by S. M. Reine
She jumped onto the patio.
But Landon was already dead.
She didn’t need to check his pulse to confirm it. The butcher knife sticking out of his chest was evidence enough.
And Ariane Kavanagh stood over him with a look of shock on her face, bloody hands, and the curve of a pregnant belly under her shirt.
8
Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time that he had been happy. It wasn’t the Union’s fault, really, even though they had turned out to be kind of a bust. The fact that he had spent the last few months as their detainee, rather than as an honored commander, was pretty solid evidence of that.
But his misery easily predated them. In fact, he thought that the beginning of his slide from “happy drunk guy” into “irredeemable alcoholic” had begun the day that his life tangled with Elise Kavanagh’s.
Traveling with Elise had been terrifying. Having her disappear without so much as a goodbye sucked, too. But realizing that he had lost the Kerry territory to an overlord was the worst part of all.
After that, having a goat-fucking asshole like Gary Zettel steal his job was nothing. And getting convicted for treason? He couldn’t even work up a yawn for it. At least the food in the detention center had been good.
Now he was handcuffed in the back of an armored SUV on his way to Italy. They were either going to acquit him, or kill him.
After the trend of the last few years, Malcolm was not feeling optimistic.
“I’m sick of NPR,” Malcolm called to the front seat. “Put something good on.”
The driver ignored him.
“Come on . How’s about a little Wolfmother? The Black Angels? You’re supposed to be transporting a prisoner, not torturing him.”
“Deal with it. The airport’s only five minutes away,” Krista said. She was his guard for the trip, and she had no sense of humor.
Malcolm sighed and slumped in the chair. “Then you think you could uncuff me? Having my wrists behind my back for such a long drive isn’t very comfortable.”
Krista gave him a small smile. She had Scandinavian features, so her smiles were a lovely thing to behold. She could have been a supermodel if not for the palsy. The genetic lottery had played two cruel jokes on her—both the birth defect, and in making her a rare female kopis. It made the left side of her body weak, including the hand she currently had draped over a gun.
But she had some of the nicest eyes that Malcolm had seen, which matched her very nice tits and ass. If he got executed in Italy, he would leave the Earth with one major regret: that he had never managed to talk Krista into a little one-on-one grappling time to get acquainted with that ass.
“For the record, I think it’s a shame,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the driver.
“What, the NPR? Right there with you, sister,” Malcolm said.
She lowered her voice. “The Union needs more guys like you and fewer like Zettel. I hope they give you a fair trial in Italy. I want to see you back on the ground soon.”
Malcolm grinned. The Union had confiscated his eye patch as contraband, so it probably wasn’t nearly as charming as her smile. “Why, Krista, I didn’t know you cared. It’s not too late for a quickie, you know.”
She returned his grin with a lopsided smile of her own. “Not happening. I’m still carting your ass off to the plane. But don’t take it personally.”
Ah, well. It had been worth a try.
“No worries. You’re just doing your job.”
Before his arrest, Krista had explained to Malcolm that she had enlisted with the Union for two reasons: because they paid for physical therapy, and because they had agreed to let her serve as a soldier despite the disability.
Malcolm could dream of all the quickies he wanted, but there was no way she was going to put her job at risk when she loved it so much. Not for him, not for anyone.
Total waste of a perfect ass.
The SUV came to a stop and waited for the gates to open. Krista kept her gun trained on him the entire time, like he might try to escape. Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh at that. He was a drunkard, not a moron.
They got clearance quickly enough, and moved inside. Malcolm leaned his forehead against the window to take in the sight of the last flight he would ever take.
It was a small airplane, which was painted black with white lettering on the side, just like everything else the Union owned. The door was already open and waiting for him. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought the fuselage was shaped like a coffin.
When the SUV stopped, he was surprised to see Gary Zettel open the door.
