Redemption (Enigma Black Trilogy Book #3) (10 page)

“Thank you for your offer, Cameron. Maybe I’ll take you up on it sometime.” My insides screamed at me to retaliate, not let him get away with it, but I maintained my composure, picking up the motorcycle and then turning it around to walk it back to its place in line. Ian quickly caught up with me, positioning himself so that he walked right next to me, our bodies separated by less than an inch.

“On three,” he whispered. “He won’t be expecting it, and we’ll be too fast for him to react. You go after the gun, I’ll secure him.”

“Come on, after he just ran his mouth, why can’t you go for the gun and let me take care of him?”

“Because we’re not trying to kill him.”

“We’re not?”

“One,” Ian began.

I glanced back at Cameron out of the corner of my eye. He walked behind us, totally unaware of what we were planning just feet in front of him, with a new swagger I’d never seen in him before.

“Two,” Ian counted.

I readied myself, deciding where and at what angle I would attack in order to dislodge the gun from his hands.

“Three.”

We simultaneously threw the motorcycles to the ground and ran toward a stunned Cameron. I threw my leg up to kick the gun out of his hand, but was unable to reach it before he fired a wayward shot. My boot struck his hand, sending him reeling backwards in pain, the gun falling to the floor. Without hesitating, I threw myself on top of the gun and grabbed it out from underneath my body, aiming it at Cameron. He was on the ground, face down. Ian had knelt down beside him and managed to secure his arms.

“I need your help,” he called out to me. I ran over to Ian and knelt down in front of him. “Hold his arms so I can secure them behind his back.” Grabbing Cameron’s arms, I held his wrists together while Ian zip tied them from ties he kept inside his utility belt. Together, we then stood Cameron up and walked him over to the first car we came to, where we ran another zip tie through a hubcap, strung it through a small space between the one around Cameron’s wrist and secured him to the vehicle. “With all the cameras around here, I’m sure someone will find you in the morning.”

“You’re not going to get out of here, you know,” Cameron fumed. “This whole place is protected by security devices, guns and the like.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Ian said, walking away from him.

“Not such a big man now that you’re tied up, are you?” I said, smiling.

“And you won’t be so cocky when either Victor or Brooks find you,” Cameron answered. “And trust me, they will.”

I shook my head, letting out a disgusted sigh before I turned around to follow Ian.

“Oh, and Celaine,” Cameron called out to me. Reluctantly, I turned around to face him. “It never would have worked out between us.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Cameron. Anything between you and a person with a pulse will never work out.” Without looking back or caring to listen to Cameron’s muffled retort, I jogged toward Ian, who was picking his motorcycle up from the floor. I grabbed my bike, lifted it up, and threw my leg over it.

“Man, that hurts,” Ian moaned.

“What?” I asked.

“When Cameron fired the gun, the bullet struck my boot. I think it grazed a couple of my toes.” I looked down at Ian’s boot and saw a small hole at the top of the toe cap.

“Oh, tis nothing but a flesh wound,” I said with a laugh.

“I know. I can’t really count it as a gunshot wound unless I’m inches away from death.”

“Hey, I can’t help that I set the precedent by which true gunshot wounds should be judged. Are you okay to ride?”

“I think I’ll manage,” he answered. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I said.

We started our motorcycles and sped through the garage, making a sharp turn into the tunnel that led from the garage to the forest of pine trees. Soon, very soon, we would have a taste of the freedom and the free will we’d been deprived of for nearly a year.

The second we passed the first camera built into the side of the tunnel’s concrete wall, a shot rang out, piercing the melodic hum of our bike’s engines. Ian’s motorcycle swerved violently. And after he regained control, he whipped his head around to inspect the damage.

“A bullet,” he yelled. “Those cameras have firepower.”

Not a second later, a second shot was fired, and then a third and a fourth. Narrowly, we managed to dodge the oncoming assault, nearly toppling our bikes in the process. I winced as a bullet whizzed next to my helmet, missing my head by mere inches.

