by Kris Norris
So, the hard, low rasp of the man’s voice next to Russel’s ear put him on full alert. Man to PJ in half a second, flat. He glanced around, his Beretta in his hand. He’d tucked it under his pillow when it had become obvious Rigs might be spending the night out. Russel had just hoped he wouldn’t need it.
He scanned the room then focused on Rigs. “Update.”
“Men. Lots of them. Some from the road, others closing in on ATVs. Not sure how they found you, though, I’m betting that Thomas fucker has someone on the inside. Checking weather and traffic cams. Damn near impossible to avoid them. Wouldn’t take much to track you to the turnoff. And, when you didn’t show up on any cams closer to town…” Rigs sighed. “Not many places out this way. A quick scan from an overhead satellite would show your truck. Should have hidden the damn thing in the shed. I’m slipping.”
“Then, we both are. Call me crazy, but I didn’t think they’d get that information so quickly. How many?”
“Twenty. Maybe twenty-five. They’re moving slow. Waiting until all their backup is in place.” He grinned. “That’s gonna be hard when things start exploding.”
Russel nodded, rousing Quinn. He placed his finger over his mouth, smiling when her wide eyes narrowed and she nodded, quietly getting out of the bed and into her clothes.
He followed suit, motioning for Rigs to lead the way. “How much damage will your countermeasures do?”
Rigs stopped in the kitchen. “Not nearly as much as they could. I wanted it to be more of a warning system. Something to throw any intruders off. They don’t know if the next one will only toss dirt in the air or blow their legs off. I’m hoping they think the latter.”
“Where’s the vehicle?”
“Out back. There’s a small two-track just south of here. We can take that until it crosses back over the highway. I’ve already loaded your bags. Was waiting until I had a clear picture of how they were setting up before waking you. Didn’t want to miss something important.”
Russel nodded. Rigs was fastidious about intel. Didn’t compromise a second’s worth, especially when he knew Russel would be ready to leave within a couple of minutes. That Rigs wouldn’t be risking their safety by watching for a few extra minutes.
Russel kept his palm on the small of Quinn’s back as they headed for the backdoor. It opened silently. A rusty jalopy waited in shadows, the chassis raised higher than normal. “Armored?”
Rigs snorted, his sideways glance saying, of course, jackass.
Russel let it go, helping Quinn into the back. “Stay down. I don’t want you getting clipped by a stray shot.”
She opened her mouth then closed it, climbing in without questioning him.
Rigs grabbed Russel’s hand when he went to push the seat back. “You, too, Ice. And you’ll keep your head down right next to hers.”
“Fuck that. You can’t drive and see all the threats. I’m riding shotgun.”
“Not this time.” He pointed a finger at Russel. “You’re a medic. You know the score. We need you in one piece in case we end up in more than one. Besides, if you ride up front with me, they could take us both out. I don’t think this fucker has truly skilled snipers in his ranks, but I can’t swear on it. A good marksman could kill us with the same bullet. I sure as hell could. If that happens, who would protect Harlequin?”
Russel pursed his lips.
“I know you hate this. Trust me. You PJs are a rare breed. But…you also know that I’m right. So, get your ass in the back, keep both your heads down, and don’t fucking die on me.”
Russel held back his retort—fuck he hated that Rigs was right—and shuffled in beside Quinn. He didn’t ask if she wanted him to hold her, just drew her into his arms then reclined on the seat. He kept his back to the rear in case any bullets managed to pierce the vehicle. It wasn’t as good as giving her a Kevlar vest, but he was thick, and chances were a bullet wouldn’t get all the way through him then into her.
She instinctively drew in on herself, virtually disappearing within his arms, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d huddled for safety before. If her father’s colleagues had ever come after her before she’d escaped out on her own. He had a bad feeling they had.
The old SUV rumbled to life, the engine quieter than he’d expected. Count on Rigs to have a damn armored Jeep made on a moment’s notice. That, or he’d been planning for this kind of event. Either worked for Russel.
