Stormchaser

by Cherry Adair

Callie didn’t argue. This was Armageddon. The ceiling, walls, and floor imploded around them as the quake continued to shake, rattle, and roll beneath their feet. An enormous grinding crash, like thunder, only a hundred times louder, rocked the floor. The noise came from behind them.

  Reactively, Callie tuned to look. “Oh, God, Jonah—the tunnel’s sealed with debris.”

  She didn’t expect a response, and she didn’t get one.

  The major damage might be behind them, but fractures snaked along the walls nearby. Small chunks of cement dropped down on them like dark, heavy snow as the ceiling crumbled.

  She’d never been a runner. Or a jogger. All her exercise was under the water. Swimming used different muscles. Pulling up an energy she didn’t know she had, she matched Jonah’s speed, assisted by his brutal grip on her hand. She practically flew.

  They ran a lethal obstacle course. No going back. And at this rate, there’d soon be no going forward, either.

  Jonah skidded to a stop. She bit her tongue as she slammed into his arm. “Now what?”

  Twenty feet ahead, the ceiling crashed down in enormous chunks with the earsplitting noise repeating as it broke into smaller pieces that bounced and skittered around them. On either side the walls rippled, then imploded with stunning force. Jonah took off at a full-out run, dodging debris in his path, helping her when the going got tough. At one point he picked her up by the waist and threw her over a six-foot roadblock, then scrambled down the other side, grabbing up her hand again as she staggered to her feet, dazed.

  “Go. Go. Go.” Walls cracked, veins opening like spider webs on the ceiling as the roof broke open above them. Destruction was hot on their heels.

  “Don’t look. Run!”

  “Excellent advice,” she yelled, barely able to hear herself.

  The noise was hellacious, the dust choking and hard to see through, the path treacherous with boulder-sized masses of cement. Enormous spears of rebar protruded from many of the immense fragments falling around them.

  The going was a minefield, treacherous and terrifying. A spar of rusted rebar snagged on her calf, gouging through the neoprene. No pain, just an intense burn, minor compared with everything else going on around her.

  The only reality was Jonah’s painfully tight grip on her hand. Callie put on more speed to match his longer strides. Her choppy breathing, coupled with the dust-thick air, made her chest and throat ache, and her eyes stream. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other.

  Why—God, who—was doing this? Destroying the tunnel to the water just to kill a handful of people seemed over the top.

  “Go. Go. Go—Fuck!” Jonah almost wrenched her arm from the socket as he swung her behind him, and they narrowly missing being squashed like bugs by a ton of flat slab as it peeled off the wall to their right.

  Callie gagged on the cement dust as Jonah choked out, “Keep moving.”

  Numb, she kept moving.

  His hair and wet suit were gray, powdered with cement dust. Bonded with the sweat on his face and neck, it had formed a paste to form deep rivulets of tanned skin beneath gritty streaks. The tight, prickly sensation of her skin told her she looked just as bad.

  Callie’s side burned like the fires of hell. Pressing her elbow into the wound, she prayed she wouldn’t pass out. Breathe. They had enough crap to deal with without Jonah having to carry her. Or maybe he was pissed off enough to leave her right where she fell. Both lousy options. Like a sore tooth, she explored the small hole in her wet suit with the tip of her finger as she ran. Oh, crap! That freaking hurt like nothing she’d felt before, but then she’d never been shot before. “Wow, lucky me, this whole trip has been a cornucopia of firsts.”

  “What?”

  He had ears like a bat. “I’m good.” Shocking, bright-red blood smeared her fingers; for a moment her steps faltered as black spots danced dizzyingly in front of her eyes. Scrubbing her hand on her upper thigh, she forged ahead. Wrapping on arm across her middle, she pressed her hand firmly against her side, hoping to hell it stopped the flow of blood.

  Passing out was. Not. An. Option.

  “There’s a door up ahead—¡Dios!” He jerked her against him. “Watch out for that!”

  “That” was a chunk of concrete the size of a car, with spikes of rusty metal sticking out of it like a kid’s Star Wars toy. It bounced twice, screeching metal joining crashing cement, before landing four feet away.

