Her Rogue Alpha (X-Ops Book 5) (14 page)

Jayson was out the door and moving down the hallway fast, pistol at the ready. Layla was smiling at the two soldiers, nodding at something they were saying. The men were playing it cool, their rifles still slung over their shoulders. Jayson couldn’t see their faces, but he had no doubt they had big grins pasted on them. And Layla had been worried she wouldn’t be able to distract them. What a joke. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand.

The soldier closest to Jayson must have sensed him coming at the last second because he turned his head to look over his shoulder. It was too late for the guy to do anything by then though. Jayson transferred his pistol to his left hand and quickly laid the man out with a single blow of his fist to the side of the temple.

The other guard muttered something in Russian and reached for his weapon, but Layla grabbed him by the front of his tactical harness and shoved him back against the wall so hard the man’s head bounced.

Jayson looked around, praying the noise wouldn’t bring the rest of the soldiers in the RSA down on them. He didn’t hear anything but waited while Layla closed her eyes and listened. When she opened them and showed off that beautiful, green glow her eyes got when she was really in the zone, she gave a quick shake of her head.

“We’re good,” she said.

He handed her pistol back to her, then opened the door the soldiers had been guarding, ready to take out any others they might find on the other side. But there weren’t any. There were cells filled with prisoners though—a hell of a lot of them. The people in them stared at him and Layla in surprise. Layla threw him a look, then hurried over to the first cell while he focused on dragging the two unconscious soldiers out of the hallway and into the room where the prisoners were being kept. Undoing the laces on their boots, he used them to tie the men up, then grabbed one of the assault rifles and all the ammo he could find on them, as well as the two hand grenades they were carrying just in case he needed the extra firepower on the way out.

By the time he got to his feet, Layla had already found the keys to the cells and was unlocking them. She called Anya’s name over and over as she opened each door, but no one answered. Jayson didn’t know if it was because they were too scared to talk or simply too weak. These people hadn’t simply been imprisoned but beaten as well. While there were a half dozen women in the group, none were young enough to be Dylan’s girlfriend.

“Anya isn’t here,” Layla said. “There aren’t any teenaged girls at all.”

“All young girls taken away two days ago,” an old man said in broken English. Tall and skinny, he had a nasty bruise covering half his face. “The guard come and take them. Not tell us where they go.”

“Shit,” Jayson muttered. Dylan was going to be devastated. What the hell were they going to do now?

“You help us?” the old man asked, looking up at Jayson and Layla with hope in his watery eyes.

Jayson looked around at the collection of battered and bruised prisoners. There was no way in hell he and Layla could leave them to escape on their own. Getting them out wasn’t going to be easy, though.

He looked at Layla. “We may be able to get them up the stairs, and if we’re lucky, we’ll get them through the building without being seen, but there’s no way in hell we’re getting them over that wall in the courtyard.”

“Crap, you’re right,” she said. “Wait a minute! That big truck we saw at the loading dock has the keys in it. We can use that.”

Jayson grinned. He’d never figured Layla would be so crazy. He liked it.

“You might want to text the guys and let them know about the change in plans,” he said, then added, “but don’t mention anything about Anya, or Dylan will probably come charging in here to look for her himself.”

Getting all twenty-two of the former prisoners upstairs and to the rear of the building was a job and a half, especially since he and Layla had to practically carry some of them up the stairs. His back didn’t enjoy the workout, that was for sure, but that was the least of his problems. Halfway to the loading dock, Layla’s head snapped up. Handing off the older woman she’d been helping to a younger guy with wild hair, she spun around to face the way they’d come, her eyes locked on something behind him. The man Jayson was assisting must have sensed something was wrong because he nodded and hobbled toward freedom on his own. Jayson turned in time to see two militia soldiers round the corner at the end of the hallway. The men stood frozen for about half a second before going for the rifles slung across their shoulders.

Jayson pulled his P-96 and put two rounds through the center of the first soldier’s chest. He was just about to do the same to the second one when that guy went down thanks to a single round Layla fired.

