Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  “Couldn’t we just fly farther north or west or anywhere but here?”

  “They’ll come after us wherever we go. We have a better chance of stopping them right here.”

  “But for how long? This Harry guy must have other men at his disposal.”

  He’ll be dead soon. “Long enough,” Nick said.

  “Show us the escape tunnel,” Alan interposed, curtailing an unwinnable argument. No one was leaving.

  “The stairway is hidden behind the pantry shelves.” Nick came to his feet. “This way.”

  A narrow stairway led down to a tunnel that ran behind the cabin into a small sanctuary cut into the hill. The room was fully supplied—food, water, a small bed, a radio, propane light, a chemical toilette.

  “Jesus, this is scary,” Zoe whispered, thinking this is what they meant by a bomb shelter. “May I go home now? I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

  “Sorry,” Nick murmured, not sure even a really good actress could look so distraught. Zoe’s eyes were shiny with tears and she was trembling. “You’ll be safe here,” he whispered, taking her in his arms and holding her close. “Guaranteed. Nothing can touch you.”

  She softly exhaled, sniffed away her tears, and offered him a tentative smile. “Sorry I’m such a baby,” she said, rallying her self-control. “I’m fine again—just a brief meltdown. I don’t suppose this danger is much different from worrying about being eaten alive by piranhas. I survived that.”

  The men exchanged a look over Zoe’s head.

  Piranhas versus missiles wasn’t even close.

  “Look, if we’re attacked, get yourself out of the cabin and hunker down here while Alan and I head them off at the pass,” Nick said with a grin. “The good guys always win, you know that.”

  “Yeah, right, and the Willerbys of the world get their comeuppance instead of becoming billionaires. Oops, I guess not.”

  “This is different, babe. No one fucks with us and survives.”

  “Not that we’re killing anyone,” Alan quickly interposed at the sudden shock on Zoe’s face. “We’ll just send them packing.”

  “I know this isn’t charitable to say, but if these people are really trying to kill us, maybe you can’t afford to be too squeamish.”

  Nick smiled. “Don’t worry, babe. I plan on living a long time.”

  “Oh, good, then I will, too.”

  Nick dipped his head and kissed her lightly. “Now there’s incentive.”

  “I hate to break up this lovefest, but I want some eyes and ears on our perimeter.”

  “I’ll take first sentry duty,” Nick said, letting his hands drop away and stepping back. “Let’s get you into the cabin.”

  Everyone’s sleep was restless that night.

  What there was of it for Nick and Alan.

  They grabbed a few minutes between rounds, but neither was able to ignore the familiar precombat tension.

  Thirty

  Nick heard the distant soft tut, tut, tut, tut, like beating grouse wings echoing across the lake in the predawn silence.

  Helicopters approaching.

  And one of them was a frickin’ Apache.

  You never forgot the sound, nor the chilling memories.

  “I heard,” he said as Alan appeared in the bedroom doorway, and getting up from the chair where he’d been watching Zoe sleep, he walked to the bed and woke her. “It’s time to go to the bunker,” he said, purposely keeping his voice mild. “I’ll get you when it’s over. Don’t come out until I do.”

  Then he strode from the room in order to avoid argument.

  There wasn’t time for debate.

  “I’ve been watching them on the radar for the last forty minutes,” Alan said as the men left the cabin and walked swiftly toward the rocky ridge north of it. “They’re taking their time.”

  “We’re a soft target. Why should they hurry?”

  “They’re gonna be in for a surprise.”

  Nick smiled. “I like your confidence.”

  “It ain’t confidence, dude, it’s prime weaponry.”

  “And for us, it’s not just another mission,” Nick gruffly said.

  Ten minutes later when the Apache attack helicopter swept up over the treeline across the lake, they were ready. Even the second chopper didn’t register alarm. But the third brought an exchange of glances between Nick and Alan.

  “Fucking A,” Nick said. “That is overkill.”

  “And I’m guessing Harry’s safe in his office in DC.”

