Compromised (17 page)

W
hen Simon had seen Sadie on her knees with a gun at her head, he'd realized what he should have seen much, much earlier: she was not on the terrorists' side. As he'd set his laser on the back of the man's head, he remembered what had been eluding him—he'd threatened to blow her cover and she'd said that she'd see him in prison. It was illegal to reveal a covert operative's identity, punishable by imprisonment. She was still CIA.

As if to reiterate what a completely blind fool he'd been, the men standing in front of Sadie were all saying yes in Russian. Yes, he was a fucking idiot. Yes, he had allowed his personal feelings of betrayal to seep into his professional life. Yes, he'd have to grovel for forgiveness.

He flexed his trigger finger, about to take the shot before all the yes men had finished agreeing to kill her, when the man dropped out of sight. He pulled his eye away from the gunsight and saw that she'd disabled the man and rolled under the excavator.

A flood of pride rushed through him. Pride that absolutely wasn't his place to feel.

“Garrett,” he whispered.

“I saw that. You think she's a company girl?”

He didn't hesitate. “Yes.” He didn't know for sure, but he was choosing to trust and believe in her. That was all. For the first time in his life, he was willing to risk everything to trust one person. It was everything he'd been trained not to do. And it felt righteous.

“Well, let's go get her six,” Garrett said, double-checking his magazine again.

“Thanks, man,” Simon said. He actually had zero doubt that he could take out seven guys by himself. Zero doubt. Garrett didn't have to follow him into the line of fire.

“Don't get mushy on me, mate.”

He took the stairs, his weapon up to his eye. He spotted one Russian, who shot wildly at the stairs. Simon exhaled, taking his shot calmly, and dropped him by the pallet in the middle of the floor. He spun back toward the digger, where Sadie had been seconds ago. She was nowhere to be seen, and neither were the guys he'd seen approaching her.

He swung back, as Garrett flanked him, sweeping the area in the opposite direction. They headed to the racks of smaller supplies on the other side of the warehouse. As they made their way down separate aisles, Simon's phone went off. He muffled a curse.

Garrett piped up from the next aisle. “Thank you for calling. I'm sorry I can't get to the phone right now, as I need both hands to maim and destroy. Please leave a message—” A grunt, followed by an expletive and a snapping sound, broke into his monologue.

Simon stopped and shoved a box through the shelf so he could see what was happening. He couldn't see anything. Then Garrett popped up from the floor.

He placed a semiautomatic machine gun in the space on the shelf that Simon had cleared, and said, “One down.”

Simon nodded to the weapon. “You don't want that?”

“I'm better with a short and my hands. I thought I should give you dibs on it since this is your clusterf— I mean, op.” Garrett's shit-eating grin was really starting to get on his nerves.

“You know when you smile like that, I just want to punch my fist through your head, right?” he growled.

“That's what I count on. People who hate me are predictable in their actions. People who love me aren't. Words to live by, my friend,” he said.

“Dick,” Simon said. As he turned back in the direction he'd been sweeping the aisle, something fell on him from above.

He smashed against the metal shelving, disoriented. It wasn't something; it was someone. He crouched down and ran at his assailant, slamming him into the other side of the aisle with a bone-jarring force that did nothing for his already jarred brain.

The man appeared to have no reaction to being rammed against the hard metal fixtures. He pounded his fists against Simon's neck and shoulders, making him slump to the floor, only just spinning out of the way of a kick to the head. His gun had skittered away under the shelving when the man had dropped on him.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Objects were being poked out of the shelving, and he assumed it was Garrett trying to get a shot. But judging by the fallen boxes, he was at least three meters ahead of them.

With a roar, the Russian charged at him. Simon crouched at the last minute and, grabbing the man's jacket, used his momentum to throw him over his back. The man fell to the floor but jumped up in a matter of seconds. This guy was like the fucking Terminator.

