by L. L. Muir
Shawn is still alive!
But there was no way he could follow soon enough to save them. She was just going to have to handle that herself.
Time to dig down deep.
But instead of asking herself what Morty would do, or what Keefer would do, she stopped using them as a crutch and asked, what would clever Macey McDaniels do? She was writing this story, not Mortimer Coffee. And she was the main character, not Keefer Boone. And Atticus/Shawn had to be written out of the scene.
She knocked quietly on Dorothy Jean’s door and pushed it open. The woman was sitting up in one of two chairs at the foot of the bed, watching a movie with headphones on. The bed lay behind her, untouched. When she saw Macey, she pulled off the headphones and motioned for her to shut the door behind her. Then she patted the seat next to her.
Macey sat. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
Dorothy Jean leaned toward her. “I’ve been peeking out the door. Shawn’s not with us, is he?”
“No. He’s not.”
“Is he dead?” Dorothy Jean’s eyes were wet, but fierce.
Macey shook her head quickly. “I’m pretty sure Dave arranged to have him let go, but when we took off, he was still being detained.” She explained what happened in the hangar as gently as she could, but it seemed like Dorothy Jean had most of it figured out long before Macey did.
Dorothy Jean slowly shook her head from side to side. “Shawn was right not to trust him. Dave was far too cheerful for the shit storm we were standing in.”
Macey took a deep breath and prepared to tell Dorothy Jean the hard part.
“What is it, honey? Spit it out. I can take it.”
Macey smiled. “I believe you can handle just about anything.”
“Must be bad news.”
“Maybe. I’m not so sure.” She told her what David said about adrenaline possibly killing her.
“Horse pee.” Dorothy Jean snorted. “I would’ve been dead by now.”
“That’s what I thought. Either they’re wrong about the adrenaline’s effect on the microchip, or it just doesn’t affect you the way it does the rest. Maybe you’ve got a tougher chip in your head. There’s no way to know. But whatever it is, it means they believe something we know isn’t true. They think you’re fragile. I think we can take advantage of that.”
Dorothy Jean grinned. “What do I do?”
***
Macey flung the cabin door open and looked frantically for Dave. He was standing just outside the cockpit with a drink in his hand. When he saw the look on her face, he set the glass down quickly and hurried to her.
“What is it?”
“Where is that tranquilizer you were talking about? She’s breathing funny. I guess she’s been peeking out the door. She knows Shawn’s not aboard. I told her he’s alive, but she won’t believe me.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go in there alone!” He ran back to his seat, pulled a black zipper bag from beside it, then hurried back.
She backed up and let him pass her. “She was already upset! I thought I could calm her down, but I couldn’t.”
Kofford was on his feet but unsure what to do. She turned and followed Dave, filling the door for a moment so Kofford would think there wasn’t room for him anyway. While Dave pulled open his pack and split his attention between Dorothy Jean’s distressed face and the syringe he was trying to fill, Macey stepped inside and let the door close slowly behind her.
Dorothy Jean’s eyes widened and she whipped her head back and forth. “I can’t stand needles. Too many needles! I won’t have it.”
“Hold her down,” Dave said softly. By the look on his face, he really was worried about the woman, but was he sorry she was frightened? Or worried Lacrosse would make him pay if he failed?
Macey shook her head. “I don’t think I can. She’s wiry. But I can give her the shot if you can hold her still.”
He closed his eyes for a second. “Fine. Here.” He handed over the full syringe.
“Are you sure this will be enough?”
He gave a brisk nod. “It’s the dose they told me. It will knock her out quickly.”
“How long will it last?”
“Only an hour or two. We’ve got plenty. We can dose her again before we land.”
“I won’t have it,” Dorothy Jean wailed.
“It needs to go in her butt. That’s the safest.” He gently wrapped his arms around the woman just beneath her arms, and pulled her up out of her chair. He held her still. “Do it.”