Rigs started off slow, weaving the car through an invisible slalom course. Russel didn’t need to ask to know Rigs was circumventing explosives he’d buried in his yard. Mines. Tripwires. Russel suspected the man had cast a wide net of charges across the property—a pattern guaranteed to catch even the most observant intruder.
He didn’t know how skilled these men were. Had Thomas hired ex-military men to do his bidding? Had he found veterans whose loyalties only registered in dollar amounts to come after Quinn? If he’d figured out who Russel was—and if the man had people in law enforcement or hackers of any worth, it wouldn’t be hard to puzzle it out. Russel’s face would be on the security footage from the bar. There was a chance the bastard had sought out people he thought would have what it takes to kill him, not just Quinn.
The thought soured his gut. He hated hiding. Waiting to see what came his way. He preferred to go on the offensive. As soon as they got to Montana, he was learning everything thing there was about Thomas Carlson—right down to the type of briefs the creep wore—then he was taking the fight to him. He didn’t care if Bridgette wanted to do this the legal way. Quinn was in danger as long as the bastard was alive, so, Russel would see he didn’t stay that way for long.
The vehicle surged ahead, gaining a bit of speed when a ball of light exploded behind them, filling the darkness with a blinding yellow glow that Russel was sure set the Jeep off in sharp contrast. Dirt shot into the air, raining down on the roof as Rigs hit the accelerator, still swinging the SUV right and left. Russel watched through the rearview as a line of men appeared behind them, more charges lighting up the night. Loud pops broke the silence—short, sharp bursts that tossed heavy fire their way.
Fuckers had automatic rifles—AK47s and M4s by the sound of it. The average mercenary’s pick of deadly weapons. The bullets pinged off the back of the jalopy, occasionally giving the vehicle a shove. Rigs countered, but he didn’t have enough room to properly swerve. Glass cracked then broke above the seat, showering Russel and Quinn with tiny shards.
He shifted over her. “Stay under me.”
She moved with him as he took them to the footwell, crushing her beneath him. But, if the belly was armored, she’d have less of a chance of getting hurt by stray fire.
More thumps, then a hole appeared above his shoulder—right through the passenger seat. He wanted to check on Rigs, but the man had hit the gas, all but tipping them on two wheels as he raced across the ground.
“Stay down. Just another few seconds, and we’ll be clear of the charges. Then, we can fly.” Rigs cursed when the vehicle skidded to the left. “Fuckers hit the wheel. I’ve got run flats, but damn, they’re determined. There’s another line of them closing in on the left.”
Russel chanced a quick peek. “You need another set of eyes.”
“And you need to not get shot.”
Rigs floored it, knocking Russel against the seat. His head hit the side as the SUV veered sharply to the left, then picked up more speed. Another engine roared nearby, the sound getting louder. Rigs headed right, must have hit some kind of ridge because the damn Jeep left the ground. Russel’s stomach lurched up then crashed to the floor as the SUV slammed into the ground, bouncing a few times before gaining enough traction to propel them forward, again.
Shouts rose around them, then more high-pitched pings off the back and sides of the vehicle. Russel glanced up in time to see Rigs remove his gun then shoot out the driver’s side window. Either the glass had been shattered or Rigs had lowered it because there was nothing bu
t the loud report of the gun filling the air.
There was some screaming, several more rounds, then the world descended into an eerie quiet. The vehicle charged ahead, occasionally skidding on gravel. Rigs didn’t talk, his attention on a revolving pattern of road, mirrors, road, mirrors.
The engine droned in the background, then the tires hit something smooth, the sound of crunching gravel changing to a steady hum.
Rigs sighed, then his hand clamped around Russel’s shoulder. “Looks like we lost them. For now.”
Russel pushed off the floorboards, muscles stiff from the cramped space. He glanced out the back. Deserted blacktop stretched toward the horizon, the dull surface just visible in the hint of moonlight. Glass covered the seats, the tiny pieces fanning out in every direction. So much for staying in the back. He couldn’t guarantee he’d get rid of all the glass, and the last thing he needed was either of them slicing a leg open.
