by J. M. Madden
“Fuck you,” he growled.
The easy going light left the man’s eyes. “Now, I did not offer you that kind of disrespect. Why not behave like a grown man?”
Fontana narrowed his eyes on the man and knew that this was the one he wanted to ruin. It was too soon, though. He wouldn’t use his ability until he absolutely had to. “Behave like a man that tortures military personnel for profit? His own countrymen?”
The man grimaced. “I’ll admit, that little part of the job has been … challenging. I’m a former Army man, myself.”
Fontana snorted. “Way to represent your country, big man.”
Anger glistened in the man’s dark eyes, but he held his easy going pose. “You know, I was going to be all nice about asking you where the rest of your team was. Now I think I’m going to enjoy finding out the other way.”
Fontana wasn’t especially worried. He’d been beaten by some of the best. Glancing around the room he looked for any indication of the time of day, but he seemed to be completely secluded. There were no windows here, only a one-way mirror along one wall, and he felt a little blinded.
Closing his eyes against the light he tried to take inventory of himself. His back muscles were sore, even laying here on the table, but he didn’t think he had any other injuries. He still had his t-shirt and BDUs on, which surprised him. They must have been worried about him waking up before they were ready for him. His body armor and weapons were gone of course, as well as his helmet with the mic. The satellite phone had been in the breast pocket of his vest, surely, they’d found that as well.
So, what was he left with? His mental abilities. And a team on the outside that he knew would make some kind of move tonight. Jordyn had probably seen what had happened to him when he was taken but she would have had to draw back as well. Once he was captured, the Collaborative mercenaries had probably known that he was part of a team. If Fontana were in charge, he would have sent out every man he could spare to look for the surveillance team. Then he would have brought them back here or put them into the spare cages, if not killed them outright.
What if they had already been captured?
This man above him had the answers. He just had to tease them out.
“Maybe we did get off on the wrong foot,” Fontana said. “Did you take over from the Bitch in Blue?”
The man tipped his head back and laughed. “You know, I used to call her that in my mind, but I didn’t dare ever say it aloud. I would worry about her hearing it on the air, or something, and haunting me for the rest of my days.” He shook his head. “As for the command structure, that’s a bit contested at the moment.”
“This isn’t the job for Anton. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
The man in the ball-cap snorted. “You are right about that. My name is Dustin Truckle. Wilkes named me Priscilla’s replacement when Anton couldn’t do the job.”
Fontana forced a slight smile. “Yeah, thought so. I would say it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Truckle, but I wouldn’t mean it. And I’ll probably have to kill you soon, so I’m not going to get attached.”
Truckle’s gaze narrowed dangerously, and he nodded once to whoever Fontana suspected was behind the one-way glass. “Dr. Levalee has created a cocktail that you might be interested in, Mr. Fontana. Rather than go weeks between testing every disease, she found a few combinations that work very well together, and really knocks the patient down. She’s curious to see if the serum Dr. Shu created is still working in your body.” He turned to glance at the woman. “Remind me, Robyn, what’s in this?”
“It’s a mix of Tetanus, Shingles and Malaria. Should cause plenty of external manifestations we can monitor. Muscle spasms, persistent itching rash, possible convulsions. The pain, unfortunately, will be debilitating.” There was a glimmer of humor in her dark eyes. “We’ll make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit.”
Yeah, right. She didn’t think it was unfortunate at all. Fontana could hear the subtle excitement in her voice. Rocking his head on the hard metal table he looked at her. The woman had pulled her dark blond hair into a business-like bun, and a pair of wire-framed glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. Her mind was excited, and more than a little sociopathic. He could feel that just from looking at her. He glanced at Truckle. The man was reluctant but determined. He would do what needed to be done for the company.
“You’re not going to inject me with that,” he told the woman.
She lifted both her brows in disbelief at his words. “Really?”
She made a motion with her chin and four guards moved in to hold him down against the table. Without consciously thinking about it, Fontana braced, preparing. There were too many emotions fighting in his gut to be still.