“Get everyone to the truck!” he shouted at her, not caring about anyone hearing him now. “I’ll give you time, but move fast.”

Layla hesitated for a moment, and he thought for sure she was going to argue, but then she nodded and started herding the freed people down the hallway.

Jayson put his pistol away and pulled the AK-74 off his shoulder. He’d grabbed it praying he wouldn’t need it but was glad as hell now that he had it. He’d barely flipped down the safety lever when three more soldiers came around the corner. They took one look at their friends on the floor, then at him, and immediately dived for cover. Jayson popped a few rounds in their direction anyway, just to keep their heads down. Weapon trained on the now-empty hallway, he backed slowly toward the loading dock, keeping one eye on the progress Layla was making with the captives and the other out for more soldiers coming his way.

He did everything he could to slow down the ones who came running to investigate all the shooting. He hit a couple of them but was damn lucky not to get hit himself. There were too many shooting at him now.

“We’re in!” Layla yelled from behind him. “Let’s go!”

He fired off the rest of the magazine at the remaining soldiers, pitched a hand grenade down the hall, then turned and hauled ass. The grenade slowed the bad guys down a little bit, but the moment the frag stopped falling, they were up and coming at him like a bunch of berserkers.

Jayson reached the big storeroom just inside the loading dock before they did, but they were mere seconds behind him. If he jumped in the truck with that many people on his ass, they’d blaze away at the canvas-sided vehicle like it was a game at the carnival. He and Layla might make it, but anyone in the back of the truck would be as good as dead. He needed to slow them down. Tossing the other grenade at them would do it—at least for a couple seconds—but as he ran through the storage room, he got a better idea.

Skidding to a stop beside a pallet of small arms ammo, he shoved the boxes around until he created a hole in the middle of the stack.

“Let’s go!” Layla called over the racing engine of the big truck.

“Coming, dear!”

Yanking the pin on the grenade, he stuffed it into the hole he’d made, then ran as fast as he could for the door, ignoring the soldiers shooting at him from the hallway, the pain in his back and leg, and the knowledge that he probably only had about four seconds to reach the truck before the whole storage room and loading dock area turned into one big Fourth of July demonstration.

“Go!” he shouted to Layla as he jumped in the front seat.

She took off, working the gears on the truck like a pro. They made it ten feet from the dock before the grenade went off. It was followed by hundreds of smaller pops as the pallet of rifle rounds caught on fire and started to go off like popcorn on crack.

Layla had the big truck doing almost thirty miles an hour by the time she steered it around the northeast corner of the building. Flooring it, she smashed through the heavy gates, then turned east and headed away from the RSA building.

Jayson chuckled, unable to help himself. He’d almost forgotten how much fun shit like this could be.

Layla tossed him her cell phone. “Think you can stop laughing long enough to get Mikhail on the line? See if he knows a place we can ditch the truck and get the prisoners some help.”

Still grinning, Jayson poked the buttons on the phone as Layla drove the big truck through the nearly deserted streets. As he waited for Mikhail to answer, his thoughts turned to Dylan and what the hell he was going to tell him. That put a crimp in his good mood damn fast.

Dreya downed her second shot of tequila since commandeering a stool in the mostly deserted bar in the heart of Foggy Bottom. She wasn’t surprised it was so empty. It might be a weekend, but it was also after three in the morning. Technically, the place was supposed to be closed, but there were still a few diehard partiers hanging around, and the guy who ran the place—Kincaid—certainly wasn’t going to kick anyone out. Not while he was still making money. At least until the cops showed up and made him.

That was okay with her. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Why go home when she knew there was no way in hell she’d be able to sleep? Hell, after what had happened tonight, she might never sleep again.

She’d gotten a call four hours ago from Stacy Ellerby, Rory’s assistant at the jewelry shop, saying Rory had been murdered. Worse, according to someone Stacy knew in the police department, it appeared that Rory had been tortured before he’d been killed.

