Point of No Return

by Rita Henuber

  “Wha . . . at the f . . . fu . . . uuck are you do . . . oing?” she stuttered as the truck bounced over washboard ruts and rocks. “Stop so we . . . we can fi . . . ight.”

  “Nooo,” he called back. “Hang on. Go .. . going off ro . . . road.”

  Like they were on a road? Jack turned the wheel sharply, taking the Blazer to the left and into a clear-cut area.

  “It’s a forestry service road.” He slowed from the teeth-rattling, bone-clanking speed. “Shortcut. Takes us over a few ridges.”

  Honey stared out the windshield. The road was a forestry service fire cut and went up at a thirty-degree angle.

  “They won’t follow.”

  They were following. A round zinged off the roll bar above Jack’s head . . . and firing. Honey instinctively twisted and returned the favor. Two bursts. Three rounds each. The man standing in the Hummer roof opening disappeared inside. Thank all that was holy they were bouncing more than the Blazer.

  “Turning right,” Jack called. She braced and twisted her body to fire. It was no use. Jack drove them into thick forest, winding through trees, giving no chance of a clear shot. They bounced through thick brush, rocks, logs and who knows what else, the Hummer never far behind. The front end of the Blazer plunged down. Jack took them over a ledge and her ass left the seat even with the harness. They were in a gully with a stream. In places the gully was barely wide enough for Jack to navigate the big truck through. The Hummer stayed with them, ramming its way through and firing. They slewed around a wide bend and the steep banks turned to gentle slopes. Jack powered the truck out of the stream, a rooster tail of water spraying behind them. For a moment the tires tore at the ground, spinning, spewing water, mud and clumps of vegetation. Steam rose from the undercarriage. Gas fumes mixed with a pungent smell of last year’s rotting leaves, this year’s plants and mud being cooked against the undercarriage.

  Finally the tires grabbed and again they ploughed through forest. She put an arm up to protect her face from whipping branches. The vegetation grew thicker, the trees closer together, and Jack slowed considerably to pick a route. Bear and his friends had the advantage of following the path Jack made and were gaining on them.

  “We’ll be on the downhill in a few.”

  Honey nodded. That meant the men in the Hummer would also have a logistical advantage. But they wouldn’t realize it until it happened.

  “I’m going to slow enough for you to use the gun.”

  She nodded again. The chance the Hummer was armored and hits would have no effect wasn’t going to stop her. She released the straps on the harness as far as they would go, then knelt on the seat with her arm and legs inside the bindings and pulled them tight, securing herself. She braced the second long gun between her seat and the console.

  “Here we go,” Jack said as they broke out of tree cover into bright sunlight and caught air under all four tires. They hit and bounced, the lighter back end of the truck catching air again, threatening to flip them end over end. Another bounce. They flopped like bobble heads. He worked the gears furiously. She glanced over her shoulder to see what they were in for and damn near screamed. They were on a rock face. No trees. No turf. Only rock. Huge boulders with crevices and rivulets of water winding down the face. O’Brien was fucking insane.

  The roar of the Hummer’s monster engine drew closer. “Here.” Jack handed her the Desert Eagle. “Armor-piercing ammo. Should slow ’em down.”

  She put the long gun down, took the cannon and fired at the underside of the beast as it breached the top of the mountain, hill, or whatever the fuck it was they were on. The Hummer did the same bounce they had, and when it presented its roof opening she squeezed off three shots. Based on sparks she’d made one hit. Maybe got one inside. Jack slowed the truck to a crawl.

  “What the fuck are you doing? They’ll catch . . .” Words, breath, muscles froze. The truck canted dangerously, dipping from one side to the other. As they inched across bald rock, tires slipped over the wet surface and into rock fissures. Metal creaked and made sounds it wasn’t meant to. Clear blue sky surrounded them. Terra firma was visible only when she dared look down on her side of the truck.

  It was the same as being in a chopper. They were being shot at and there was a chance they’d wind up in a heap hundreds of feet down. Her stomach did a summersault and she fought back bile. Behind them, the Hummer slowed. Not enough. The distance between the vehicles grew smaller.

  “We’re going into a controlled slide,” Jack called out.

  The controlled slide was sideways and reminded Honey of being on black ice. She kick-started her breathing and looked to Jack. He was totally focused, relaxed and confident. She realized this was a crazy thing he’d done many times, maybe with his brother. A tremendous crunch and yells jerked her attention back to the Hummer, which was on its side sliding, grinding, and scraping down the length of a crevice. It came to rest nose-down against the rock, driver’s side wheels in the air spinning.

  Jack let out a long yell like a dog baying in the night but kept his concentration on the rock in front of them. She didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing the truck’s balance. In two minutes that seemed like two hours, Jack negotiated the truck to safer ground. But they weren’t out of, or into, the woods yet.

  Two men had climbed out of the Hummer, long guns in their hands, firing. There was no mistaking Bear. The white tape on his nose was a beacon, in this case a target. Bear would be at the edge of the long gun’s range a few more seconds. She took a shot. Dust rose from the rock a few feet in back of him. A miss. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The man with him fired. Honey felt the bullet hit the back of the seat and the pressure of it hitting her dragon skin. She looked down and the spent shell fell out of her hoodie to the seat. Honey looked back to see three men moving in their direction as fast as they could across the sloping rock.

  “Jack. I think we need to move . . . now.”

  They fired again and one shell, maybe two, pinged on the truck’s metal. She forgot about not moving, flipped the M4 to full auto and emptied the magazine, scattering the men. She didn’t hit a damn one, but stifled a crazy laugh as they danced, slipped, and fell on the rock face.