  “Ya think?” Nick half smiled. “Lucky we have ingenuity.”

  “And plenty of practice.”

  “Not to mention a motherfucking grudge for my sixteen months in the hospital.”

  “It’s all about speed now,” Alan murmured, his gaze on the approaching aircraft.

  “And surprise,” Nick said under his breath, his eyes riveted on the Apache chopper in the lead. “They won’t know what hit ’em. The range on the weapons you brought is awesome.”

  “Nothin’ but the best—that’s my motto.”

  Nick flashed him a quick grin. “First drink’s on me when this is over. Red con one. Weapons loaded and safeties off. That Apache is almost in the kill zone.”

  While the men were trading comments on the hillside above her, Zoe was huddled in the bunker below, freaking out. She’d never been near a firefight before. She’d never had the slightest inkling of what the phrase die of fright meant— until now.

  The sound of the choppers had been audible as she’d raced for the tunnel and now her greatest fear—besides being killed— was being left alive out here in the wilderness with everyone else gone, maybe even dead.

  Although, she wouldn’t actually allow herself to contemplate Nick dead.

  She couldn’t think such awful thoughts.

  She prayed instead, harder than she’d ever prayed before.

  She prayed for a miracle, because they’d need it with armed choppers transporting killers intent on slaughtering them. She prayed that Nick and Alan were the best shots in the world. She prayed that the bad men coming to hurt them would somehow feel the full fury of God’s mighty wrath. She mostly prayed that everything would turn out all right—her usual generic prayer from childhood when she was afraid of the dark and big hairy spiders and snakes that could swallow a whole person.

  Jesus, how had her normal, conventional life come to this terrifying impasse? How could this be happening to her? She was a writer—granted, she focused on some of the more unethical people of the world doing unethical things, but wasn’t there supposed to be a divide between white-collar crime and all the other ruthless manifestations of thuggery? Seriously, wasn’t there a rule about that? She shouldn’t be semipanicked in a bunker praying for a miracle; she should be debating chaptertitles or zeroing in on all the excellent work the TPC was doing in Italy.

  Unfortunately, this was all too real—and scary thought number fifty-two in her increasing list of scary thoughts— what if things didn’t work out? What if they were overwhelmed by men with guns in helicopters—carrying missiles, too, probably. Shit. While Nick hadn’t exactly spelled out in detail who was after him and why, they’d already been fired on by shoulder-fired missiles and she knew you didn’t buy those at your local Ace Hardware.

  Zoe swallowed hard, the thought of actually dying suddenly flooding every mushy bit of grey matter in her brain in a tidal wave of fear. And the worst part—if there was a quantitative cringe factor in dying—was the fact that no one would ever know exactly what happened to them. They were hundreds of miles from civilization. They were seriously into the wild. And everyone knows what happened to that poor guy.

  The loud boom of artillery, followed by the clatter of machine-gun fire suddenly erupted above her.

  She screamed and started shaking.

  By the time Zoe started shaking, Nick and Alan had already taken out the Apache chopper with several well-placed armor-piercing rounds from high-powered Russian sniper rifles. Nick aimed f
or the pilot’s face visible behind the narrow, sloped window and firing full automatic, pumped the entire twenty-round magazine into the pilot’s head—blowing it away.

  Alan simultaneously unloaded his twenty rounds on the rotors, shredding and slicing them to pieces, sending the chopper into a deadly downward spiral. The copilot riding tandem had had time to fire off two missiles but they ended up blasting holes in the lake bottom instead of Nick’s cabin.

  Knowing the spitting muzzle flashes had been visible, the men dropped the sniper rifles and raced through the cover of the pine trees to their artillery emplacements dug in laterally a hundred feet out. Quickly aiming two French APILAS 112mm LAW rocket launchers that had been set up on moving tripods, they sighted in on the two lumbering Huey choppers flying in the wake of the faster Apache. The pilots were continuing their approach despite the destruction of the lead chopper.

  “Harry must be paying top dollar!” Nick shouted, centering one Huey in his scope. “Motherfuckers are still comin’!”