“We need to speed up,” I yelled, giving my motorcycle more gas. Behind me, I heard Ian’s bike rev up right as the next three shots came at us in rapid succession, one of which struck my bike. My motorcycle pitched to the side, and it was all I could do to maintain control of it. Next to me, Ian’s bike did the same as he struggled to keep himself upright, practically sideswiping me in the process. In the distance, I could see the light of the moon, signaling our freedom, a light of which was growing fainter and fainter by the second. “The door’s closing. We’ll be trapped in here if we don’t speed up now, Ian.”

Able to regain control of our motorcycles the best we could, we both sped up as fast as the overextended engines would allow, dodging more bullets as we watched the space between us and freedom grow thinner and thinner by the second.
We’re not going to make it
. The thought ate away at my brain, triggering my natural survival instinct. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. There is always a way if you wanted something bad enough. Undaunted, I looked around at the concrete wall and located a box near the entrance. What was it? A control panel of sorts? Nothing of great significance? There was only one way to find out.

I removed the gun from my holster, aimed it and fired at the box on the wall. The door shuddered slightly on the bullet’s impact, which told me to fire at it once more. When the bullet struck it again, the door slowed down substantially. Maybe, just maybe, we would make it out of this.

“Again, Celaine,” Ian commanded.

I fired once more, barely striking my target, but still landing enough of a blow to slow the door down even more. Then, fitting the gun back into my holster, I sped up. The opening of the door drew nearer and nearer, so close yet still far enough away to taunt us. Bullets struck the concrete around us, almost hitting the motorcycles at times, but we pressed on. We had no other choice or desire to do anything else.

“We’re going to make it,” I said, my relief evident. Though still wide enough to permit us passage, the entrance had grown too narrow to allow more than one motorcycle at a time to pass through. Ian slowed down, allowing me to pull ahead of him. “When are you going to stop trying to protect me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied with what I was sure was his trademark smirk across his face.

He was lucky. There was no time to argue, or for me to make any kind of evasive move to counteract his chivalry as I had done on occasions too numerous to describe. No, there was only time to let him do what he did best. Protect me. Love me. And the only thing I could do was the one thing I had been preventing myself from doing all along. I would let him.

I gunned it, forcing the motorcycle to lurch forward. In front of me, I could make out the dirt path we would take on our way to the roadway; the silhouettes of the pine trees appeared like shadows in the night. Closer, closer, closer. The chilled air streamed in, hitting my nose. Breathing it in, I caught the smell of the earth, of fresh grass, of pine. It’s funny how you fail to realize how much you miss even the little things in life.

When the front wheel of my motorcycle rolled over the threshold, a shot rang out. Almost immediately, my bike gave way underneath me, throwing my body into the air. The instant I struck the ground, I felt the wind being knocked out of me as momentum caused my helpless body to tumble over the ground, where I struck tree roots and rocks before I came to rest.

“Celaine!” Ian shouted.

My head spun, my body ached, but a part of me didn’t mind. We’d made it. From here on out, any amount of pain, any agony we would endure would be because of the choices we had made and not because our strings were being manipulated by some demented puppet master. Our lives were ours again; our triumphs would be our own; our mistakes would be in our own hands. I heard Ian’s frenzied footsteps pounding the ground as the ringing in my ears subsided, and the world around me stilled.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stooping down on the ground next to me. All I could do was cough in response as the air returned to my lungs. “Celaine, are you injured? Try to speak to me.”

“See,” I made out between coughs, “this is what happens when you try to protect me. So I suggest you stop trying.”

Ian rolled his eyes, chuckling softly. “That’s never going to happen, so I suggest you stop fighting me.”

He held out his hand, which I took. Slowly, I sat up and assessed myself, unable to find anything critically wrong, yet knowing that I would probably wake up to various bumps and bruises the next morning. “Where’s the bike?”

“It’s over there,” Ian motioned with his head. “Near mine.”

“Is it still drivable?” I asked, concerned. “Did you see how badly it was damaged?”

