The Killing Game

by Anderson, Toni

  Taz and Baxter looked at one another.

  “I’m not even on duty,” Baxter said, glancing at his watch.

  “And I need to get some jumps in.” Taz nodded to the parachute school. “Might as well start now.”

  “You could be RTU’d if this blows up in our faces. I’m not worth that sort of sacrifice.” But Axelle was. She was worth it to him anyway. Dempsey felt his throat close.

  Taz stared at him coolly. “You underestimate yourself, Sergeant.”

  Baxter screeched to a halt outside a spare looking hangar. “Come on, let’s get going, ladies.”

  Dempsey ran after them. These guys were his family. Not the screwed-up bunch he’d left behind in Ulster. Two minutes of fast talking persuaded the guy in charge of the jump school to do what they wanted—and then he got into it. He already had a plane on runaway. They packed chutes, jumped in and Dempsey called Cullen during takeoff to give them the latest situation report.

  “We’ve finally got eyes on Jonathon Boyle,” Cullen told him. “He’s got a nice little yacht heading east at a speed of about twenty knots. There is a lot of traffic in the Channel today, boys and girls.”

  Dempsey wrote it on the map they’d borrowed from their pilot and new jumpmaster.

  “Any sign of Axelle?” He held his breath. It was possible that Jonathon Boyle had somehow taken Axelle’s phone with him. Maybe even accidentally. Maybe Axelle had planted it on him as a tracking device—except where the hell was she?

  “No, but thermal imaging suggests there’s another person below deck.”

  Boyle might not know his cover was blown and he might just be out on a jaunt. But he’d have to have heard the report that Volkov’s family had requested political asylum in Paris. Dempsey figured the guy would try to leg it with the new specs on Britain’s defense systems lodged safely in his head, but he and his squad weren’t about to let that happen. Especially if Axelle was in danger.

  “We’re in position to intercept. Where are the other teams?” Dempsey asked Cullen.

  He heard him talking to someone in the background. “Still en route. Nice wings, Sergeant.”

  Dempsey gave a grim smile. He should have known they’d find him. Hell, he had known it—they still had their cell phones. “Are we going to run into another op if we try to gain access to the target’s boat?”

  “Negative. They are about thirty minutes behind you. All radio and satellite signals in that area have been blocked, which is creating a frickin’ nightmare in the shipping lanes and means I’m going to lose you in the next five minutes. You’ll be on your own. They’ve scrambled jets from RAF Marham, and they will blow his ass out of the water rather than let him make contact with another vessel. They will commit an act of war to stop him if necessary.”

  His heart stopped for a moment. Tornadoes were armed with Storm Shadow cruise missiles. “Axelle…” Christ, he could even speak.

  “Your mission—should you choose to accept it—is to capture the target before he gets to international waters. The Tornadoes are on standby and will be only be minutes behind you. Don’t fuck this up.”

  Shit.

  Again Axelle’s life was being considered acceptable collateral damage, the way all those innocent shoppers had been when his brothers had planted that final bomb. He ground his teeth together. He might have swapped one set of ruthless killers for another, but there was no way on Hell’s earth he was letting Axelle get caught in the crossfire this time.

  He checked his weapon and harness. Jonathon Boyle could start a war between the UK and Russia, and there was no way the Yanks would stand back and watch. Dempsey didn’t fancy being responsible for World War III.

  They were approaching the drop zone, but this plan wasn’t going to work. If Boyle had a weapon, and he had to assume the man had a gun, they’d be sitting ducks.

  Dempsey scouted the scene below him. Boyle’s boat was a speck in the distance. There was a big-ass cruiser about half a mile away. He tapped Taz on the shoulder. “Change of plan.” He pointed toward the cruiser, which had enough power to catch the small yacht—assuming the owner didn’t mind being hijacked. However, national security trumped most things and, more important, Axelle’s life was in danger. He went over to the pilot. “We’re going to jump here. I want you to put out a banner and do a few circles ahead in the distance. Then go home.” The co-pilot nodded. “I’ll be by to pay you for the ride as soon as I get the chance, mate.”

