the voice. They didn't know how much he could or couldn't see.
“You may as well shoot me,” he said, focusing to slow his breaths, “ 'cause I'm not backing down.”
His eyes adjusted slowly. He strained to make out the figures—their size, their number. He could take one down on his own, weapons or no weapons. Two, probably, since he already knew one was a woman. Three, maybe, if his adrenaline was running high and luck was on his side. More than that, forget it. But dying would be better than suffering in this shit hole a moment longer.
The lead pulled her head away from her scope. Cash barely detected the move, thought he was mistaken. Then she lowered her weapon. Just two inches. But it was the wrong move he'd been waiting for.
He ducked and charged. The crown of his head smashed against Kevlar. Pain tore through his skull. He grasped for the weapon, wrenched it out of her hands, and used it as leverage to spin her until her back was toward him, then brought the rifle down at her neck. With one yank, he dragged her against his body, the subgun across her trachea.
Something's wrong. That was too easy
.
“I don't want to hurt anyone—” He spoke low in her ear. Not steady, but at least he didn't scream like he wanted to. “I just want
out
.”
“I know.” Her voice was far too soft. Too understanding. Especially when she was trying to rake in air. “We're going. . . to get you . . . out.”
Even if she'd been trying to trick him, he should have heard more fear. Then her hands released the weapon and covered his. Gently. When they should have been prying and clawing. She didn't struggle. Didn't attack.
Confusion set him off balance. He knew how to fight. He didn't know how to
not
fight.
“We're here . . .” She drew a raspy breath. “To take you . . . home. It's me, Cash. It's . . . Keira.”
In the split second his mind stopped working, a gun found its way to his head. Then a male voice to his ears. “Drop the weapon.”
“Teague,” the woman said. “Turn on your flashlight.”
The man holding some type of handgun at Cash's head flipped on a light, the beam pointed toward the floor. Cash assessed the scene quickly—two men, one woman, military camouflage, heavy-duty weaponry, night vision.
“Look at her.” The man tipped the light toward the woman's chest, illuminating her face.
She flinched, turned her head to the side. “Teague,” she snapped. “Get that out of my eyes.”
Cash shifted to glance at her profile from his position behind her. The first thing he focused on was the freckles. A trail across her cheek, fading as they reached her cheekbone. Then that small nose. Those long black lashes.
A cold stream of shock trickled through his chest.
He ignored the weapon still pointed at him, lifted the rifle over her head, swiveled, and pushed her against the wall with the gun across her shoulders.
She lifted a hand to rub at her throat and cracked her lids, squinting against the light. Deep, smoky-blue irises peeked out.
“Oh, God,” Cash murmured. “Oh, my God.”
Keira.
It really was Keira.
He released her, dropped the weapon, and stepped back, bumping into a hard body behind him.
“Wh-wh—?” What did he even want to ask? Where did he even start? “What—? When—? How—?”
Keira's grin glimmered and that lopsided dimple appeared. “That's a lot to answer at the moment. Can we get out of here first? I have the same questions for you.”
A sound grumbled out of his chest. Emotions mingled into an indescribable sensation. He swept her into his arms and held her as tight as the muscles in his arms allowed.
“Mateo,” he whispered into her hair. “My . . . my son . . .”
“He's fine. And he's safe.”
Gratitude swamped his throat. He swallowed hard and eased back. “There's another man, a prisoner—”
“Q,” she said. “We know. The other half of our team is getting him.”
“Thank you.” He breathed a sigh of relief, turned, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I'm sorry for everything,” he whispered. “I'm so, so sorry.”
She hugged him back, a quick, fierce squeeze, before prying him away. “Don't you dare make me cry in front of all these guys. We have to move or we may not get out of here at—”
A
shhh-thump
sounded down the hall, coming toward them. Then a bouncing
clink-clink-clink
ending ten feet away. Then . . .
Ka-boom
.
 
The grenade registered in Keira's mind a millisecond before it exploded. Everything slowed to quarter-time.
Cash swiveled, putting his body between hers and the threat and shoved her toward the floor, then came down over her. “Grenaaaaaade!”
She hit the concrete hard. Knees and palms first, followed by her chest and belly. Cash on top of her. Before the brain-shattering roar had ceased, Cash was on his feet, dragging her up.
He jogged backward, pulling her down the hallway in retreat; Teague and Seth were already ahead of them. With the weapon still in one hand, her arm in the other, Cash fired in the direction the grenade had come from.
Teague turned a corner and waited until they caught up. He pulled an extra pair of night goggles from his fatigue jacket pocket and handed them to Cash, who pulled them on and adjusted them like a pro.
“Which way out?” Teague's question sounded muffled to Keira's still-ringing ears. He had his map out, shining his mini-flashlight on the maze.
“This way.” Cash took a step, but Keira pulled him back.
“No. We came in through tunnels that haven't been used in decades.” She pulled out her own map and found her fingers numb and clumsy and handed it to Cash. “Here.”
While the men looked at the map, Keira tuned into her senses, but if any voices sounded in her ears they were drowned by the continuing ring.
Cash's gaze skipped between the map and the hallways. “I thought these were a myth.”
“Mateo told us about them,” Keira said. “He's the reason we have this map. The reason we got in. But that's a story for the outside. Let's get out of here before they decide to throw another grenade.”
“Uh . . .” Seth peered around the edge of the rock. “Too late.”
S
hhhhhhh-thump-thump.
The device bounced off the cement floor, hit the rock wall, and ricocheted.
Clink-clink-clink-clink.
It rolled to a stop at Cash's feet.
A collective gasp seemed to draw the air from the passageway.
In a move worthy of a hockey pro, Cash smacked the explosive with the end of Keira's M14. It zigzagged back down the hallway.
Clink
—against one wall.
Click
—against the opposite wall.
Ka-boom
. Several terrorized shouts followed the fireball.
“Bull's-eye.” Cash grinned, and Keira turned five years old again. Same five-year-old flippy stomach, same five-year-old fluttering heart. This was her big brother.
“That's a nice exiting remark,” Teague said, leading the way through the corridors, map in hand.
Boots and shouts echoed somewhere behind them.
“Pick up the pace.” Cash shoved Keira's shoulder.
She pulled her Glock and glanced over her shoulder as she ran. Left, veer right, hard right, left. After that, Keira lost track. Had they come this far? If it weren't Teague leading the way, she might question. But she'd walked through too many fires with this man. Trusted her life to him too many times to doubt now.
Footfalls came from the right as they approached another intersection. Teague ran through, but Seth didn't make it. A body T-boned him from the other corridor. Keira skidded to a halt, anticipating followers. Another guard passed right in front of her. Before she could make any offensive move, Teague swung his M14 and hit a home run against the man's neck. A loud snap, a grunt, and the guard pitched to the floor, face-first.
She followed the fight between Seth and the other guard. The men rolled on the cement, each with one arm extended overhead, battling for control of a handgun. Keira aimed at the pair. She was good with moving targets, but with this murky alien vision, both men in fatigues, both men wearing helmets with night vision, both men roughly the same size, she couldn't tell who was who.
She concentrated, scanned the men for the smallest telltale sign. Then she saw it, the thigh holster. One man had it, one man didn't. She aimed at the leg of the man without. Not as big a target as the chest, but she doubted her handgun would penetrate body armor.
“Drop it,” she yelled. “Drop your weapon!”
In the second she gave the enemy to respond, instead of ceasing his struggle, his free hand grappled for the nine-millimeter at Seth's thigh and yanked it from its holster.

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