Dreya had refused to believe Rory was dead, even going so far as jumping on her motorcycle and riding over to the jewelry store, then his apartment. Rory hadn’t been at either place, but the cops had. Lots and lots of cops. She’d sped away with tears in her eyes only to pull over and stop barely a mile down the road. Then she’d just sat there on her bike and lost it.

She couldn’t remember ever having cried that hard. But then again, she’d never lost anyone like Rory. He wasn’t just a friend. He was her confidante, her mentor, the only person who really knew her and accepted her. There wasn’t anyone else like him in the world, and now he was gone.

When she’d gotten it together enough not to be a danger on the road, she’d cranked up her bike and driven around town for a long time before she’d finally ended up stopping at the bar where she and Rory had always gone—the same trendy little place where Rory had told her about Thorn and that damn diamond of his. It seemed somehow fitting—and tragic—to come here.

“Thorn killed him, you know,” Kincaid said from the other side of the bar as he fixed her another drink. Big and barrel-chested with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, he had tattoos on his forearms that would have made Popeye jealous. “Or at least had someone do it for him. The word is all over the streets. Thorn has his people out looking for that big-ass diamond of his, and he’s willing to kill to get it back.”

Mouth tight, Kincaid slid her a shot. Tequila, in honor of Rory. It was the third one tonight.

Dreya knew she shouldn’t be drinking at a time like this—not that alcohol had ever affected her. But she didn’t know what else to do. Without Rory around to serve as her anchor and her compass, she felt as if she was floating away, like a balloon without a string in a windstorm.

Of course, Dreya didn’t need Kincaid to tell her Thorn was behind Rory’s death. Her best friend had as much as told her it was going to happen, that Thorn wasn’t a man to be screwed with. But she’d ignored him and now he was dead. Not just dead, but tortured. Because he wouldn’t give up her name.

Rory hadn’t looked like a tough guy and certainly didn’t come off that way when he talked, but Dreya knew he’d had a quiet strength about him that no one would ever crack. There was nothing Thorn’s goons could have done to make him talk. If giving up her name would have saved his life, she would have been the first to beg him to do it, but men like Thorn and the people who worked for him didn’t let people live after thumping the hell out of them. Rory would have known that as well as she did, which was another reason he wouldn’t have talked.

“Rory was targeted because everyone knew he was the most connected fence in the DC area,” Kincaid continued. “If any thief in this town was going to try to move a rock like the one Thorn had, Rory would be the one he’d go to.”

Dreya picked up her glass and took a healthy swallow, feeling the harsh, agave-based alcohol burn as it rolled down her throat. The funny thing was, she hated tequila. She’d always drunk it because Rory had liked it. Now she couldn’t imagine drinking anything else.

She didn’t say anything in response to Kincaid’s comment because there really wasn’t anything worth saying. Kincaid fancied himself a fence of sorts, but even he knew he hadn’t been in Rory’s league.

Kincaid leaned forward conspiratorially, resting his forearms on the bar. “Do you know if Rory was working with someone to fence Thorn’s rock?”

Dreya looked up, meeting Kincaid’s eyes and staring at him intently. His heart immediately began beating faster and the acrid scent of sweat wafted off him in waves. That particular kind of sweat tended to leak out of people when they were really nervous—or lying. She locked eyes with him a moment longer, then casually looked away. The tight, little world she, Rory, and Kincaid lived in had been buzzing since yesterday with talk of Thorn’s people spreading money around and promising even more for the person who gave up the name of the thief who had broken into the former senator’s mansion.

Dreya had always thought Kincaid was a stand-up guy, but she guessed Thorn was offering a lot of money. Enough to make even a stand-up guy turn his back on his friends. No honor among thieves and all that.

“Not that I know of,” she said softly. “But then again, Rory rarely ever told me about the other people he worked with.”

Kincaid straightened. “I figured. Can’t imagine there are that many second-story men in the DC area with balls big enough to go after somebody like Thorn.”

“True,” Dreya agreed, knowing the bartender was still fishing.