Each man took an extremity, latching on hard. Fontana fought the shackles that were around his wrists and ankles, as well as the men that had piled on. He arched on the table, trying to get away from the doctor as she moved in, needle exposed.
“Hold him!” she snapped.
Truckle moved in to put pressure on his chest and keep him from arching again, and as soon as the slow-speaking guard touched him, Fontana knew Mr. Truckle had a very dangerous secret. He’d been tested on as well. Fontana lost his breath as Truckle, unnaturally strong, forced him down. Truckle used his hands to grip each side of the table, pushing his own weight down onto Fontana. It was exactly what Fontana had been waiting for.
He looked at the female doctor and projected into her mind, Mr. Truckle wants to try the shot first.
The woman blinked and hesitated, her mind struggling against his hold.
Inject Truckle! Fontana screamed at her, using every bit of mental push he had.
Veering her trajectory slightly, she sank the needle into Dustin Truckle’s neck and pushed the plunger.
Truckle looked up at her in shock, then down at Fontana. He slapped a hand over his neck, like he could grab back the fluid. He glared at the doctor, who backed away from the table.
“What the fuck did you do, woman?”
The doctor appeared dazed as she glanced from Truckle to the syringe in her hand. Confusion crossed her features, just before Truckle’s fist slammed into her face. The woman sprawled inelegantly across the floor.
Fontana barely saw the same fist coming at him, Truckle moved so fast, but he certainly felt it. His head rocked on the table and blood sprayed across the wall from his mouth. Then the rest of the mercenaries began whaling on him. This was really going to hurt.
Fontana drew into himself and just let them do what they were going to do. The guards rained blows to every part of his body. Fontana pulled at the shackles out of instinct, but Truckle landed several good solid hits to his ribs, and he felt them crack. With another punch they broke. Truckle seemed to know that he’d found a weak spot, because he struck him in the same spot one more time. Suddenly, Fontana felt his breathing become compromised. Fuck, he’d punctured a lung.
Luckily for him, Mr. Truckle suddenly began feeling the effects of the shot. Drawing back, he had a dazed look on his face, and he looked like he was going to vomit.
For the tiniest split second, Fontana felt bad for him, until Truckle’s gaze swung back to him. There was fury in his eyes. “You did this,” he hissed, before he went down to his knees. He reached for his sidearm, then detoured the motion to clutch at his throat.
Two of the mercenaries moved to help him and Fontana lost sight of him behind their bodies. Taking a second to center himself, he closed his eyes and focused. No one heard the locks release on the shackles over the sound of Truckle vomiting. One of the men were calling for nurses for the downed people, and maintenance to clean up the mess. In the midst of the chaos, Fontana looked at the mercenary to his right and mentally suggested that he close his eyes so that he didn’t have to see the carnage. The guard closed his eyes. Very calmly Fontana released his wrists from the shackles, reached out and lifted the gun from the holster on the mercenary to his left, who had turned to watch Truckle puke. His
ribs screamed from being curled up, but he blocked off the pain as he put the muzzle of the weapon to the man’s spine and pulled the trigger. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Fontana shot the mercenary to his right, who still had his eyes shut, sat up, and shot the two mercenaries who were trying to help their boss. He underestimated Truckle though. The man had managed to grab his sidearm in spite of the pain and before Fontana could slide off the table, Truckle shot him. One shot skimmed across the back of his head, through his scalp. The second skimmed across his ribs as he turned, almost exactly where Truckle had already punctured his lung, and the third took him in the meat of the left thigh. Then Truckle went down, his body arched into a rictus of pain.
Fontana was struggling with his own searing pain. It hurt so bad, it stole his breath. He clenched his teeth and tried to block it off, but it was more than he’d been trained for. Knowing he had to move, he tried to psych himself up, and Jordyn’s face popped into his mind. He wanted to see her again; the way she smiled at him, and fuck, that rockin’ body. If he got out of here alive, he would be taking her out.