“No,” he answered. “I was a little more concerned about you at the time than I was about the motorcycle.”

In a great deal of pain, I stood up and half-jogged, half-staggered over to my motorcycle and lifted it up to inspect the damage. A bullet hole was evident in the plastic trim on the back, with yet another near the seat. Neither looked as though they’d been capable of disabling it. Relieved, I mounted the bike and typed in my code to start it, practically jumping for joy when it roared to life without fail. Beside me, Ian started his motorcycle, revving its engine. We glanced at each other, nodding in unison.

Moments later, we tore through the trees to destinations unknown. There was no time to reflect back on where we’d come from, nor was there really a strong desire to do so. No, we would never look back again. From this point on, there was only room for forward momentum, where the past was left to rot in the past and the future stood on the horizon to greet us.

“We have The Woodland Lodge booked, the caterers picked out, and the invitations have been mailed,” Paige said, going down her task list. “We still need to decide on a menu. Oh, and the D.J. I’m thinking we may want to get on that this week, actually I think my dad knows someone from the shop who knows someone who moonlights as a D.J. on the side, and—”

Chase stared out over the horizon from the balcony of their apartment, having stopped paying attention to her several minutes ago. All talk had been centered around the wedding and only the wedding, leaving room for little else.

“Chase? Chase, are you paying attention?” Paige said, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

“What? Yeah, I’m paying attention,” he answered her, coming back to reality. “A D.J. We need a D.J.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’ve seemed less than thrilled with the whole wedding planning process lately. Is everything okay?”

“Of course, yes. Of course it is,” he lied. “I’m just tired from putting in all the extra hours at the hospital.”

“Oh, okay,” she replied, relieved. “For a minute there I thought you were having second thoughts about the wedding.”

“What else do we need to look into?” he said, forcing a smile. “Are we going to have enough time to do all we need to do?”

“Chase, what are you saying?” Her eyes grew wide. “You don’t—you don’t want to postpone the ceremony, do you? All this work—all—all this planning—all—” A ring from inside their apartment interrupted her. Hastily, she jumped up and ran to the door. “I’ll bet it’s the wedding planner,” she said, excitement returning to her voice.

“If ever there was a time to be saved by the bell,” he muttered.

His eyes drifted over to the empty patio chair next to him and the piles of bridal magazines strewn over both it and the floor.
I should be excited
, he thought.
Why am I not excited
?
I’ve always wanted a marriage, a family
. He picked up a magazine from the patio floor and thumbed through the innumerable photographs of bridal gowns, table settings, and exotic locales before he stopped at a photograph near the back of the magazine, one that abruptly caught his eye. In the picture stood a groom, photographed at the very moment his bride—his future wife—came into view. The look on the man’s face said it all. The crooked smile spread across his face and the sparkle in his eyes reflected love, pure, uninhibited, and brilliant enough to light up the dimly lit church. Chase stared at the photograph, at the man whose image had been permanently captured for posterity, and tried to imagine himself in the man’s place, seeing his future wife for the first time.

No
, he thought.
This is all wrong
.
This isn’t how any of this is supposed to feel
. He tossed the magazine at the chair, just missing it.
I’ve got to tell her
.
I will tell her
.

Behind him, he heard the patio door fly open. “Paige, we need to talk,” he said, turning around. “I—” His thought was interrupted by the look on her face; pain, sheer agony the likes of which he’d never seen before. “What?” he asked, jumping to his feet. “Paige, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“My dad,” she said. Her words tore down the levee that had been holding her tears back, causing her to crumple to the floor. Chase ran to her, catching her as she wrapped her arms around him and sobbed.

“What happened? Where’s Paul?” he asked.

“In the hospital,” she cried. “He’s had a massive heart attack.”

Shortly before sunrise, Ian and I pulled off the side of a back road, which had long since been forgotten and lay pitted with potholes.

“Well?” he asked, removing his helmet and wiping away the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. “I think we’ve ridden far enough away from The Epicenter that we can finally talk about some sort of game plan.”