Countdown to Zero Hour

by Nico Rosso

  The truck was just passing the wrecked corner of the house when Art jumped. Water sprayed from the holes Hayley had punched into the back of the giant tank. He hit the top and bounced on the hard metal. One of his hands held his pistol, making it hard to grip the curved surface. He scrambled to stay on as the truck bounced over the rubble from the fallen cinder block wall, grabbing one of the metal fittings that protruded out of the top of the tank.

  Art sprawled, finding the center point of the tank just as the truck hit the desert and tore across the hard-packed earth. Jackhammer impacts bounced him, chest down on the metal. He crawled forward until he could hook a grip on the front edge of the tank, where the desert air burned across his face.

  Voices from Art’s team came over the radio in his ear.

  “The fuck?”

  “Mission’s not over.”

  “Not until Art finishes it.”

  Holding the lip of the tank with one arm, Art fired into the passenger section, where he’d seen Garin climb in. The jumping truck threw his aim off, and the bullets punched through sections of the roof or skipped over the hood or were lost into the desert.

  More radio chatter: “Dragonfly, time to dust off this roundup.”

  They were calling for the helicopter. The house had been secured.

  Jackson’s voice carried extra urgency. “Chef is unaccounted for. The chef is unaccounted for.”

  Fuck. Hayley needed him. He had to end this fight and get back to her.

  As calm as a redwood tree, Mary’s voice crackled over the radio. “Art, you have an armed heavy prepped for egress out the passenger side.”

  Garin swung the door open and fired a burst from a submachine gun. The bumping terrain threw his shots off, the same as had happened to Art.

  Art tried to shoot back, but each time he pulled the trigger, the truck lurched and the bullet went wild.

  The terrain grew severe, and the truck bucked like a bull. Garin swung out on the door, slamming back and forth. Art went airborne, then slapped back to the top of the tank, knocking the wind out of him.

  The truck hit another hard rut, and Art had to decide between keeping his gun or holding on. The pistol skipped away into the growing shadows on the desert floor. By the time Art had collected himself, Garin had moved out of the cab and was now crawling onto the top of it, submachine gun in hand.

  Before Garin could fire, Art lunged forward and grabbed the barrel. He twisted the gun from Garin’s sweaty grip. But he couldn’t maintain a hold, and the weapon was lost to the speeding landscape around them.

  Garin snarled and leaped onto the top of the truck with Art, who had to scuttle backward on his knees. He banged against the pipes and fittings on the top and barely rolled out of the way as Garin stomped down toward him.

  The guard shouted into the wind and swung out a vicious kick that caught Art in the ribs. The pain made his side seize up, but he managed to wrap his arm around Garin’s lower leg and hold on.

  Art drove his fist again and again into Garin’s lower belly, then spiked his elbow into the side of the Russian’s knee.

  Howling with pain and rage, Garin kicked with his unpinned leg in an attempt to lurch himself out of Art’s control. And the truck continued to bounce, barreling through the desert.

  Art couldn’t let Rolan escape. If he made it to town, he might disappear, then be able to rebuild the organization. And he’d have Art’s and Hayley’s identities.

  Blows landed on Art’s shoulders, the side of his head, but he wouldn’t let go. He turned his body so Garin’s leg twisted under him. Garin then pounded on his back with the edge of his fist.

  Both men started to slide down one side of the tank. The hard dirt sped beneath them. Art used his free hand to draw the knife on his belt and slashed out to slow Garin’s attack.

  The blade bit into Garin’s arm, and he recoiled. The truck bounced hard, knocking Art against the tank and forcing him to lose his hold on Garin. As soon as the guard pulled away, he snapped open his own knife.

  Finally. One of them would die. Art promised that it would be Garin. The man had antagonized Hayley since the beginning. Now he was keeping Art from her one last time.

  Crouched low for balance, both men swept forward with bladed attacks. The knives scraped each other, but no flesh was cut. Garin tried again quickly. Art turned out of the way but stumbled and couldn’t counter.

  The clock that had wound so tight in him now spun completely out of control. Wild rage fought against his trained calm in the face of danger. His mission was here, on this speeding truck. And all he wanted was to find Hayley, to get her to safety.

  With their positions reversed, Art now faced the back of the truck. Another car charged through the desert, gaining on them. It was his SUV.

  Hayley drove.

  Garin glanced at where Art stared. When the guard swung back around, his face was tight with fury.

  Art shouted to him in Russian, “You’re not going to leave this desert alive.”

  The guard readied for another attack, steadying himself on one of the fittings at the top of the truck.

  Art yelled into his walkie-talkie, “Mary, give me a full stop on the water truck.”

  She answered smoothly, “Stand by for a fifty-caliber parking brake.”

  He sheathed his knife and motioned for Hayley to get parallel to the truck on his left. She struggled with the wheel but managed to bring the car closer.

  Close enough for him to jump.

  She gaped with shock when he flung himself off the side of the water tank and slammed onto the hood of the SUV. As soon as he had a grip on the edge of the sheet metal, he looked up to the truck.