  They stood at the door, and he felt that instantaneous and instinctive “oh, fuck” feeling shoot through him as he stepped clear of the aircraft. The wind hit him, the fierce roar of air as he fell through the sky, then the savage jerk on the harness as the primary chute deployed. He maneuvered, watched the deck of the cruiser get closer and closer. The captain was craning his neck to watch him, amused at first. Dempsey saw the expression change to horror as he swung the canopy toward the polished wood. He landed on the deck with a gentle hop. Dumped the silk so Taz and Baxter could get on board.

  He strode to the pale, scrawny skipper who stood there openmouthed. “Where are you from?”

  “P-P-P-Plymouth.”

  “Sergeant Dempsey, British Army.” Shook his hand. “I need to borrow your boat.”

  There was a thud, followed by the swish of fabric. Then another thud and a curse as Baxter caught the railing and almost went airborne again. Taz grabbed him and disengaged the chute with a whack.

  The captain looked undecided as to whether he should scream for help or jump up and down with excitement. Dempsey went to the steering wheel and opened her up. Jesus this thing could shift. The skip dragged himself to stand next to him at the wheel. “Are you a pirate? Have I been boarded?”

  Dempsey grinned. “No, mate. I’m SAS. If we’re successful you’ll earn yourself a bloody knighthood. We’re after a Russian spy.” He probably shouldn’t be saying anything, but what the hell.

  The man collapsed into his plush leather chair. “James Bond.” Dempsey raised a brow. “I’ve landed smack bang in the middle of the boat chase in a Bond movie.”

  Dempsey nodded. “Only problem is these bullets are real. I hope you’ve got insurance?”

  The man’s eyes bugged. “Yes, but I don’t know if I’m covered for this sort of thing.”

  “We need you to come with us,” Taz told the skip. They couldn’t afford to have an unknown wandering around during an operation. Hopefully they didn’t sink the boat and drown the poor bastard as he lay tied up in the stateroom.

  “Get me something to wear that doesn’t scream army, Taz,” Dempsey shouted.

  Two minutes later Taz came back wearing a yellow flowery shirt that made him look like he should be tanning in the med.

  He handed Dempsey a white shirt with red poppies on it. “Christ, it looks like I’ve already been shot.” He slipped into the shirt that barely went over his shoulders. Baxter had gone with a super-tight light blue T-shirt. Dempsey grabbed the hat off the console. A black sailor number. He slipped on his sunglasses, figured they could audition for Glee if their soldiering careers didn’t pan out.

  They checked their ammo. They had carbines and handguns but limited ammo, which was a pain in the ass. They’d been guarding Volkov for the handover, not preparing for an op.

  They sped easily past the yacht even though it had all its sails out. Dempsey raised his hand in casual salute as Boyle glared at him because of the wake they were generating. He noted the man slid a hand under the cushion to his right before Dempsey throttled hard on the gas and left the yacht in his wake. No sign of Axelle. “Take over, Baxter.”

  Dempsey slipped out of the shirt and got into position on the starboard side of the boat. Then, Baxter slid the cruiser in front of the yacht and Dempsey peeled over the side and into the water, disappearing from sight.

  ***

  Axelle lay in the cramped bunk with her hands and ankles tied. Again. En route to Russia like a goddamned sack of corn. She was sick of being treated like a tradable commodity.<
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  Her grandfather had gone nuts, and here she was like some floundering worm trying to get off the hook. Unable to move, unable to talk, unable to make her own decisions. And a man who’d claimed to love her had done this to her.

  This wasn’t love.

  Just because he was related by blood didn’t give him the right to tell her what to do.

  She was hit by sudden blinding insight. Love didn’t give you the right to tell someone else what to do with their lives. Gideon had had every right to go off and join the army and fight for his country. She swallowed emotion because she’d tried to take that right away from him, and they’d been angry with each other at the end, blaming each other for choices they’d made. He’d died with that black emotion swirling between them. No wonder she couldn’t forgive herself. She’d been wrong.

  And what about Dempsey?