Rolling off the far side of the table, Fontana tried to brace for the fall, but it was too late. He clattered to the ground in a heap. He’d been hit good, and nothing wanted to work correctly right now. In spite of himself, he had to respect Truckle’s grit. He tightened his grip on the gun in his right hand, afraid to lose it. He knew that within seconds, more mercenaries would be pouring into the room.
Shoving his pain to the side, he looked at the mercenary he’d landed on. Fumbling at the man’s utility belt, he found the mag pouch and pulled the extra mags out, trying to get them into his own pocket.
Everything seemed to be moving super slow, including him. There was a scalding sheet of heat running down his back which he assumed was blood from his scalp wound. He was gasping in little puffs of air because his lungs wouldn’t draw any more than that. His entire left side was a blaze of pain, and he prayed that his engineered healing ability would kick in.
Peering through the legs of the medical table he looked for danger. Truckle was still arched in pain, his muscles straining all across his body. He’d long ago lost his hat. His dark, bulging eyes were latched onto Fontana though, and the gun was still clutched in his right hand, his knuckles white with tension where he gripped the weapon. Fontana wondered if his fingers would snap.
As if in response to his thought, another shudder rippled through the man, and his muscles contracted even tighter. It must be the tetanus hitting him so hard. Something gave a meaty, viscous pop and the man grunted with pain, his teeth clenched and bared, jaw locked. Then something else snapped, and the man’s eyes widened. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
Fontana had no idea what had broken, but the look in Truckle’s eyes had changed. They weren’t angry any more, they were pleading.
Fighting the pain from his gunshot wounds, Fontana forced himself to his feet, using the metal table as leverage. The thigh wound was still bleeding, but the leg was usable. Sometime during the fight, the needle had come out of his arm. The heavy bag of his blood was on the floor, completely intact. He almost passed out leaning over to pick it up, but he managed. Using one of the clamps on a nearby table, he crimped the hose, then stuffed the thing into the thigh pocket of his BDUs. He might need that blood if he kept leaking the way he was. There was a roll of adhesive sports tape on the table. Using a fingernail to find the end, he stretched it out and wrapped it several times around the gunshot wound in his thigh. Not perfect, but maybe it would slow the bleeding.
Stepping over arms and legs and puddles of blood, Fontana made his way to the door. He looked at Truckle. The man’s eyes were desperate now, begging for death. Fontana could remember feeling that way many times.
Turning, he limped out the door, leaving Truckle to his agony.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Anton didn’t hear anything his guard William was saying. His feet moved automatically as the big man dragged him out of the room with the one-way mirror and through the hallways, toward the front entrance of the medical center and presumably safety.
The man on the medical table had been phenomenal, exactly the kind of super soldier they’d been trying to create. Even shackled to the table the way he’d been, and with the guards beating him, he’d still managed to prevail. Truckle had done his best to put him down, but Truckle was now writhing on the floor as his own muscles were dislocating his joints. Anton had gagged when he’d seen that, right after Truckle had shot Fontana three times while he was still on the medical table.
Anton had seen more violence in the past five minutes than he had in the past five years. It was terrifying and arousing at the same time. His blood was pumping with excitement, with a strong edge of fear. If Fontana spotted him, he had no doubt he would die.
Anton’s shoulder slammed into a door and he realized they were outside. William was yelling at a group of the uniformed military as well as some of the Collaborative mercenaries to pull in, they were heading to the airstrip.
“No,” Anton said suddenly. “I can’t leave my laptop, my things.”
Williams looked at him incredulously and Anton realized what he’d said was incredibly stupid. Of course, his life was more important than the material things in his cabin.
Pulled along by William’s hand clutching his arm, Anton ran faster, his blood suddenly chilling with fear as he observed Collaborative mercenaries being shot down one after another. Blood was flying everywhere and Anton screamed as one of their guards collapsed right in front of them, making them go down in a tumble. William jerked his arm to pull him back up to his feet.