  Garin was just coiling to jump when the truck’s engine burst into a sputtering ball of flame and smoke. Rolan made the mistake of slamming on the brakes. The chassis screamed and torqued as the truck ground forward, then curled sideways. It hit a rut and groaned, toppling over in a roll that sent Garin flying into the shadows. The water inside the tank jerked the truck, sloshing and booming.

  Hayley brought the SUV to a relatively controlled stop, and Art rolled off the hood and onto the ground. He’d staggered up to a hand and knee when she reached him.

  “Are you hurt?” Just having her hands on him lifted some of the pain.

  But not all of it. He strained out a laugh.

  “Much?” she added.

  He stood, still buzzing with adrenaline. “You can’t shoot, but you sure as hell can drive.”

  She curled an arm around his waist and tried to guide him toward the passenger side of the SUV. Her voice shook with emotion. “Did you think I was really going to leave you out here alone?”

  His eyes glossed and he clenched his jaw while his mouth searched for words. He whispered back, “Never leave me.”

  “I won’t.” Her hands curled tighter around him. “I—”

  A shuffling attack came from the desert dark. Garin, streaked with blood and dust, flailed toward Art and Hayley with his knife drawn. Art thrust himself between Hayley and Garin, but she was way too close to the conflict. The first swipe from the thick blade almost cut Art across the chest.

  Garin hissed blood through bared teeth. He was fighting to the death.

  Art would give it to him.

  The next slash came down, and Art sidestepped it. Before Garin could pull back, Art grabbed his wrist and elbow. Twisting with all his strength, Art turned Garin’s knife, still in his hand, toward the Russian’s chest.

  Garin tried to wrestle free from the grip, but it was too late. Art threw his weight into the bellowing man, driving the knife in under his ribs. Both of them fell to the dirt.

  As Garin breathed his last, Art whispered to him, “Adiós.”

  The dying man tried to shake his head in denial of the word and his fat
e at Art’s hand. Stillness overtook the body, and he lay heavy on the desert ground.

  Art stood, Hayley immediately with him. She didn’t look at Garin. Her face was grim, tired, but not defeated.

  But he resisted letting her take him to the car. “The mission’s not over.”

  The wound in his shoulder started to burn. His ribs were bruised. Every joint ached. He pulled himself together and walked to the crashed truck. Hayley remained with him, cautious.

  The SUV’s headlights striped blue through the swirling dust, shining on the growing pool of water and mud.

  The three-quarter roll had crushed the truck’s roof and bent down a corner of the driver’s door. Art wrenched the door open and dragged the semiconscious Rolan out. Blood stained the man’s silver hair, and his eyes swam, unfocused on Art and Hayley.

  Art paid no care to any injuries Rolan might’ve had as he searched the boss for weapons, then dragged him to his feet by his lapels. “The Orel Group is dead.” He fumed in slow, clear Russian. “Tony Diaz ended you.”

  “Who?” Rolan winced, his brows bunching as he tried to form thoughts.

  “Tony Diaz.” Just saying the name brought the emotions up through Art. His breath came in ragged rasps. “My father, who you had killed. And now he’s at rest, because you’re done.”

  “Tony...” Rolan processed while his head lolled from side to side. “I don’t remember...”

  “But you knew something.” Art shook him, needing to know if there were any leaks about Automatik. “You knew something about me.” A secret that Rolan had kept, like a poison knife under his coat.

  Rolan laughed, cut short by wheezing pain.

  Art pushed him against the leaking water tank. “What do you know?”

  Rolan looked over his shoulder and frowned, disappointed. “You could’ve been...strong...with us. Power... But a woman... You were a fool...to fall in love with her.”

  Hayley stood behind Art. The last light of day outlined her in amber. She was scraped and dirty and exhausted and undefeated and beautiful.

  Art released his hold on Rolan. “Dead wrong.”

  Without his support, Rolan couldn’t stand and flailed. He slid down the side of the tank and onto the ground. Art grabbed his lapel and dragged him through the dirt and mud toward the SUV.

  Hayley opened the back passenger door, and Art shoved Rolan in. The former boss only had the strength to lie in the foot well, his dirty clothes twisted all around him. Art closed the door and leaned on the car with Hayley.

  He put his arm around her shoulder, and she hooked her fingers into the waist of his jeans. Feeling her next to him was life. His injuries didn’t matter. The pain remained but couldn’t overcome the realness of her. Hayley was alive. She was safe.

  To the north, a helicopter hovered over the compound.

  She stared at it, eyes a bit remote. “Is that our ride?”

  “Yeah.” And he couldn’t wait to get out of this corner of the desert.

  She asked without bringing her eyes to him, “Are you going away?”

  “No.” He held her tighter, taking in her thoughtful face. “I’m me again.”

  Her shadowed gaze moved to him. “Because the mission is over?”

  He shook his head and leaned forward. The moment was so contained and private, the distance between them small. Their connection was delicate and strong enough to survive the bullets and the fire.

  “Because you,” he said, and he kissed her.

  She returned the kiss and the emotion. They shared each other. For the first time in a very long time, he was safe.