  Jonah guided her lagging feet around the obstacle, then resumed running, sure she’d stay with him. Only one of them had that kind of confidence in her stamina. And she wasn’t it. The layer of sweat between her skin and the neoprene made her itch. It stung as it ran into her eyes, making her eyeballs burn and water. And now the pain in her calf joined the sharp pain in her side.

  Through blurred vision she saw the huge metal door ahead and almost sobbed with relief. Whatever was behind that door couldn’t be worse than this.

  Jonah grabbed the ornate, wrought-iron handle. “Fucker better not be locked!”

  * * *

  It wasn’t locked. Jonah bust through the door, dragging Callie with him. Slamming it behind her, he took a moment to catch his breath. At least it was dead quiet. Gun in one hand, he braced his hands on his knees, head down, wheezing in clean air as his heartbeat slowed.

  The almost-silence on this side of the door throbbed in his ears. After several moments, he straightened to see how Callie was doing. “Good job back there—”

  His heart lurched. She lay on her back on the floor, spread out flat, eyes closed. She wasn’t dead. Her chest rose and fell erratically. Liberally covered in gray dust from her still-neat braid to her one water shoe, she breathed like a beached fish.

  Jonah did a visual inspection. Dust, sweat, a rip in the leg of her suit shone shiny. Blood. Fuck. She was hurt. “You going to make it?” His heart hammered. It was hard to remember just how pissed he was at her when she looked so vulnerable, and heartbreakingly beautiful, despite being covered in the dust.

  “I appreciate your concern,” she muttered sarcastically, not opening her eyes. “Other than a bullet hole, a gouged leg, exhaustion, dust inhalation, and terror, and probably a dislocated shoulder from being yanked around like a tug toy? I’m just awesome.”

  It took a second. “¡Dios, Callie!” Jonah dropped to his knees beside her, his side burning as if it were being eaten by fire ants. He ignored the discomfort. “You buried the fucking lead! Why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”

  “I was waiting for just the right moment.”

  A quick glance at her leg showed it was no longer bleeding. A gunshot took precedence. “Show me.”

  Without opening her eyes, she used her opposite hand to point to the small hole at her waist. Blood seeped out of it. Slowly, but seeping wasn’t good.

  For the first time, Jonah looked around to see where the fuck they were. Another computer room? What the hell was this place? Stark white—a clean room. Smaller than the other chamber and vastly different in appearance. This was filled with state-of-the-art, high-tech equipment from some futuristic movie.

  Everywhere he looked was a hard surface. All he had to stop the bleeding was his swimsuit or hers. Panic filled him. She could die right before his eyes, and he was helpless to stop it. He didn’t know where he was, or who else he was dealing with. He had one gun, six bullets, no clips. His fist wouldn’t stop a hail of bullets. Fucking hell.

  Gently he pulled down the zipper of her dust-encrusted wet suit. Her skin was pebbled from the chill in the room. Not good. “Talk to me.”

  “I begin my life, with the beginning of my life, I was born.”

  Easing the neoprene off one shoulder and then the other, he bared her to the waist. “You want to quote David Copperfield. Now?” Hard little nipples poked through the thin black nylon of her swimsuit. Cold was good to stop bleeding. That was, if not great news, news.

  He released the straps and peeled her out of the top half of her swimsuit to her w
aist. The wound was about two inches long, bleeding, but the edges had already crusted. Carefully he slid his hand under her to the small of her back, looking for an exit hole. He didn’t find one. Her skin felt sweaty and shockingly cold.

  There was too much going on to know if it was a graze, or if the bullet was in her. He went cold.

  Callie hissed as he carefully inspected the wound. “I love David Copperfield. I could probably quote quite a bit of it, if you like?”

  “Pass.” He had to clean the wound. She required stitches, antiseptic, bed rest. And if the bullet was still in her—surgery …

  “Can we talk about Rydell?”

  “Jesus, Callie—” Standing, he pulled down his own zipper, his fingers clumsy with speed and worry. The room was cold enough to cause goose bumps on his overheated skin. He peeled the wet suit off, then hooked his thumbs in the band of his swimsuit.

  “Can we talk about us, then?”