  “They’re sitting ducks with no long-range missiles!”

  “The one on the left is mine!” Nick was curled over the weapon, his finger hovering over the firing mechanism.

  “Roger that!” Hunched over the other rocket launcher, Alan had the second Huey in his crosshairs.

  “Light ’em up!”

  The men discharged two powerful warheads capable of punching through twenty-eight inches of armor into the squat fuselages of the largely unprotected Hueys and tore them to pieces. As the two choppers exploded in balls of fire and dropped from the sky in a cascade of flaming wreckage, Nick and Alan ripped them with machine-gun fire.

  Fragments large and small, materiel, metal, flesh, and blood fell into the lake, throwing up geysers, spouts, spurts until the dark water closed over the shattered pieces of Harry’s attack squad. Only the occasional ripple or floating shred gave evidence of the graveyard below.

  The sudden silence was eerie.

  “We should check on survivors,” Alan said, walking over to where Nick was standing looking out over the lake.

  “In a minute,” Nick said, Alan’s voice muffled by the ringing in his ears. “I’m beating back all my fucking nightmares.” Drawing in a deep breath, Nick wiped the spattered machine-gun lubricant from his face with the back of his hand and slowly exhaled. “It’s been awhile.” In the midst of a firefight, time always slowed down for him, detail was starkly heightened, the deafening machine-gun fire only a whisper. He had no feeling while he was loading and firing, muscle power simply taking over. But afterward—it was all too real. “Killing sucks,” he murmured.

  “It was them or us.” Having wiped off his face, Alan folded his greasy handkerchief neatly and put it away in his pocket.

  “Ain’t it always.”

  Alan shrugged. “Better them than us, then.”

  “Yeah. No doubt.” Nick half smiled. “Thanks to your hardware.”

  “And our defenses. Hey, the good guys won. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go?”

  “I guess. They were overconfident.”

  “Typical of Harry’s people. They’re not exactly rocket scientists. They figure superior numbers are always the answer. Are you ready for a look-see?” Alan nodded toward the lake. “We can’t take any chances.”

  What he means is we have to kill any survivors. Not that there is a polite alternative. “I’m good,” Nick said, issues of morality contained. “All my psycho-devils are back in their cages.”

  Making their way to the boathouse through the cover of the trees, Nick and Alan took out the boat and ran it out to the area of the lake where the choppers had gone down. Slowly traversing the crash zone, they methodically crisscrossed and scrutinized the water.

  Only the lightest debris still floated, some of it human remains.

  “It never gets easy,” Alan murmured as Nick steered the small speedboat around the floating body parts. “No matter how many times you see it.”

  “Fuck no. Even if they were trying to off us, you can’t help but think of the families these guys left behind. And then there’s Harry,” Nick added, gruffly. “Safe and sound back in DC. I’m tempted to call him and tell him to get his will in order.”

  “Not too tempted I hope,” Alan cautioned.

  “Nah. Do I give a shit if his will is in order?”

  “No sense in warning him,” Alan said, ever heedful.

  “I know. Although it’s tempting to let him sweat it for a while.”

  “Don’t worry. Once these guys don’t report back, he’ll know what happened to them.”

  “Which means we’d better scatter, too.”

  Alan nodded. “Does Zoe have someplace safe to go?” She’s passed the loyalty test in not coming to the aid of the attackers.

  “Dunno. She said something about friends who would take her in, so I’ll find out. After you check in back home, I’ll meet you in the Cities. Zoe should be out of the way by then. That leaves Harry front and center on the radar.”

  “I have contacts at the Pentagon. We can pick up weapons in DC.”

  “Harry’s sure to be watching his back, so we should avoid commercial airports. I have an off-the-record aircraft available to me in Minneapolis. It was supposedly scrapped a few years ago, so it’s safe. Fake registration, fake flight plans, we fly into rural airports—who’s to know?”

  “How about next Thursday?”

  “Thursday’s good.”