  She lay still as her heart jolted. She’d retreated so rapidly from him when he’d told her to get on that chopper, when all she’d really wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and plunge into the unknown. Why had she done that? Why had she run from that wondrous potential?

  Because she’d been scared.

  Scared of getting involved.

  Scared of being hurt, again.

  Which made her a yellow-bellied coward.

  An image of Ty Dempsey’s smile flashed across her mind. It was an impossible relationship to contemplate, but she remembered following him through that mountain. It was as if the sheer terror of that experience wiped her senses clean, rebooted her emotions, and gave her the chance of a do-over. The idea of having a relationship with anyone terrified her; the thought of loving a soldier almost paralyzed her. But she wanted to at least see where it led. Life was too short to not follow your heart.

  She’d always considered herself fearless, but she’d been kidding herself. Of course, Dempsey might not be even vaguely interested. The thought made her mouth go dry. She wasn’t a good bet. She was going to have to polish her communication skills and try and open up about her feelings. The thought made her nauseous. Then she remembered Dempsey was a guy and grinned. He wasn’t big on idle chatter. Maybe they could explore whatever it was between them without having to spill every sordid detail. They could just rip each other’s clothes off instead.

  She stuck her tongue against the duct tape on her lips. It pulled at the delicate skin and did nothing to get rid of the obstruction. Dammit. She wasn’t lying here trussed like a stuffed pig, letting her delusional grandfather dictate how she lived her life. She rubbed her face against the rough carpet. At first the smooth tape slid over the fibrous material but then she stuck her tongue in her cheek and worked on loosening one corner. It took a couple of tries to get the first edge loose, but then the material peeled back from her chin and she worked her jaw until it dangled uselessly from one side of her face.

  Okay. First obstacle removed.

  She used her teeth on the tape on her wrists. It was tough but the key with duct tape was getting it to rip in the right direction. It didn’t take long. After that her ankles were a piece of cake, but she kept noise to a minimum and planned her next move. The portholes could be opened but no way would her hips fit through that gap this side of puberty. She glanced at the steps. There was only one way out of here. She drew in a breath that pushed against the sides of her lungs. It involved going past the man who’d lied to her and everyone else who’d known him for his entire life.

  Damn, she faced predators every day—she shouldn’t be scared, but this was different. This was a man she’d always loved. She spotted her bag and grabbed her cell phone. She turned it on but couldn’t access her messages or get a signal. She stared around the room, carefully opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found some kitchen cleaner. Not deadly but a drop in the eye might put his aim off. She swallowed the knot in her throat. He had a pistol and was desperate enough to use it.

  Then she spotted a flare gun on the wall and grabbed it. The boat changed direction suddenly and she fell hard against the wall. Crap.

  She forced herself to her feet despite the momentum that wanted to push her down and keep her there. She checked the instructions and saw it was a simple device, and braced herself on the bottom of the stairs. She needed a diversion. She aimed at the main sail from the bottom of the stairs and released it with a sharp jerk of her hand. The firework slammed hard into the canvas and it burst into flames. She was already up the stairs and running for the side of the boat when her foot caught on a rope and she pitched headlong to the deck. Her grandfather grabbed her ankle.

  “You fool. What have you done?”

  Axelle looked up. The fire had gone out almost immediately but the sail hung in damaged strips and clearly wouldn’t take them anywhere. However, the boat had a motor so they weren’t exactly out of commission. She looked toward the mainland and swallowed. It was a long way. France was closer. She braced herself.

  His fingers tightened painfully. “I’m going to give you everything you could ever wish for—don’t you understand?”

  “I already have everything I want, Gramps. Except my freedom.”

  He let her go, looked uncertain. “I thought you’d want this…”

  “No, you didn’t.” She rolled onto her back and looked at the old man, compassion moving through her. “You wanted someone to keep you company and applaud your brilliance.” She clapped her hands. “No doubt about it, you had everyone fooled.”

  His eyes slitted and he reached for his gun. “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “No. You are.”