He helped Quinn up, motioning for her to stay put as he maneuvered into the front passenger seat. She could ride the rest of the way on his lap, where he’d have tangible proof she was all right.
Quinn crawled over the carnage of glass and bits of upholstery, settling between his thighs without making a sound. He wrapped his arms around her, wishing he could encase her in a bulletproof bubble before looking over at Rigs. More glass covered his lap, a collection of cuts along his left arm.
Russel leaned over then froze.
Rigs huffed, giving him a sideways glance. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s a fucking graze.”
“A graze?” Blood stained the man’s right shoulder, slowly moving downward. “I know what a fucking graze looks like, and that isn’t one. Pull over.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking you, Rigs. Pull the fucking car over. Now.”
Rigs set his jaw, then twisted to look directly at Russel. “We stop, and they catch up. Or there’s a new batch waiting ten miles ahead, and you’re still playing nursemaid on the side of the road when they show up. I’m fine. You can patch it as we drive, but I’m not pulling this damn jalopy over until we reach Montana. And don’t even worry about gas because I had an extended tank put in her. She can go for eight hours straight.”
“Or I just wait until you pass out from blood loss.”
He snorted, the fucker. “Didn’t black out when that wall collapsed on me. When you dragged my ass out of there. Not even for the two days you spent carrying me to the LZ after stitching me up. I think I can muscle through a small cut on my shoulder.”
“You are some piece of work.” He huffed. “Where’s my bag?”
“The main stuff is in the back, but I put your kit under your chair. Had a feeling you’d bust my ass if it wasn’t within reach.”
“Damn straight.”
Russel thanked Quinn when she pulled the bag out from under her legs and handed it to him. He didn’t even have to ask her to shift, she just lifted and moved toward the window, making herself as small as possible. He took a moment to look at her. He was pretty damn sure she hadn’t gotten hurt, other than maybe some cuts from the glass, but he didn’t like to make assumptions.
Her skin was pale, her eyes still overly wide. Her pulse fluttered beneath her skin at the base of her neck. Elevated. Maybe a bit erratic, but not life threatening. He narrowed his eyes, but she shook her head, motioning to Rigs.
She was trooper. Though obviously scared, she wasn’t complaining. Wasn’t freaking out. Other than the minor breakdown this afternoon, she’d held it together. Had followed his instructions flawlessly, never wasting time by asking him to explain. He knew he’d been essentially barking out orders, but this was his wheelhouse. His territory—something she understood on an intrinsic level. He admired that. Admired her.
He focused on the injury—on what he had control over right now. Right here, because the horizon was a vast expanse of unknown threats. A condition he planned on changing as soon as they rendezvoused with the rest of the team. Thomas and his men would be held accountable. He vowed it. One way or another, they’d pay.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The nicely appointed office was full of people. Five men. One woman. All of them staring at her. Watching Quinn’s every movement as if they’d never seen another person breathe before. She coughed, and two of the men palmed their weapons. It was overwhelming.
After a lifetime spent of blending into the background. Making herself invisible. Doing everything she could not to attract attention to herself, being at the center of an immense amount of focused energy made her pulse race. Despite the comfortable temperature in the room, a cold sweat beaded her skin, and it was taking all her strength to hold her ground. Not run for the door and disappear.
She didn’t think it was a conscious decision on their part. But, with Rigs waking them in the middle of the night, then the race to get to Montana before another group of mercenaries or thugs closed in on them, they’d arrived early. And, now, it seemed that everyone was content to just stand around and wait until she was able to download the evidence from her server.
She glanced at a clock—thank god there was an old-fashioned one on the wall and she didn’t have to ask one of them. Five more minutes.
She forced herself to swallow, to gaze around the room. Do anything other than look at the expectant faces fanned out in a semi-circle around her. She was at Bridgette’s desk, hands resting beside the keyboard, as they gathered behind her. Soft whispered breaths that made the hair on her neck prickle.
Four minutes.