Instinct probably kept him from dropping Dorothy Jean when Macey jabbed the needle into his shoulder. She had plenty of time to push the plunger and grab the gun from behind his back before he could lower the woman into her chair.
“Babe!” That look of terror returned, but it slowly slid away with the effects of the shot.
She pointed the gun at his chest and backed up so he couldn’t knock it sideways. “Please don’t babe me, babe. I was never your babe.”
His eyes started to roll skyward. “Don’t…” was all he could get out.
“I suggest aiming for the bed,” she said.
Dorothy Jean grabbed his arm, tugged him around the chair and got him headed in the right direction. His torso landed on the thin mattress then slid to the floor with little sound.
Lacrosse was going to be pissed, all right. And Macey would have felt much worse about what the man might do to Dave if he hadn’t planned on serving her to the monster himself.
She pitied Dave, of course. He’d been a good guy with good intentions. It had pulled at her heartstrings when he, too, had added the half when she’d mentioned the five months he watched over Dorothy Jean. And when she thought about it, maybe the only thing that separated him from Shawn was the fact that Dave had a sister who needed saving. But somehow she doubted Shawn would have gone about saving anyone in quite the same way.
Dorothy Jean grinned and held out a set of red, padded manacles.
Macey chuckled. “Where did you find those?”
“In the cabinet over the bed. Don’t look. There are some pretty disturbing things in there. It was almost enough to give me heart palpitations. Four sets. Big enough for ankles. I don’t think this cabin was intended for sleeping.”
Macey took half a second to congratulate herself on achieving the first goal of getting a hold of Dave's gun. She'd also managed to bring Dorothy Jean into the loop without the woman's head exploding, so that was another win.
Only four more hurdles left. And if she didn't screw up, maybe her heart could take a rest for a while. As it was, she was worried she might need a little bit of tranquilizing herself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
She left Dorothy Jean in the cabin and went after Kofford. She walked slowly but purposefully toward the man who instantly stiffened and put his right hand in his pocket. Funny, but she'd never noticed the movement except when he'd followed her to the park and tried to persuade her to get into the van. The guy probably had the gun there all the time, and she kicked herself for not paying closer attention to him. She might’ve caught on much sooner and maybe been able to avoid the first plane ride.
She pretended to be pissed to have to talk to him. “He needs help getting Mrs. Lyman onto the bed,” she said. “I’m not going to do it.”
Kofford nodded and stood.
She stepped back to let him go ahead of her. He frowned for a second, noted her empty hands, then turned his back on her and headed for the rear of the plane.
She pulled the gun from the back of her jeans. “You really should trust your instincts,” she said.
His hand went to his pocket.
“Uh, uh un,” she warned with a metal poke to his back.
He raised his hands in the air.
“Hand it over. Nice and slow.”
He pulled his weapon out of the pocket using two fingers. There was a silencer on the end, so she figured he didn’t want the pilots alarmed if he’d needed to shoot someone. It gave her hope that
the pilots weren’t Lacrosse’s men. It would make the rest of her plan go much smoother.
She stayed back out of Kofford’s reach in case he had some secret agent moves for disarming her. She also didn’t want to get close enough to take the gun from him.
“Lay it on the seat, then go to the back. You move funny, even if it’s just turbulence, I’ll shoot first.”
He did what she said, then started walking.
“I'll tell you a little secret, Kofford. I don't have a lot to live for at the moment, and I'm feeling a little giddy about holding all the cards. So please, don't test me. I'd hate for you to be the first man I had to kill. I would rather save that honor for Lacrosse. If you want to take a bullet for the guy, that's up to you. But be aware, that bullet will be going into your heart.”
He shrugged carefully. “If Wells has flipped sides again, I wouldn't want to be him.”
“Flipped? No. More like he slid...”
Dorothy Jean pulled the door wide and grinned up at them. “Welcome, welcome. You're just in time to help me pick up some trash, young man.” She gestured to the heap on the floor that was Dave. “If you'll just lay him on the bed, I'd appreciate it.”