  * * *

  Flying in a helicopter with open doors might’ve scared her a week ago. Maybe even a day ago. But as the vehicle climbed high enough to get another peek at the sun, which had dipped below the horizon, Hayley had no gulp of fear.

  She sat with Art on small benches that folded out of the walls in the middle of the vehicle. The cut on his shoulder had been tended to by the British soldier after they’d loaded all the Russian mobsters onto the helicopter. But Art remained dirty, bloody in places. He was a warrior, exhausted from giving everything in the fight and defeating anything that had stood in his way.

  The Russians were all bound, with dark sacks over their heads. Some of them had bandaged wounds. Gogol’s leg was in a long splint. Even Martha’s driver had been nabbed by unseen members of Art’s team after he’d dropped the woman off. Art had explained that there was another set of helicopters waiting to take the bosses and surviving guards to the necessary authorities. Rolan was headed to the Netherlands.

  The boss who’d “hired” her for the job had been silent since Art had thrown him in the car. Instead of going to the compound, Art had spoken on his walkie-talkie and had given Hayley directions to an empty patch of desert, where she’d witnessed a perfectly camouflaged Mary emerge from the dirt. The sniper carried her rifle to the waiting SUV and on the ride back.

  The rest of Art’s team was also on the helicopter. They leaned on the walls or each other, as if on a bus on the way back from a camping trip. She couldn’t be that nonchalant about the circumstances, but she was a step closer to Art’s world.

  Explosions had gone off around her. Watching Art dive for that hand grenade had seized her with fear. But he hadn’t hesitated. He’d kept his word and done everything he could to keep her safe. Which was why she’d had to go after him in the SUV when she’d seen him on the back of the water truck. She’d never promised him protection, hadn’t thought it was in her power, but all that had been erased when he’d started to disappear into the darkness of the desert.

  The helicopter banked, and she slid her hand into his. He held her tight and turned to gaze into her eyes. The motor was too loud to speak, and they didn’t have the headsets that the others did.

  He asked if she was okay with a tilt of his head.

  She nodded, yes.

  Epilogue

  Hayley didn’t feel guilty that their restaurant had been opened using a percentage of the cash found at the compound after the raid. The Orel Group was dead, its bosses in dark prisons and everyone else scattered. Because Automatik was unofficial according to any government on the planet, they had the ability to parcel out enough money to pay back her mom, donate to several charities around town and to kit the simple kitchen out with a better stove and flat top griddle.

  The good reviews were beginning to come in on social media, despite the rocky start Art had working the front of the house. But he’d picked it up quickly, and the people started digging his slightly surly attitude.

  His demeanor was always more agreeable when they were together in the small house they’d rented. The tension from the compound was behind them. They made love with the bedroom door open, whenever they wanted.

  There were nights when she woke, confused and wondering if the place was secure. He would soothe her with an easy voice, then check all the locks before returning to bed. She would read him, too. When the darkness would gather behind his eyes. Sometimes talking out the memories helped. Other times she would just sit with him, keep a hand on him so he knew he wasn’t alone.

  Neither of them was alone.

  This night there was still company at the restaurant, despite the doors being closed and locked. She shut down the fires in the kitchen and carried two serving trays out to the wood-paneled dining room. As soon as Art saw her coming, he sprang up and took one of the trays from her.

  Together, they set the food down at one of the two large tables in the middle of the restaurant, where Harper, Jackson and Mary sat. The sniper glanced from the pile of steaming rice pilaf to Hayley, emotion in her eyes.

  “Lebanese?” Deep surprise crossed Mary’s face.

  “I don’t break a food promise.” Hayley arranged the platters, revealing chicken kabobs, small phyllo
pies filled with ground beef, and several side salads.

  Jackson clinked his beer with Mary’s, which rested on the table. “Good thing you shoot straight. Otherwise we wouldn’t be eating all this.”

  She smiled with swagger and picked up her beer for a long drink.

  Art handed Harper some large spoons. “Serve it up.”

  Hayley watched them dig in, piling the food onto their plates. “You know our menu, a little Russian, a little Mexican, but I kept a corner of the kitchen separate for this tonight.”

  And it had been a decent take for a Wednesday. The place had a shot.

  The Automatik soldiers, her and Art’s friends, all thanked her.

  Art started to sit, then remembered something. “I’ve got to get the light.”

  He strode toward the front of the restaurant, and Hayley went with him. A flick of a switch by the entrance darkened the sign over the door that read Da/Sí.

  She put her hands on his hips and stretched up so she could kiss the back of his neck. An appreciative growl rumbled through him. He double-checked that the front door was locked, then turned to her.

  “Expecting trouble?” She peered out the glass door to the quiet dark street beyond.

  “Maybe outside, maybe inside.” He smirked, glancing at his friends at the table.

  “You want trouble?” Her fist lightly tapped his chest.

  “If it’s you...” He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “Then, hell yeah.”

  “Good.” She snarled, loving how he bared his teeth with her. “Then let’s make trouble.”

  “Yes, Master Chef.”

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  A SECRET IN CONARD COUNTY

  by Rachel Lee.

  A Secret in Conard County

  by Rachel Lee

  Prologue