Fuck a duck. “A-apocalypse?”
She simply raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
“Oh, God,” Oliver muttered.
“Could not be further from the truth.”
A terrible taste filled Oliver’s mouth. “When you say fight with us, the us would be….”
“Hell.” Her eyes glittered.
“Ah,” Oliver said. “Hell.”
She flashed him a dimple, her bigger-than-life persona back in place. “You had to know your little side dish of ‘fruit salad’ would have ramifications beyond your pathetic, human lives, sugar.”
“No.” Oliver narrowed his gaze. “I don’t think I had to know that.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Well, consider yourself informed.”
A door opened behind Oliver, and he heard the rumble of Luke’s voice. Sheer panic flashed across the woman’s face. Oliver had no more time to consider such a weird occurrence than she vanished.
Completely disappeared.
He blinked at the spot in the hallway where she had just stood, and then the magnitude of what had just happened hit Oliver all at once in a massive surge of adrenaline. He spun around, facing the doorway to the room where he’d just blithely been discussing ordinary life with his friends. His panic must have shown on his face, because when Luke and Anahita stepped into the hallway, they paused as soon as they looked at him.
Luke surged forward. “What happened?” His brown eyes scanned Oliver as though he were checking for injuries.
Oliver held up a hand, and Luke stopped moving. “We’ve….” Oliver cleared his throat. “I think we’ve started the apocalypse.”
6
Stealing was like riding a bicycle.
Well, Farrah assumed. She’d never had the luxury of learning to ride a bicycle, but she’d heard the expression before.
She didn’t have much time, but after performing her morning prayers—who knew what time it actually was here—she took a few necessary minutes to familiarize herself with Oliver’s quarters. The rooms were small, but they were, blessedly, uncluttered with superfluous furniture. She’d only dashed her shins upon a low table that stood in front of a leather couch. Oliver’s small apartment consisted of a living area with seating, a kitchen with cool stone for the countertops, and a bedroom. With a large—very large—bed. A bed that did nothing but conjure images in her mind of Oliver sharing it with someone. Images that made her slightly sick to her stomach, which then only angered her more. She had to coach herself repeatedly that she did not care who Oliver shared his big, comfortable bed with, so long as it was not her.
As she explored, she pocketed the small knick-knacks that felt valuable. Things she could trade that may help her advance her journey. This led to her discovery that Oliver was not much of a decorator. She’d worried at first that she wouldn’t have enough room to carry everything of value. Her pockets were more than adequate for her bounty: one small statue that was made from some sort of metal and a leather wallet.
She traced the edges of Oliver’s rooms with one hand; with the other, she ran a circle over the stamped letters on the corner of Oliver’s wallet, where it lay in her pocket until the leather grew warm beneath her touch.
Her breathing was shallow, and this was also out of necessity. Oliver’s scent permeated the entire apartment. Each time she took it into her body, she swayed a little, and by the time she was drawing such small breaths that she was growing a touch dizzy from lack of oxygen, she was so peeved at the man that she was more than ready to hurt him in any way imaginable.
“Kidnap me and then make me want you,” she muttered beneath her breath. “How dare you!”
What does he want in return? What does he want in return?
She repeated the question in her mind over and over to regain her focus. If her calculations were correct, she would run into the door of Oliver’s quarters in….
Her fingers brushed cool, curved metal. A broad grin spread over Farrah’s lips, and she patted the lumpy statue in her pocket—hopefully his favorite—before turning the doorknob and slipping from the apartment.
The sounds of that giant room Max led her through came from her right, and Farrah shrank back against the door, her heart tripping over itself as it sped up. Her hijab lay coiled around her neck and shoulders, and she so desperately wanted to pull it over her hair. To hide behind it.
But if her kidnappers could be believed, she was in America, and she would draw more attention with her head covered than with it not.
She could do this. She would do this. What was the worst they could do to her in retaliation? Kidnap her? Take her away from her chance to find her mother?
Farrah huffed, straightened her shoulders, and turned toward the sound of organized chaos.
She took her first steps toward freedom. The trick was to look as though she knew where she was going and what she was doing. And she must never betray that she was blind.
There were twenty steps from Oliver’s door to the main room of the…compound? She was having a hard time placing this facility in her mind. The kidnappers spoke as though they were military. There were desks. Medical facilities and barracks. Compound seemed as good a description as any.
Farrah silently counted the steps while fisting her hands in her pockets to keep fingers from trailing along the walls. She didn’t need to, no matter how much better it would make her feel, and the move was a dead giveaway to her condition.
On step twenty, Farrah paused. She couldn’t help it. She was, again, bowled over by the vastness of this main room. The sweeping breezes. The cacophonous voices.
Her brow furrowed at a particular sound. She’d heard it when Max walked her through only minutes ago, but she refused to believe it then, and she refused to believe it now. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that she could hear the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves of trees. Massive trees. Indoors.
Her curiosity was piqued, but she had no time. No one stopped her to talk to her or question her presence, but the longer she stood here like a simpleton, the more likely such an occurrence was to happen.