  “How will your babe deal with you saying see you around?”

  “I’ll find out. Not that it matters. We can’t stay here. Everyone has to go underground until Harry’s out of the way.”

  Alan lifted his hand slightly, indicating the detritus floating in the lake. “This is gonna wash up on shore. What are you gonna tell her?”

  “That we’re alive and they aren’t.”

  “Simple enough.”

  “Yup. A Hollywood happy ending.”

  Once the men had assured themselves that no survivors remained, they returned to the shore, ran the boat into the boathouse, had a quick shot of single malt, cleaned the gun oil from their hands and faces with a little gasoline, and locked up. Then Alan went off to send a short, coded message to his wife, while Nick proceeded to the bunker to apprise Zoe of their success.

  She hadn’t tried to kill them during the firefight. Reassuring. Maybe he could finally write off any further suspicion.

  Oh, fuck.

  She’s gone.

  He stood arrested in the doorway, contemplating the silent, empty room. The hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention, his brain was screaming Alert, alert!

  Swiftly moving from the illuminated entrance into the shadows of the room, he automatically slipped his handgun from his pocket and flicked off the safety. “Zoe?” His voice was soft, expressionless.

  “Nick! Thank God, it’s you!” she cried, coming out from behind the small storage cupboard. “I heard footsteps and when the door opened, I didn’t dare look out in case . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But thank God it’s you,” she said again with obvious relief.

  “We’re good,” he said in the same mild voice, although he didn’t lower his handgun and every muscle in his body was poised to react. “It’s over.”

  “We’re safe?”

  “For the moment. Stop there.”

  “Is something wrong?” The softness of his voice was unnerving, as was his command. And the gun in his hand was scarier still.

  “I have to check you for a weapon.”

  “Okay,” she said, as mildly as he, not wanting to agitate him in any way. After her near-death experience in his bed, she was wary. As was he, apparently, although she’d never tried to kill him so maybe she was allowed a degree more apprehension.

  “Step over there into the light.” He waved the Czech handgun toward the doorway. “Hold out your arms and spread your legs.” His voice was curt.

  “I heard all the gunfire and was really, really scared,” she murmured, feeling the
sudden need to talk, as if her chatter would soothe the savage beast. “I prayed for the first time in a very long time and seriously . . . more than I’ve ever prayed before. I asked for everything to turn out okay, and maybe it worked, because here you are. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt. Is Alan okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  He’d come up behind her so silently she almost gasped, although she quashed the impulse for fear of spooking him. Forcing her breathing to a normal cadence, she said, “I don’t have a weapon.”

  “That’s good.” Blunt and cool.

  Unlike his hands that were swiftly running down her body from top to bottom. They were warm and gentle. And unexpectedly—arousing. Damn him or damn my wanton impulses. This is no time to give into prurient desires.

  Somehow he knew, although she’d not so much as moved a muscle.

  “You always want it, don’t you?” he said husky and low, turning her around and slipping his hand between her legs. “Your little pussy is fired up even now when you’re not sure of me—or what I might do to you.”

  “I’d like to say fuck you,” she muttered, returning his amused look with an ill-humored one. “But you frighten me, and not to be discounted, you apparently saved my life. On the other hand, you’re way the hell too arrogant and maybe that’s why I’d most like to say fuck you.”

  “Even when I can feel your hot cunt pulsing in my palm?” he said with an impudent smile, increasing the pressure of his hand.

  “Mostly then,” she snapped.

  “Personally, I like to have sex after a firefight.”

  “But then you’re—” She stopped herself.

  “Crazy?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You thought it.” He suddenly grinned and pulled away his hand. “Look, relax. I’m not going to jump you. Come on, let’s go see Alan and have us a victory drink.”

  His moods fluctuated so wildly, it took her a moment to get up to speed. But she managed a smile a second later and even though it was barely daybreak said, “A victory drink sounds wonderful.”

  “And don’t worry,” Nick said, waving her before him toward the tunnel to the cabin, “I’d never force myself on a woman.”