  He knelt beside her again. She still hadn’t opened her eyes. He wished to hell he knew more than basic first aid, because the loss of blood was going to put her in shock sooner than later and he had fuck-all to help her.

  Gently he lay his own wet suit over her. Better than nothing. “This is neither the time, nor the place.”

  Wadding up his cotton swim trunks, he gently pressed the fabric to her side. She hissed in another sharp breath.

  Shitfuckdamn. “Sorry.”

  Opening her eyes, she held his gaze and said softly, “Me, too.” Her expression lightened beneath the grime and sweat. “Oh, God, Jonah—”

  Shit. He scanned her face, checked the cloth over the wound. “What’s the matter?” What the fuck wasn’t the matter?

  “No matter where you are, you’re always naked.”

  For a second the fear leaked out of him. But it didn’t stay at bay long. “Callie, we have to find a way out of here. The room’s soundproof obviously. But there must be people about. I need to get you medical attention.”

  “I was just resting.” She used one hand to push her upper body off the floor, then sat there panting, legs outstretched, eyes closed, clutching his wet suit to her naked chest. “I’m good.” She looked at him and extended her hand. “Really. Help me up. I can walk.”

  Stubborn as hell. Precious as hell. What the fuck was he going to do about her? “I’ll carry you.”

  “I’ll walk,” she told him firmly as he lifted her to her feet, holding her around her shoulders until he was sure she was steady. “You need your gun hand free. Okay. That sounds insane. Your gun han—” She let out a huff of surprise, and her gaze skewed behind him, and her eyes went wide.

  Bare-ass naked, he spun toward the threat, gun raised.

  Three familiar black-robed men. Standing silently, ten feet away. “Kyrie Cutter, Doktōr West.” Achaikos Trakas’s greeting cut through Callie’s words.

  There’d been no indication of their presence. They’d appeared out of thin air, as if by magic. Or elevator.

  With Tall were Short and Medium. Trakas, Eliades, and Demetriou. Whatcha know.

  Jonah shifted Callie behind him. She said, “Excuse me?” in dire tones and moved to his side, his wet suit held flat against her chest to cover her nudity. Jonah tucked her against him, wrapping a supporting arm around her shoulders. She didn’t shake him off. In fact a fine tremble traveled through her body as shock set in. He held her more tightly, willing his body heat to warm her.

  She was half naked. He wanted a doctor, a hospital, IVs, and a herd of trained medical professionals.

  What he had was bare-ass naked, a wounded woman beside him, bad guys in front, and a gun out of fucking reach.

  The old men didn’t move from the dark opening behind them. The gates of hell, or an elevator to somewhere not buried beneath the ocean. Jonah figured he was game. Callie might be standing, but for all her bravado, her knees kept dipping, and it was only his implacable hold keeping her upright.

  Since they didn’t seem to be bothered by his nudity, Jonah wasn’t, either. “Dr. West’s been shot. She needs medical attention right away.”

  Eliades, his face shiny and flushed, extended a plump arm in invitation. “This way, Kyrie Cutter. We will take care of both of you.”

  “That sounds like a threat to me,” Callie said under her breath, echoing Jonah’s thoughts exactly.

  “Or they’re inviting us to tea,” he told her just as quietly, his tone Sahara-dry, not believing a word of it.

  Anything this elaborate, this expensive, this fucking secretive, was clearly worth killing for. What it had to do with cosmetics, or the price of tea in fucking China, Jonah had no idea.

  Tucking her wet suit up around her shoulders, he helped her stuff her arms into the sleeves, moving her backward by inches, until he touched the gun with his bare foot.

  The color drained from her face beneath the dust and grime, making his balls pinch to see her in such pain, but he got her covered and the zipper pulled up to her throat.

  “Your swimsuit…”

  He didn’t give a shit about his trunks—

  “Pick up the damn gun, Cutter!” she hissed under her breath, eyes hard.

  He scooped the gun and wad of black cloth up at the same time.

  She swayed, and, against her feeble protests, he scooped her up. She fit in his arms nicely. She adjusted the gun, concealed in the crumpled black cloth of his swimsuit on her lap.