Max had led her to Oliver’s rooms from a hallway—the medical rooms—that lay directly across from where Farrah stood now. She would definitely not go in that direction. She needed a door out, and since she didn’t know where one was, she would have to find one.
She nibbled on her bottom lip, her thumb stroking Oliver’s wallet once more.
Right. She would go right first. If she hit a dead-end, she would simply return. All would be well.
Despite the fact that nothing had ever gone well before.
The sound of two feminine voices approaching set Farrah into motion. She ducked her head and began walking right. The women walked right past Farrah, too involved in their discussion of breastfeeding to notice a stranger.
Women? Breastfeeding?
It didn’t—any of it—make sense. What was this place? Farrah only made it a few steps before her hip and shoulder brushed against a wall so smooth it had to be glass.
But, I was walking a straight line….
Curved. The massive room with trees of all things, was curved glass. A smart guess would be that it was a dome.
She wouldn’t have to backtrack. She could walk along the dome until she found a door. It was her first stroke of luck since Ibrahim contacted her to tell her he had heard word of her mother. Two good things in a relatively short amount of time. Perhaps Farrah’s tide was turning. Of course, those two good things were bifurcated by a kidnapping….
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a young, male voice said. “Do you need any help?”
Farrah froze. Curse it all. In her distraction, she had begun to trail her fingers along the glass. And now she had drawn attention to herself.
Farrah cleared her throat. As soon as she spoke, she would draw more attention to herself. Her accent was far different from the flat tones of the man who addressed her. Perhaps she could just…. Farrah shook her head nonchalantly. She di
d not need help.
“I’m sorry to ask, ma’am, but can I see your visitor’s pass?”
She didn’t know what a visitor’s pass was, but she could guess that it marked the official end of her escape.
At that precise moment, a new breeze brushed across Farrah’s cheek. It was accompanied by the hiss and whine of a mechanized door.
A door!
It was just there. To the right. Freedom.
How to get there? Her brow furrowed. This man before her seemed pretty insistent, his questions about her pass droning on and on. What were the chances she could escape him without some sort of physical altercation?
And then he sealed his fate.
She jumped as the man gripped her forearm. Less than a heartbeat later, she rotated her arm, changing position with him so that she now gripped his forearm, and she heaved her weight forward and then back. Her success at the flip was announced by his startled gasp and the sound of his back slamming the floor.
No time to spare.
The door was mere feet away. Farrah took off at a sprint, knowing her attack of the man at her feet would not go unnoticed.
“Stop!” someone bellowed, the order punctuated by the flap of heavy boots on tile.
Her breath left her in a whoosh as someone tackled her from behind. She threw her arms out just in time to catch herself before grinding her face against the ground, but she cried out as her knees cracked against the unforgiving stone. White hot pain flashed up Farrah’s body, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of pausing to recoup. She flipped over as violently as she could manage, swapping the position she held with her attacker until Farrah was on top. She didn’t take the time to defeat her foe further; the prize lay just ahead. She scrambled off of the man’s chest and launched herself toward where she remembered the door being.
“The alarm!” someone shouted.
Just as Farrah’s hands slapped the cool glass and metal of the door she’d been aiming for, an ear-splitting siren rent the air. It startled her into paralysis for just a moment too long. Arms banded about her upper body, pinning her elbows to her side, thwarting all plans for escape.
“No!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. She had to get out. She had to!
Farrah shook off the last of her restraint and started to fight as dirty as she knew how.
***
“The apocalypse?”
Oliver sat at the head of the table in the conference room. He was surrounded by his friends and fellow soldiers, and all of them—Eli, Jericho, Luke, and Max—looked like they had been hit in the face with boards of varying sizes.
Anahita and Jayden looked resolute and resigned, a fact Eli picked up on. “You’re not surprised by this, are you?” Eli asked the two angels—one Fallen, one the head of the Warriors.
Anahita opened her mouth to speak, but Jayden cut her off, holding out his hand before her in a sign to stand down. “It is not for the reasons you think.”
“Enlighten us,” Max grated from between clenched teeth.
Jayden’s green eyes focused on Anahita’s Ward and lover. “This is not the first near-apocalypse to strike your world. We are simply not surprised that the demons would take the angels’ little…disagreement in this direction.”
“Hate to point out the obvious,” Oliver drummed his fingers on the glossy wooden table, “but all-out war is not a disagreement.”
Jayden bowed his head in acknowledgement but said nothing. In fact, the Fallen angel looked physically ill. His normal vibrant, Middle-Eastern coloring was gone; he was pale and…was he sweating?
“What answer will you give the demon?” Anahita said, drawing everyone’s attention to her.
Luke laughed without humor. “You must be kidding.”
“I have learned not to assume,” Anahita said.
“We’re not allying with a bunch of demons!” Luke shouted, leaning forward in his seat, punctuating his outburst with a fist slam to the tabletop. A pencil cup jumped up from the impact and tipped over, sending pencils rolling everywhere.