Malcolm stepped onto the tarmac. Zettel was much shorter than him, and he had the personality of a disgruntled Chihuahua to go with the height. Malcolm briefly entertained the idea of dropkicking Zettel across the airstrip.
“Come to see me off?” Malcolm asked. “How sweet. You shouldn’t have. Really .”
Zettel ignored him.
“Change of plans, Krista. The witch escorts have been diverted to search the forest. You’re getting a free trip to Italy. Congratulations.” Then he addressed Malcolm. “What did you do?”
“What? I think a man has every right to complain about being forced to listen to NPR.”
Zettel closed a meaty fist on Malcolm’s shirt, jerking him down to eye-level. “James Faulkner is gone and your cell door was open. What the fuck did you do?”
“James Faulkner’s gone? Gone from where?”
“From the detention center. We arrested him in Fallon. You colluded with him to escape.”
Oh, lovely. The Union had tried to take James into custody. There was no way that could go poorly.
“Believe it or not, I haven’t seen him in ages,” Malcolm said. “And we’ve never been best mates. Jim has no interest in rescuing me. He’d probably throw a little party for my execution, in fact.”
Zettel glowered. “I’m going to find him. And when I do, and he confirms your involvement…”
“I’ll be arrested for treason and sent to Italy HQ? Oh, no. Please don’t do that .”
“Get him on the plane,” the commander said. Krista couldn’t salute with her good arm holding the gun, so she just nodded, then followed Malcolm closely as he mounted the stairs.
He maintained his very best devil-may-care smile until the moment he stepped into the jet.
Malcolm hadn’t allowed himself to fantasize about escaping, but if he had, he wouldn’t have imagined the rescue involving James Faulkner.
The airplane door shut with a heavy thud , and it sounded like a tomb sealing behind him.
“You should reconsider the quickie,” he told Krista. “I’m pretty sure I’m about to die, and it would be great for morale.” She rolled her eyes. “No last wish for a dying man?”
“You’re not dying.”
“You don’t know James Faulkner,” Malcolm muttered, too quietly for her to hear.
She sighed and set down her gun. “Come here.”
Krista unlocked his handcuffs. Being able to move his arms again felt sinfully good.
“You’re a peach. A delicious, sexy peach,” he said.
“Sit down.”
“All right, all right.”
Malcolm took a window seat and stretched his legs out in front of him. If nothing else, the leather chairs were comfortable. He was a prisoner in style.
The engines roared to life just seconds later. They must have been in a hurry to get rid of him.
He watched through the window as Zettel stormed around the airstrip, acting like the bossy little bitch that he was. Malcolm tried to find satisfaction in seeing him puff and holler, but his sense of humor seemed to have mysteriously vanished. It had been replaced with a feeling like falling down a long, dark hole with piranhas at the bottom.
Krista put a hand to her earpiece. “What do you mean, a helicopter got stolen?” she asked, eyes unfocused as she listened. “The medical copter? But it’s here at the airport. I saw it parked behind our jet.�
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Malcolm sat up. “What did you just say?”
She thumbed the earpiece, turning off the speaker. “One of our helicopters got taken by Zane St. Vil—a kopis that was at HQ for medical care. But if St. Vil took the helicopter, and it’s at the airstrip now…”
The pilot’s compartment opened. When Malcolm saw who stepped through, he started laughing, and he couldn’t seem to stop.
James Faulkner was looking thoroughly old these days. He used to have the kind of perfect hair that a gentleman spy would have envied, but now it was going gray. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. He was also wearing a Union uniform.
The plane began to inch forward. Krista stood and aimed at him.
“Don’t shoot,” Malcolm said.
Wonder of wonders, she listened to him.
“James Faulkner,” Krista said, bracing the gun at her hip. “You’re under arrest.”
“No, actually, I’m leaving, and I’m taking Malcolm with me. You can get out of the plane right now, or I can knock you out for the duration of the trip. It’s your choice.”
“You destroyed half of Fallon getting arrested,” she said. “I saw the notice.”