Instead of waiting for the man to make his move, Simon took the fight to him. He ran at him and executed a move he'd only successfully done once. He achieved full speed as he grabbed the front of the man's clothes and slid between his legs, yanking him headfirst to the floor. The crack echoed around the warehouse.

Simon slumped, bracing his hands on his knees, and took a breath. His body was getting too old for this shit.

“You okay?” Garrett said from the other aisle.

“Yup,” he replied shortly, not wanting to say much more that would betray his panting. He turned and straightened. He couldn't believe his eyes.

The Russian man was getting to his feet, blood pouring down his face. He dipped his head as if he were about to run at Simon again.

“Uh, you know when I said I was all right?” he said to Garrett.

There was a gunshot. The Russian's stomach exploded in front of Simon's eyes, but his feet kept moving. He took one, two, three paces before dropping to his knees.

Standing behind him was Sadie, gun raised. He smiled.

She pointed her fingers at her eyes and then poked them toward the pallet in the middle of the floor. He nodded, trying to stop smiling. She bent down and fished his gun out from under the shelving, kicking it toward him. He held up his finger and approached her, picking up his weapon as he went. He looked around the end of the shelving and then turned back to her. Without saying a word, he planted a kiss on her surprised lips. Firm, hard, an “I'm not going anywhere” kiss.

There was another volley of shots, and Simon caught a man crouching behind the pallet. He rested his arm on Sadie's shoulder and waited for him to poke his head out. It took only two seconds for Simon to shoot him in his arm. The man screamed and slumped against the cargo they'd watched be delivered earlier that week.

Garrett appeared beside them. “I think that's them all except one. Our terrorist friend did a runner as soon as we started shooting back. I imagine he's halfway back to Athens by now. But don't worry. I can get my police friend to pick him up, and whoever's left here.”

“I'm Sadie,” she said, holding her hand out to Garrett.

He didn't give her his name. “I know who you are. You're the one who's been fucking with my friend here's head.”

Simon looked down at her, relief taking the edge off his words. “He's lying. We're not friends.”

She laughed. And then paused, a frown passing over her face.

“What is it?”

“The top of the C-4 is flashing.”

“What? What C-4? That's C-4?” Garrett pointed at the cargo. “Holy fucking shit, man.” He walked around the pallet slowly. “It's definitely flashing something.”

They all looked up at the red flashing light. “I guess you better give me a bunk up,” Garrett said.

“A what?” Simon and Sadie said in concert.

Garrett rolled his eyes. “An assist. I'm going up there to see what's flashing.”

Simon put his hands together so that Garrett could step in them. When he did, he hefted him upward so he could climb on top.

“Bollocks,” he said. “Have any of you done any bomb disposal?”

“What? No. It can't be rigged. It was just bricks of C-4. Inert,” Sadie said, glancing in horror at Simon.

“Well, someone rigged it while we were otherwise occupied. Jesus. Every time I do any work with you Yanks, there are explosives involved. I do not like explosives. So…who's done any defusing?”

Garrett peered down from the top of the C-4.

“Ah, I did a webinar?” Sadie stammered.

“A webinar?” Garrett said. “Is that how you're trained nowadays? God help us.”

“It sounds like more training than you've had,” Sadie retorted with her hands on her hips, gun still in her hand.

Simon wished he could take a photo. She looked so cute. And then pondered the tongue-lashing he'd get if she knew that he thought she looked cute.

“Help me up,” he said to Garrett.

Garrett dangled down a hand and Simon caught it and climbed up the side. He could see immediately that they weren't going to defuse it. He said as much to Garrett in a low voice.

“What? What did you say?” Sadie shouted.

There were four minutes on the clock and a motion-sensor trip wire. There was no way he could defuse it in four minutes. He eyed the cargo door and then sighed.

“Okay, let's go.”

“What are you doing?” Sadie said. “We have to defuse it. It can't blow. This building is owned by the US government, and the C-4 is US manufactured. If it blows, it will look like we were planning something hideous. And that seems to be what the Russians want. We can't leave it here.”

There were so many questions he had for her and zero time. His mind filtered the important information and locked away the rest. He had one option.