  The voice came out of nowhere and there stood Tyrone Dempsey, soaking wet and bristling with attitude. His eyes were cold and hard but she knew he’d risked his life for her—again.

  She loved this guy.

  “Get away from Axelle and put your hands in the air.”

  Jonathon started to obey when a whoosh of water grabbed all their attention. A submarine surfaced nearby, and a man poked out of the turret holding a big gun. Axelle swung her gaze to Dempsey, mutely asking the question “One of yours?” But he was already launching himself across the deck, picking her up bodily, diving through the air, which was answer enough. Gunfire whipped above their heads as they smacked forcefully into the sea. Frigid cold blasted billions of neurons as they went under. Shock had her sucking in a mouthful of water. A huge wave smashed into them, tearing his fingers from her arms, ripping them apart. Wet clothes clung to her skin, the weight dragging her down. Her movements were awkward and slow. Her lungs squeezed painfully, hungry for oxygen. She twisted in a circle, disorientated. The familiar feeling of panic started to build, stretching her nerves to snapping point.

  Dempsey reached down and grabbed her wrist; the expression on his face showing a cool competence even in this extreme life-or-death situation. Relief swept through her and they kicked to the surface together.

  That first guttural breath felt like heaven as her lungs filled. Her throat was raw from swallowing salt water. She coughed and choked as another wave broke over her head.

  Dempsey held her tightly, as if he was never going to let her go. Relief was short-lived as bullets sprayed the water—so close they splashed Axelle’s face. Her stomach clenched as another wave swept them further away from the deadly salvo.

  “Swim!” Dempsey urged.

  Her grandfather was shouting. “Comrade, I have the information.”

  “He’s trying to escape to Russia. You can’t let him get away.” Axelle tried to kick her numb limbs.

  “That’s a Russian sub with soldiers firing live rounds.” Dempsey’s hands tightened on her shoulders, his eyes grim. “We need to keep swimming.”

  More bullets peppered the water in their wake. “But he can’t get away—”

  “Don’t worry. Just swim!”

  Axelle’s arms ached from the effort of raising them out the water. Shivers wracked her body. They struggled to make progress against the powerful current. Every time a gun fired she flinched, bracing for pain,
worried about Dempsey who was trying to shield her with his body. If anything happened to him she’d never be able to live with herself. She dug for courage and energy as she clawed her way through the water.

  A huge cruiser nosed slowly toward them. She recognized Taz and Baxter shooting at the sub, drawing fire. Her grandfather began to climb the ladder of the huge gray submersible. No one was firing at them anymore. They seemed to be out of range, but they didn’t stop swimming.

  “Are you all right?” Dempsey’s voice was gruff in her ear.

  Her teeth chattered. “I am now. How did you find me?”

  Emotion charged through his eyes. “We tracked your cell phone.” His face was stark as she started into the crystalline blue eyes of the man she loved. A smile creased his cheek. “I’m sorry I sent you away.”

  “You didn’t have a choice.” She spat out a mouthful of salt water, hardly romantic, but possibly more authentic. This was who she was. Not exactly a delicate flower.

  Waves bobbed them up and down as the gun battle abruptly ended and the hatch on the submarine slammed shut with a metal clang. The cruiser zipped their way and Taz reached down and hauled her out of the water. In the frigid air she stood shuddering, watching the rapid whoosh of water as the Russian sub started to slide beneath the waves.

  “My grandfather can’t get away—”

  Strong hands pressed her into a plush leather seat as Baxter opened up the throttle and the boat started tearing through the water away from the yacht. The sudden scream of aircraft split the air. First one jet, then another, released missiles headed toward where the sub had gone down. Horror shot through her and her hand went to her mouth. Then the heat and blast of a massive explosion buffeted them. Smoke billowed from the crippled metal wreckage. Splintered pieces of yacht burned across the surface of the water.

  The jets looped away with an arrogant flourish. Tears filled her eyes.

  Her grandfather had probably just died. Grief welled inside. No matter his treason, he’d always been kind to her. He’d taught her to play chess and had made time for her when her father had been too busy. Perhaps it had been an act, but it had felt real. She’d loved him.