“That’s right.”
That information seemed to be more than enough for Krista. She lowered her gun. “I’ll get off here.”
James opened the sliding door and ducked behind the wall. The airstrip was moving more quickly underneath them now as they accelerated.
There was no way to hear the shouting of the Union guards as the plane began to pick up speed. The engine was too loud. But Malcolm felt a pretty powerful surge of satisfaction at seeing them sprint after the plane with their hands waving over their heads. Especially when he saw the shock on Zettel’s ugly face.
How funny. Malcolm’s sense of humor seemed to have returned.
Bullets pinged into the side of the airplane.
“Make it quick,” James told Krista. “We’re taking off.”
She tossed the gun out the door first. “You owe me,” she told Malcolm, and then she leaped out the door, arm over her head and knees tucked to her chest.
James slammed the door shut again. The plane accelerated.
“Of all the people I thought might spring me, you weren’t one of them,” Malcolm said, helping James latch the door.
“Don’t thank me yet.” James peered out one of the windows. There were three SUVs on their tail, including one of the fancy ones with the hood-mounted machine gun. “I only freed you for a favor.”
“Naturally.”
The engines roared. The flaps on the wings adjusted, and the pavement dropped out from beneath them.
The plane bounced and shuddered, but it climbed. It climbed fast. Malcolm’s stomach lurched.
James threw open the cockpit door and stepped inside. The pilot was a Union man with a shaved head and the look of someone who wasn’t happy to be there. He was also wearing a bathrobe—an actual bathrobe .
But as they plunged into the gloomy gray clouds, leaving the Union behind them, Malcolm decided that he didn’t care if the pilot was a drunken horse with Alzheimer’s.
He was free.
The private jet flew into the silent night. Malcolm wanted to properly enjoy his liberation, but the mini-fridge in back wasn’t stocked with alcohol. He settled for distracting himself by annoying the pilot.
“Zane St. Vil, right?” Malcolm asked, flopping into the copilot’s chair.
St. Vil shot him a look. “The fuck are you?”
“Ah, the dulcet tones of a blossoming Union recruit. Makes my heart give a little pitter-pat.” Malcolm jammed the copilot’s headset over his ears. It was silent.
“They cut us off twenty minutes after we got off the ground,” James said from the cockpit doorway. “But not before I heard someone from Union control mentioning fighter jets.”
That meant that things were going to get ugly in short order. Malcolm didn’t want to be in a tin can piloted by a bald guy when that happened.
“Excellent,” Malcolm said. “Best rescue mission ever.”
“Who are you?” St. Vil asked.
“I’m hurt that you don’t recognize your traitorous former commander. Just hurt. Especially since I remember you—you were assigned to the Fernley base under my command. I think I’m the one who put you on Fallon patrol.”
“What’d you do to be a ‘former’ commander?” he asked.
“Pissed off Zettel.”
St. Vil didn’t look like he believed him, but that was all right. If the Union had fighter jets coming in, they’d all be dead soon enough anyway.
“Where am I going?” St. Vil asked James, shooting him a loathing glance.
“Forward, for the moment. Maintain the trajectory toward Colorado.” James gestured to Malcolm. “We need to talk.”
They propped the cockpit door open, presumably to keep an eye on St. Vil, and moved to the plush leather seats in back. The sky passing outside the windows was navy blue. Malcolm imagined that he heard the fighter jets approaching, even though he couldn’t see anything.
“What can I do for you, Jim?” Malcolm asked.
A muscle in James’s cheek twitched. He hated nicknames.
“Before you were arrested, you told me that you would send Hannah and Nathaniel to the Haven. I still want to send them there. You must know where it is.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint, but we can’t exactly walk into the Haven now that the Union doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t worry about that part. Where is it?”
Malcolm glanced around the plane. “Map?”
James ducked into the cockpit and returned with a map of the surrounding states. Malcolm spread it out over the table.