Kofford glanced over his shoulder at the gun, then gave Macey a dirty look before he pulled Dave up beneath the shoulders and dragged him onto the bed.
“All the way up, if you don't mind,” Dorothy Jean said. “We should make him comfortable.”
Macey moved around behind her and took the syringe from her hand, then moved to the opposite side of the bed, still careful to keep as much distance between her and Kofford as the small room would allow.
Dorothy Jean handed the man the bright red manacles. “There's a metal ring there, on the corner. I'm sure you know what to do.”
Kofford snorted in amusement at the padded cuffs, but took them. While he straddled Dave and worked one of the clamps around the unconscious man’s wrist, Dorothy Jean tossed him another pair.
“Get comfortable, young man, and lock yourself to that bed too.”
As soon as Kofford was secure, Macey planned to put him out as well. She’d be stupid to leave him awake and plotting his escape when there was a relatively harmless way to put him to sleep.
Suddenly Kofford’s long leg swung around and struck Macey’s left arm and knocked her to the side. The gun flew from her hand and hit the headboard, then fell between it and the mattress. Kofford jumped off the bed, pushed Dorothy Jean aside, and ran out the door.
Macey dropped the syringe and dug for Dave's gun while she imagined Kofford going for his. She used both hands to pull the heavy mattress back from the wall but Dave's body weighed it down. A yank, an inch. Another yank, another inch.
Kofford’s footsteps headed back.
“Shut the door!” she told Dorothy Jean, but the woman’s hands were busy filling another syringe. By the time she reached the edge of the door, it was too late. Kofford burst through the opening and knocked her veiny hand away. She stumbled back, but stayed on her feet. Kofford ignored her and turned his gun on Macey.
Macey forced her hand between the mattress and the wall, jamming her middle finger into the hard metal. She forced her fingers apart and plunged again, then felt the satisfaction of cold steel fill her hand.
“Freeze,” Kofford warned.
“Hold it right there, bucko.” Dorothy Jean held another syringe next to her shoulder like a javelin.
He gave the old woman a smirk. It gave Macey just enough time to raise her gun.
Time slowed.
She could see it in his eyes the second he decided to pull the trigger. But she couldn't shoot him. He was the bad guy, holding the power of life and death in his hand, and she just couldn't do it.
Epic, epic fail.
She felt the sting of the bullet the same instant she heard the shot—a strange little spitting noise, just like in the movies.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Macey spun to the left from the force of the bullet hitting her side. If the cabin had been larger, she couldn’t have remained on her feet, but the wall stopped her momentum and knocked a grunt from her. It also gave her a little bounce that helped her turn back to face Kofford.
Though she knew she’d never pull the trigger, she brought her own weapon back to aim at him. She simply wasn’t ready to surrender.
Would he shoot her again?
Why was he grabbing his neck?
His gun swiveled forward and hung from his fingers as he grasped his neck with his left hand. He pulled a spent syringe free and staggered forward. His eyes blazed, then dulled quickly. Dorothy Jean pushed him from behind and the guy tipped over the low back of the first chair. His torso landed on the bed, on top of Dave. Macey tried to dive sideways to avoid the end of the silencer, but the pain in her side stopped her cold. The gun hit the bed with Kofford’s finger on the trigger. A quiet bullet spit from the end of it and hit the headboard.
Dorothy Jean pushed herself up under Macey’s arm and steered her around until her knees hit the nearest seat. Macey carefully lowered herself onto it.
“You’re going to be fine,” Dorothy Jean cooed at her.
Macey was a little disappointed in the old woman’s reaction. Of course she was happy Dorothy Jean wasn’t freaking out, since that might be dangerous. But she could at least conjure up a little sympathy—or be impressed Macey had still been able to stand. She felt like some movie character that got shot a dozen times and just kept advancing on the enemy, and she wanted some credit.