She fisted her hands, finally twisting to face them. “Ya know, hovering behind me isn’t helping any.”
The guy on the left—Hank—sighed. “We’re all just a bit…anxious.”
“Understood. But all this tension is making my hands shake. I might mess up the code, and I only get one chance to get it right.”
And, just like that, they disbanded. Hank and Swede walking over to check the doors and windows as Midnight led Bridgette back to the coffeemaker. Only Rigs and Russel remained behind her. Russel had insisted on redressing Rigs’ shoulder. The bullet had left a long, jagged crater across his flesh, which she knew would scar. Not that he didn’t already have lots. It hadn’t been apparent until he’d removed his shirt that the scars on his face weren’t the only ones he’d suffered during that incident.
Long, raised keloids ran across his chest and down his ribs, ending a few inches above his waist. She couldn’t imagine how he’d survived for two days, or how Russel had managed to carry him and keep him from bleeding out. It seemed so obvious to her, now, that she was the weak link in the group. They were soldiers. Hardened. Able to bend steal and chew on bullets. Rigs was shot and hadn’t so much as flinched. Then, there was what Russel called “situational awareness”.
She’d always considered herself to be acutely aware of her surroundings. Above average when it came to reading a room. But these men…
They’d made it into an art form. It was obvious by the way they endlessly scanned the area, as if expecting trouble to jump out at any second, that they wouldn’t get caught unaware. Even Bridgette had her strengths. She was a lawyer. A previous US Attorney. That took hard work. Dedication and the kind of intelligence most peopled envied.
What did Quinn have? A few years of self-defense training and an eye for symmetry. Colors. Not the kind of qualities that would keep her alive or out of jail based on her current circumstances. She’d never fired a gun in her life, and if she tried to throw a knife, it would most likely just bounce off and clatter to the floor.
And, of course, there was the part where her family were criminals. Not petty thieves. How had Bridgette phrased it? At the top of everyone’s watch list? Yeah, that was her contribution. The daughter of a mobster.
She jumped when a hand landed on her shoulder, nearly tumbling out of the chair as she tried to scramble to her feet. Everyone turned to look at her, the metallic squeak of the springs just now fading.
&nbs
p; Russel frowned. “You okay?”
She pretended to smooth out her shirt. “Guess I’m a bit edgy.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Except she was the only one who looked edgy.
He placed his hand on her arm. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s time.”
Time?
The files.
She reclaimed her seat then clicked on the computer. The hard drive spun for a few moments then flashed to life. She hunched over the desk then set to work—accessing her remote server, imputing the correct code then initiating the download. In under twenty minutes, she had the files unencrypted and sitting on Bridgette’s desktop.
Quinn worried her bottom lip, aware this was another point of no return. Once she showed the other woman the files, there’d be no going back. No way to save her father if—when—he got caught in the crossfire. All those years of taking care of her, and she was essentially stabbing him in the back. It didn’t matter that she’d concentrated her efforts on Thomas, on his crimes, it all led back to Henry James.
Russel squeezed her shoulder. “Quinn?”
She choked back the bile burning her throat then turned. Everyone had gathered, again, but she focused on Russel. On the green of his eyes, the soft skin of his lips. On the way his mouth lifted ever so slightly as he watched her closely.
She cleared her throat then stood. “That’s all of it. Copies of ledgers, manifests. Lists of inventories and suppliers. I also tried to photograph as many of the men as I could so they could be identified. I only know a few of them by name. Some of the information is still in code, but I can translate it for you if you need me to.”
Bridgette’s eyes widened. “You know their code?”
Quinn shrugged. “I was pretty much confined to the property until I was sixteen. Not much to do, so I’d play spy. Try to sneak around without getting caught. I used to hide in my dad’s study and see if he noticed. Sometimes, I overheard stuff. I didn’t really understand what it was at the time, but… When I saw the codes, I thought they were puzzles. And I spent weeks going over whatever I could get my hands on until I figured it out. I didn’t realize what they implicated. I just enjoyed the challenge.”