He hadn’t been to the Haven’s entrance, but he had seen the briefings on it, and had looked up the coordinates once. It was tricky to correspond a bunch of digits to a gas station map, though.
Malcolm found the closest town and dragged his finger along the highway. “It’s around here somewhere,” he said, pointing at an empty stretch of forest. “I’m not sure exactly where.”
“That will have to be good enough.” James circled the area, then tapped the nib of his pen on the nearest highway. “Do you think there would be a long enough stretch here for us to land the plane?”
“Sure,” Malcolm said.
“You have no idea, do you?”
“In all the long years of our warm, adoring brotherhood, have you ever seen me fly a plane? The highway looks good to me. That’s the best I’ve got for you.” Malcolm glanced around. “Does that mean you have your ex and kid hidden around here somewhere?”
“We’ll have to pick them up on the way.” James rubbed a hand over his stubble as he stared at the map. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, like bruises. “I hope there’s enough fuel.”
Malcolm couldn’t remember James ever looking as terrible as he did now, even when their little party had been trudging through knee-deep grime in the demonic undercities.
He could only think of one thing that could make James look that miserable.
“There’s an Elise problem, isn’t there?” Malcolm asked.
James pinched the bridge of his nose. “You could say that.”
“Did you finally fuck?”
Pain exploded in the side of his head. Malcolm hit the floor of the plane.
There wasn’t much room to fall. He smacked his elbow on the seat on the way down, and his whole left arm went numb.
He didn’t bother trying to get up once he landed. He grinned up at James from the floor, watching as the witch shook out his fist. There was blood on his knuckles. Good hit.
It actually felt kind of spectacular to get punched like that—refreshing, in a way, after dealing with weeks of sobriety in a Union holding cell. His head was much too clear without alcohol in his system.
“I take that as a yes,” Malcolm said.
James folded the map, calm as you please. “I’m going to talk to St. Vil.”
“I think it’s great, you know. You two swell kids deserve each other.” Malcolm rubbed his temple. It was tender from connecting with James’s fist—almost as tender as the dozens of times that Elise had punched him in much the same way. “Really .”
“We’re not going to discuss that,” James said. He headed for the cockpit, and Malcolm followed.
“Don’t you want to compare notes? Talk about those funny hamster noises Elise makes when she comes? Ooh, unless you didn’t…ooh . Well, nothing to be ashamed of. You’re an older gentleman now. It happens to all of us once in a while, and it’s not easy to keep up with Elise. She’s a wildcat. Or a hamster. Pick an animal! Whatever offends you more.”
James stopped walking. Turned around. Malcolm braced himself for another punch that never came.
“You’re deliberately provoking me,” James said.
“Me? Never.”
“Are you hoping to die? Is that what’s going through your thick skull?”
“Actually, it’s mostly just ringing in my skull right now,” Malcolm said. “And a distinct desire to be unconscious, yes. Might as well get some sleep while I wait for the Union to shoot us out of the air. So where is the old girl, anyway?”
“She’s busy,” James said. “She’ll be back soon.”
“Dead again? How inconvenient.” Malcolm gave a sly smile. “Or does this have to do with the Gray thing?”
James’s eyes clouded with sudden fury. He loomed over Malcolm, shoulders squared. “What do you know about that?”
Before Malcolm could come up with an adequately obnoxious response, he caught a glimpse of St. Vil in the cockpit. He was hunched over, hand on the microphone, and muttering into the headset.
So the Union hadn’t cut them off after all.
James realized that Malcolm wasn’t looking at him. He turned around.
“Lovely,” Malcolm said.
Swearing under his breath, James strode into the cockpit and ripped the headset off of St. Vil’s head. “What are you doing?”
St. Vil punched a button on the console and stood. For a guy in a bathrobe, he managed to pull off intimidating pretty well. The crazy eyes, bloody face, and shiny bald head helped.