All right. So it was just one bullet, but still, it hurt so badly there may as well have been a dozen. Her body screamed and it came out her mouth in a moan.
“Don’t be a baby,” Dorothy Jean chided. “It went clean through.”
“How can you tell? I can still feel it.”
Dorothy Jean’s fingers prodded her side and Macey sucked a breath in through her teeth. She was pretty sure, if she’d have known how badly being shot was going to hurt, she’d have shot Kofford, no problem, just to get him back. In fact, she felt like shooting him then, even though he was unconscious.
The old woman opened a cupboard next to the chair and pulled out a first-aid kit. On the shelf was a defibrilizer.
“How did you know where to find that?”
“Naturally curious.”
Must have been an old-person term for nosey.
The bleeding stopped soon after the old woman ceased scrubbing alcohol wipes in the little holes because, she’d said, “the bullet hadn’t damaged much more than a bit of fat.” And by the way, the fat that had been protruding out the second hole, she’d just pushed back in.
Good to know.
A few minutes later, Dorothy Jean the Battlefield Nurse had her wounds cleaned and dressed with compresses held into place by white tape and a rolled bandage that wrapped around her waist. It seemed a little anti-climactic for a gunshot wound, but Macey figured they didn’t have time for unnecessary drama.
She opted to keep her own shirt on because the extra clothing Dorothy Jean found in the cabinets were little more than leather straps and ribbons. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to face Lacrosse in any of that.
Bloody cotton was just fine.
With a few shoves and Macey using as little core muscle as possible, the two of them got the bottom half of Kofford onto the bed, though they couldn’t get his body completely off of Dave. It worked out fine, however. They cuffed Kofford’s left ankle to Dave’s right hand, Kofford’s right hand to Dave’s left ankle, then they hooked together whatever was left dangling. Neither of them was going to be happy when they woke up. If they woke up.
They’d been guessing on the dosage, using roughly the same amount Dave had loaded in the syringe for Dorothy Jean, and with both men being so much bigger than her, they should recover just fine.
While they sat and caught their breath, they reloaded both syringes and tucked them into the small black sack. Macey handled the guns while Dorothy Jean the Dart Queen took charge of the ba
g.
Apparently, she hadn’t spent all her life as a librarian.
“Now what?” Dorothy Jean rubbed her hands together and glanced at the door.
Macey grimaced. “Well, this is where my plan gets a little fuzzy.”
Dorothy Jean waited.
“We have the guns. It isn’t like the cockpit is behind locked doors, so we can tell the pilots to take us wherever we want to go, really.”
“But where do we want to go?”
Macey shrugged. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”
“I don’t know where my daughter is, only that they’re watching her phone line. So I can’t really go looking for her without getting her into trouble. It’s best if she keeps on believing I died.” She swallowed hard, her chin wobbling with the effort.
Macey moved on. “If we try to land at any major airport, security will be waiting for us, even if Lacrosse has nothing to do with it. We don’t have passports with our faces. And we don’t have any money for bribes. I gave Shawn the bag with all the money and the duck.”
“The duck?”
“Yeah. It was hidden in a pocket of my backpack all along. The old trucker lied about chucking it out the window.”
“So you still have proof about what WHOSO is doing! That’s wonderful!”
“Yeah,” she said soberly. “But only if Shawn’s alive.”
Dorothy Jean nodded, then she sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He just has to be alive then.”
Macey couldn’t help smile at the forced optimism. “That’s right. But unfortunately, he’s not going to be able to catch up with us for a while. If our butts are going to be saved, we’re going to have to do it ourselves. So. Again. Where do we go?”
Dorothy Jean looked at the little black bag on her lap. “The truth is, neither of us can guess how much time I’ve got left. This thing in my brain might go off and kill me if I so much as fart wrong and we both know it.” Her smile was fleeting. “But when I do fade out, I want you to promise you’ll dig this son of a bitch out of my head and get to it whoever can do the most good with it—even if it’s Lacrosse. Do you hear me?”