  He strode over to the old guys. Short handed him a blanket. Among the three of them, the old man, Jonah, and Callie, they managed to wrap her in the scratchy wool and get her settled in his arms.

  As soon as they stepped into the glossy white box, overhead lights sprang on. Callie lay her head in the curve of his shoulder, sliding one arm around his neck. Her hold was weak. The three men, smelling a little of oregano and ancient dust crowded inside with them, and the elevator smoothly ascended. There was no control panel. No UP or DOWN button. No one had said a word. The elevator just moved on its own.

  “You better be taking us to whoever’s in charge, because we’re done with being shot at, running through miles of tunnels, and being cut off from our ship.”

  Take me to your leader.

  Someone must run this place, and that someone, please God, would be rational and sensible enough to allow him and Callie to leave. And he believed in unicorns. What he did know was that someone had used fucking overkill to prevent anyone from using the tunnel to the lava cave ever again. What must’ve taken decades, if not centuries, to build had been destroyed in less than an hour.

  Yeah, no. They wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Not unless he came up with a viable plan PDQ.

  As the elevator slowly rose, Jonah tried to figure out where the hell they were. The only place that made any sense was Fire Island. Right now, that was all he had to work with.

  Keeping his eye on Tall, he figured Trakas was in charge of this group. Between keeping half his attention on the men, and making a quick glance or two at Callie, his mind ran like a gerbil on a wheel.

  He presumed they’d pop up like rock rabbits in the small village, but that might not be the case at all. Logically, he figured they couldn’t be anywhere near Fire Island. The distances just didn’t match up. But since that’s all he had until further notice, Fire Island it was.

  Mentally he reviewed what he know of the island’s topography, the distance from the small village to the water. There were at least two boats there that he knew of. The old fishing vessel, and Anndra’s fancy Astondoa yacht. Either would do. Of course it would help if he had a fucking clue of his location right now.

  “The Guardians have been here for a millennium, Kyrie.” Eliades’s scalp shone pink beneath the spare white hairs of his comb-over. The lights in the ceiling shadowed his hangdog features, making his trout-like mouth appear grotesquely large. Like the others, his hands were folded inside his sleeves.

  “Did Guardians build this elaborate system of tunnels, and the tech labs, and the steps down to the water?”

 
; “Yes.” Trakas was apparently the spokesman Guardian for the group. “For millennia Guardians have maintained the tunnels, and updated the technology as necessary.”

  “Are the Guardians also responsible for precipitating the earthquakes?” Callie asked from beneath his chin. Jonah thought she’d dozed off. “Because that’s an incredibly dangerous thing to do intentionally. The tectonic plates—”

  “They know,” he murmured against her hair, and felt her jaw clench against his chest.

  Yeah, they knew.

  Trakas touched the wall beside him, and the elevator slowed, then glided to a stop. He turned hooded black eyes to Jonah as the door slid open soundlessly. “The system was designed to deter visitors.”

  No shit. “Effective, but not good for stock growth, shaking your own facility to ruins, is it?” He followed the tall black-garbed man and was in turn followed by Small and Medium.

  A short, brightly lit, cement-lined corridor led to a small room. It looked like a storeroom, with piles of crates stacked neatly along one wall. But it was now set up as a medical facility. Other than the boxes, it gave the appearance of any modern, well-equipped doctor’s exam room. A high, cloth-covered table, lights, instruments on a tray. Small vials of God knew what.

  His arms tightened around Callie. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want Callie there. He reminded himself to be careful what he wished for, because this was it, and seeing all those sharp instruments, and these three old guys, made his heart pound and his scrotum contract.

  “Place her here, Mr. Cutter.” Trakas motioned the draped table with his lantern jaw. “Eliades is a medical doctor. Doktōr West has been shot. Her leg cut by ancient, rusted construction materials. You, too, are injured. Both of you must be attended to immediately. Questions must wait.”

  * * *

  “No. Questions cannot wait.” She’d rather start digging the bullet out herself than let any of these old men use their shiny instruments on her. Nothing was happening until she got some goddamn answers. And just because she was being told the guy was a medical doctor didn’t mean it was true. Eliades was so fat he could barely toddle, let alone wield a sharp instrument.