“I’m trying, asshole,” Anton snapped, just as a red hole appeared in William’s forehead. His longtime bodyguard crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Anton stared in horror, the very real danger he was in suddenly slamming home. He looked around and realized that all of this guards had been taken out, and a group of men dressed a lot like his own were overwhelming them. Raising his hands into the air, Anton held his breath as they encircled him. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, something struck his head violently and his world turned dark as he went down.
The camp was lit up like the Fourth of July. Something had happened. Or was happening. Even as she watched, a group of heavily armed black-clad mercenaries began herding a man toward the airstrip. Gunfire sounded from somewhere to the right. From the medical center? And even more people started running, muddying the field of battle.
Jordyn pointed at the group of mercenaries huddling around the man in civilian clothes. “That must be Anton under there,” she cried.
Officer Rose nodded and made a series of hand motions to his people. “Mics on people!”
Yeah, he was right. She seriously doubted anyone would be listening to their transmissions now. They were all too busy running for cover.
“Team Alpha, let’s find Fontana.”
Crouching low, weapon high, Madeira led her team into the chaos.
Fontana lost track of how many men he killed. If they were in his way, he took them out, no hesitation. He’d seen Anton’s head moving through the crowds a minute ago, but he’d lost him. It seemed like they were heading toward the airstrip. If his world started falling down around his head that’s where Fontana would go too, in the hopes that he could escape.
His vision was tunneling. Fontana knew he’d lost a lot of blood. Using his mental ability as sharply as he had didn’t help with his energy either. Mental exercises drained them, bad. And he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. As much as his body worked, it didn’t seem like he could breathe.
Pausing at the back bumper of a truck, he realized there were men being shot down and he wasn’t doing it. Looking around he saw covert figures moving into the camp, weapons blazing. The cavalry had arrived, finally.
If he could have cheered he would have, but he could barely stand on his own. Three men ran around the truck, weapons raised. They were in th
e olive green military uniforms and seemed to be fumbling with their guns, trying to pull back the slides. Fontana realized they couldn’t be very old and had obviously not been trained at all. They looked up and saw him staring and went still. Then, one by one, they dropped their weapons and backed away.
Fontana let them go, because he knew they hadn’t been complicit in what was going on here. Scanning the field of fire, he looked for targets. He thought he’d seen Scofield running in this direction.
Just as the thought materialized, he spotted them. The guard that normally protected him was shot down, and Anton held his hands in the air like the coward that he was. Officer Rose’s CIA insertion team, he assumed, encircled the man, and one of them knocked him out with the butt of his rifle.
Fuck, yeah.
Pushing away from the truck, he started toward them, but his vision swam. His stomach lurched with nausea and he stopped, waiting for his body to rebound. The blood loss was getting to him. Gasping air, he tried to blink the world into focus. Even that hurt because of the beating he’d taken. Oh, and he thought that was the same side the rifle butt had hit him on.
Something slammed into him from behind, sending him sprawling across the ground. He turned to fight instinctively but the Collaborative mercenary got in the first punch, dead center of the gunshot across his ribs. Fontana swung wildly, managing to connect to a piece of body armor. Well, fuck. That wouldn’t work. Blinking, he tried to focus on his assailant, but he couldn’t breathe. The Collaborative mercenary drew back and reached for his sidearm.
A massive form took the man down to the ground and they rolled away. Fontana dropped to a knee as Big Kenny plowed a fist into the guard’s face, beneath the helmet. Two more strikes and the man was unconscious.
Fontana lost time then, because he blinked and realized he was lying on the ground now, and Big Kenny was leaning over him. His mouth was moving but Fontana couldn’t understand what he was saying. Then Jordyn was there, her beautiful face scowling as she looked down at him. He couldn’t understand what she said either, but he felt her hands as she cupped his cheeks. Staring into her beautiful eyes, he tried to gulp in air, but his chest was so constricted. Well, if he had to go, at least he would be looking at beauty.