Everyone in the room froze.
“Whoa,” Oliver said under his breath.
Luke had never, in all of his years of imprisonment and shitty life turns, raised his voice to any of them. And he had certainly never erupted in violence, hitting something simply because he was angry.
“Okay—” Jericho began, spreading his hands wide in front of him.
Luke cut him off. “If you,” he paused to sweep his pointing finger across them all, “any of you, so much as consider this…pact with Hell, I’m out of here. Gone without a word or a backwards glance.”
Everyone straightened, and several mouths opened at once, but it was Oliver’s quiet voice that cut through. “Of course we aren’t going to ally with Hell,” Oliver whispered. “Luke.” He waited until the man looked at him before continuing. “You know we wouldn’t do that.”
Luke’s anger seemed to deflate before their eyes. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I know that.” His eyes clenched tight. “I know that.” The cross tattoo on the inside of Luke’s forearm rippled as the man moved his hand from the bridge of his nose to the back of his neck, rubbing sheepishly. “I’m sor—”
An alarm burst through the air.
Without a word, all of them leapt from their chairs in instant soldier mode.
A mechanized voice came over the facility intercom: “Code silver.”
The medical code for hostile intruder.
“Shit,” Max muttered, charging for the door with all of them in his wake.
“Get the children,” Jayden barked once they’d reached the hallway. Eli and Jericho didn’t need to be told twice, both men breaking into a sprint and heading toward the living quarters’ wing. The rest of them broke off and headed to the main room.
A noise burst from Oliver’s mouth as he gained enough speed to bypass all of the others. My mate. Where is she? He was just getting ready to follow Eli and Jericho to the wing that contained his apartment when he heard a feminine grunt from just ahead in the main room.
“Oh, no,” he muttered, slowing down instinctually. The others rushed past him and froze as soon as they stepped into the main dome.
“The hostile intruder is her, isn’t it?” he asked their backs.
“Hot damn,” Max said with an appreciative tone Oliver didn’t like.
Oliver sighed and shoved past the gawkers, taking the time to smack Max in the back of his head as he passed.
“Hey!” his friend protested.
As soon as he caught sight of her, his own sense of awe filled him. God, but his woman could fight. She was over by the main door—a fact that made Oliver’s heart trip a bit—and four, no five writhing bodies lay strewn about her, and she was about to add one more to their ranks.
“She can absolutely fight with us,” Anahita whispered.
Oliver found himself having to swallow. He was salivating. Over this vixen who was ruining his life. With a groan, he began walking toward her and her slain enemies. “I’ll handle it.”
And then the guy she was fighting finally got a hit in: an elbow to the face.
Oliver’s world blanked.
The next thing he knew, he was standing between his mate and her attacker. His hand was wrapped around the guy’s throat, and he used it to haul him in and crash his head against the bastard’s nose.
The man dropped with a groan. When Oliver looked up, two more men in military uniforms were standing by, crouched with arms out, not seeming to know what to do next.
Oliver pointed at them. “You stay the fuck where you are.”
His mate was panting behind him, and he was close enough to her that he could feel her heavy breaths drift across the back of his neck. Goosebumps broke out all over his body. Without taking his eyes from the two men ready to attack her, he asked, “Did these men touch you?”
She sucked in a breath. After a pause, she said, “Yes.”
“And you hurt them?”
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
Good. He didn’t pause to analyze the inappropriate response. “Well, it’s your lucky day,” he said to them as they struggled to their feet. “She took care of you so I don’t have to.”
He could feel the confusion radiating off of the woman at his back. It was an emotion they currently shared.
“Do you…,” a young recruit began. “I mean, you know her? She’s allowed to be here?”
Oliver straightened his shoulders. “She’s my….” He drifted off. So many ways to finish that sentence. She’s my mate. My pain in the ass. My beautiful fucking executioner. “She’s my…problem,” he settled on finally. “You are never to touch her, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” several of them said at once.
Oliver turned on his woman. She was blinking up at him, her eyes not seeing him, and her proximity to the facility exit sent him into another panic. “You’re coming with me.”
Her expression immediately turned obstinate. “Never.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin out, a move that only seemed to put her mouth on even more brilliant display.
Oliver groaned. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard way.”
He bent forward and scooped her up into his arms and against his chest.
Her gasp of outrage was the calm before the storm. As Oliver took off toward their quarters, she began squirming like a hellcat. She squirmed so much, Oliver worried that he might drop her. “Woman!”
Her scowl only turned fiercer, and she began throwing elbows. With a sigh, Oliver threw her over his shoulder fireman-style. He clamped his arm across the back of her thighs and dodged her kicks as he walked—faster now—through the apartment wing.
Something in the pockets of her tunic dug into his sternum. With a grimace, Oliver shifted her weight and slipped his free hand into one of those pockets, his fingers encountering two things that Oliver yanked free before settling her into place again.
Of Blind Fate (Operation: Middle of the Garden Book 5) Page 5