Kincaid turned and headed for the other end of the bar and a group of well-dressed political staffers who had stumbled in looking for one more drink for the night. One of them gave Dreya a drunken smile but blanched and looked away when she gave him a glare that told him he was wasting his time. She rarely had time to play games with wannabe Romeos, tonight even less so than usual.

Kincaid didn’t come back over, and outwardly at least, it seemed like he’d dropped the subject of Thorn’s diamond. His elevated heart rate told her he was still thinking evil thoughts behind those beady, little eyes of his though. He’d sell her out in a second flat if he had the chance.

Dreya tipped her head back and finished off her tequila, the burn reminding her pleasantly of the last time she and Rory had almost polished off that bottle of El Tesoro.

Damn, she was going to miss him like crazy.

She was about pick up her motorcycle helmet and head back to her place—even if that wasn’t the best idea in the world right now—when her cell phone rang. She considered ignoring it, but with all the crap hitting the fan so hard lately, it would probably be a good idea to answer the damn thing.

She pulled it out, cursing when she saw the name on the screen.
Oh God, what now?

Dreya thumbed the green button and put the phone to her ear. “Stacy, what’s wrong?”

Rory’s assistant hadn’t been deeply involved in the darker side of Rory’s jewelry business, and as far as Dreya knew, Stacy had only a limited knowledge of the part Dreya played in Rory’s day-to-day life. Stacy might have guessed Dreya was a thief, but she didn’t know.

Stacy didn’t bother with any pleasantries either. “One of Rory’s associates is dead. They found him in his apartment a couple hours ago. The guy’s name was Melvin Whittaker. Apparently, he’d been worked over just as badly as Rory.”

Crap
. Melvin was another second-story person like her. He wasn’t as good as Dreya—and his best days were certainly behind him—but he was smart and had still handled jobs for Rory every now and then. The older man had even taught Dreya a few tricks of the trade. Damn Thorn to hell in a little red wagon.

If Melvin was dead, it confirmed that Rory hadn’t broken and Thorn’s men were going after every thief they could find. It also meant they were willing to track down and torture every single thief in the DC area if that was what it took to get their boss’s crap back.

“Where are you now?” she asked Stacy. “You’re not at your apartment, are you?”

“Hell no,” Stacy said. In the background, Dreya heard the distinct sound of a loudspeaker calling out operating hours of the TSA security checkpoints. “I’m sitting in a coffee shop at Reagan National. I’m going through security the second they open; then I’m going to disappear for a while. I know you were good friends with Rory, so I thought I should call and suggest that you do the same.”

“You have a little something set aside for a situation like this?” Dreya asked softly.

She and Stacy weren’t exactly friends, but she knew Rory had thought highly of the woman, which counted for something in Dreya’s book. If she needed money, Dreya would gladly give her some.

“Yeah. Rory had something set up for me just in case,” Stacy said. “I’ll be fine, more than fine in fact, but I don’t think I’m going to be coming back to DC for a while. Rory told me once that you had your own rainy day plans made. It might be a good time to buy an umbrella and take a vacation.”

Dreya thanked Stacy and hung up, then shoved her phone in her pocket. Jumping on a plane and getting the hell out of DC sounded like a rational idea, but she didn’t have the luxury of doing that. If Stacy left town, Thorn’s people would barely notice. But if Dreya, who was known in some circles as a top-level thief, suddenly disappeared, people would definitely notice, especially those who knew about her connection to Rory. Splitting town would be the equivalent of ringing a bell and announcing she was guilty, and Thorn’s goons would come running like Pavlov’s dogs. She was slippery and could probably stay ahead of them, but then she’d be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life.

Besides, she really didn’t want to leave her family. She wasn’t close with her parents and siblings, but they were still family. And now that Rory was gone, they were all she had left. She also wasn’t too keen on the idea of leaving her jewelry business behind. While she definitely didn’t need the money, she enjoyed the legitimate business she’d built.

If she was going to stay, she needed a plan. Unfortunately, she didn’t have one at the moment.

As she threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and picked up her helmet, she knew one thing for sure. She definitely couldn’t go back to her apartment or her shop—not until she figured out how to get off Thorn’s radar.