He turned to Garrett. “Get her out of here, and get far away. Plausible-deniability­ far away.”

Garrett, for his part, didn't hesitate. He climbed down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her toward the door.

“No, wait!” Sadie protested.

“No,” Simon said. “We have a lot to talk about. Afterward. This is my job. Trust me, and go.”

She stared at him a second and then nodded, letting Garrett pull her toward the door.

As soon as it was closed, he ran to the other side of the warehouse and pressed the large red button to open the big cargo doors. He had three minutes. He looked for the wires on the motorized dolly and pulled them free to hot-wire the engine.

Two minutes.

He jumped on the dolly and floored the accelerator. Of course it asthmatically turned and chugged as fast as a golf cart towing a few tons of golf clubs, which is to say, not fast.

Thirty seconds.

The waft of air from the doors cooled his sweat-soaked brow. His heart picked up. He wasn't going to make it. There wasn't enough time to reach the water. It was over.

The British guy dragged her to the car, pushed her in, and ran around to the driver's seat. He pumped the gas and squealed out of their parking place, leaving rubber on the road.

She was trying to keep track of the seconds ticking down. Where was Simon? How was he going to survive? She twisted around in the car seat to look out of the rear window.

“He'll be all right, won't he?” she asked, knowing he couldn't possibly know.

“We'll know soon,” he said, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror.

“Okay. Stop. Stop the car.” She'd been stupid to get in the car in the first place, but her brain just hadn't computed what was happening. “Stop. Stop or I'll fucking jump.” She opened the car door.

He slammed on the brake. “Keep your knickers on.” The car came to an approximate stop and she jumped out.

Simon. Simon. Simon.
She chanted his name in time with her steps as she ran back toward the warehouse.

Suddenly a boom reached her, knocking her sideways into the side of another warehouse. The pain staggered her brain as she tried to get up. A jagged piece of metal was stuck in her shoulder. Stuck hard. She channeled what she wanted to scream into a roar as she got to her feet. She looked quickly at the wound, not wanting to dwell on what it actually looked like. The shard was sticking out about five inches. She had no idea how long it was. She started sweating bullets with the pain.

Holding her arm, she ran toward the warehouse. A forklift had been knocked to its side, and car alarms were going off. Someone ran past her shouting, “Earthquake!” in a muffled voice. She didn't think so.

She tried to open the door but the blast seemed to have crumpled the doorframe. On total automatic pilot, she ran around the warehouse. But the building seemed to have grown—it was so much bigger than before. It took so long to get around. It felt as if she were running through molasses. She gritted her teeth just to stay on her feet. Tears swept down her face as she tried to get to him.
Simon. Simon
. Why couldn't she move faster? Where was he? He couldn't have left her. Not without giving her a chance to explain. She hadn't told him that she loved him. Hadn't told him anything. As the pain dug deeper and dragged her down, slowing her more and more until she couldn't go any farther, she rounded the corner facing the harbor and crumpled, sliding down the corrugated siding of the warehouse. Sirens played on the breeze from the opposite side of the harbor.

“Simon,” she croaked. She thought she croaked. Her voice was either gone or her hearing had been damaged by the blast. “Simon.”

Struggling to keep her eyes open, she tried to see any evidence of the blast. Any evidence that Simon had been there at all. There was nothing to be seen except that the wooden top to the harbor bulkhead had cracked where the hand was.

The hand? She tried to focus. It moved. Someone was in the water. A second hand emerged. She tried to get up, but she couldn't—her legs wouldn't support her. Tucking the hand of her damaged shoulder in her shirt to support it, she crawled on her knees and one hand. Crying. She fell, sprawling on the concrete, but got up and struggled toward the hands. She prayed it was Simon. “Simon. Simon. Simon,” she said, having no idea if her voice was working.

A head poked up. It
was
Simon. She cried out in relief and crawled faster. He propped his head on his hands, eyes closed. Breathing hard. He was breathing.