  “Not much longer,” Jack said.

  She hunkered down as the Blazer slowly moved forward and downward. It was several long moments before they were into the forest again. Out of sight and firing range, Jack stopped to allow her to sit properly.

  “You okay?” he said.

  She nodded and held up the spent shell. “Close.” Then she smiled. “But close only counts in nuclear war.”

  He laughed and slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Fear. The rocket juice of life. On a scale of one to ten that was a pucker factor of fifteen.”

  “You got that.” No denying they were adrenaline junkies. She’d lost her hat and put her hands on her face, pushing back wild clumps of hair.

  Jack opened the console between the seats and offered her the grease- and sweat-stained cap he fished out, then stretched out his arm and grasped her neck, pulling her to him. “We got the motherfuckers.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Tomorrow they’re going down.”

  “Jack, we should move. Those men will have sat phones and be calling in our location, and we’ll have to deal with this all over again.”

  “Nope.” His wide smile was like a child’s seeing his first fireworks display. “I dropped the jammer back there. They’re walking awhile before they call anybody.”

  In thirty minutes they bounced and skidded onto the blacktop and Jack asked the Blazer for everything it had.

  “How long to the airport?” Honey said.

  “Less than an hour.”

  “It took me more than three to get to your place.”

  “Great shortcut, huh?”

  “You are certifiable.” She laughed and dug a phone from her bag. She powered it on, saw she had coverage and made her call.

  “Liz,” she shouted. “I’m an hour out. Be ready to go wheels up the
minute I get there. One extra passenger. I’ll call when I get eyes on the airport. Need to hide a truck and make a couple evasive landings.”

  Jack engaged the CD player, turning it to max volume and singing along with the Eagles about being on a desert highway, cool wind in their hair.

  Honey rested her head back and went over what just happened. It wasn’t only three guys with guns and a drone in a fire-and-eliminate exercise. Jack was right when he said the problem was finding the right person in DC to trust with what they had. Global had protection. Ferreting out who they could trust would be difficult. People they could count on in the national security system. People with no hidden agendas. She glanced at Jack. No chance to get his take on this until they were in the plane. Even if he wasn’t singing, the noise of the monster tires on the blacktop and the wind didn’t encourage conversation.

  Chapter 21

  Jack parked the truck, doing a stunt-driver slide maneuver into a space next to a hangar, where Honey’s crew arranged to keep it out of sight. They wasted no time collecting their gear and sprinting across the hot blacktop to a jet, its engines already whining. A trim man stood at the top of the air stairs and retracted them the moment they were inside. Before the door sealed the pilot was taxiing. Jack helped Honey jam their gear into a closet.

  “We’re next in line for takeoff. Buckle up, you two,” the crewman said, pointing to leather captain’s chairs. “That’s all the preflight crap you get,” he barked out over his shoulder as he entered the cockpit.

  They dropped onto the chairs and buckled in as the plane pivoted to the runway. In seconds they left the ground, rocketing toward the stratosphere. “Jeezus,” Jack grumbled, pressed into the seat. “They shuttle pilots in a former life?”

  “Almost. Marine pilots. They have short runways in dangerous places. You get used to it.” She reached over and grasped his hand. “Quick takeoff equals less chance to be shot at.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “You can unbuckle and are free to move about the cabin,” a woman’s voice said over the com when they made altitude and leveled out.

  “That a head?” He hitched his chin in the direction of the door at the back of the plane.

  “Yeah.” She glanced toward the front of the plane. “Are you thinking about joining the mile-high club? I’m a member but I can always use more points.”

  “You always think this much about sex?” he asked.

  “When I’m this close to you I do.”

  “Your head is bleeding.” He touched his fingers to the spot where blood stained her white hair and brought them out where she could see. “Dried now. Doesn’t look bad. Maybe a low branch got you. There’s blood on your shirt.”

  She pulled the shirt away from her body and tucked her chin in to look, then stood and pointed to a cabinet. “There’s booze and glasses. Help yourself and pour me a couple of fingers of whiskey.” She headed for the door, stripping away her shirt. “Unless of course you change your mind and want to join me back here.” She reached into what would be an overhead bin on a commercial plane and came out with a black shirt. Then she leaned against the head’s door frame. Plain white bra, hair loose.

  “I’ll take a raincheck.”

  “Sure?” she said coyly and licked her lips.

  The blood was leaving his head, heading south, and his dick stirred. Stripping her to skin and renewing his membership in the mile-high club wasn’t a bad idea. The thought of one of the pilots coming back to investigate the banging had a cold water effect. “I’m sure.” He waved a hand at her. “We need to talk about what’s next. Close the damn door and get dressed.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled tightly and closed the door.

  Before Jack could go for the whiskey the pilot came to him with a plate of sandwiches and a couple of chilled water bottles, reinforcing his raincheck decision.

  “My turn to play flight attendant.” He grinned and put the plate and bottles on a polished wood table he pulled from the wall. He glanced to the closed head door. “The major fill you in on us?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Ruben Burney.” He extended his hand and they shook. “Liz, my better half, is at the controls today. We’re former Marine pilots”—the grin stayed but his good-ole-boy demeanor vanished as he leaned in—“the Major’s twenty-four-seven flight and, when needed, security crew.” He straightened.

  “Yeah.” Jack nodded, acknowledging the silent warning. He understood. The guy had good instincts and picked up on his danger vibe. He was protecting his employer. But Honey? She didn’t need looking after. Then he realized Honey was more than an employer to the pilot. He was protecting a friend. Jack tipped his head in the direction of the plate. “You going to take any of these up front with you?”

  “Naw.” He angled his head toward the cockpit. “She likes her man slim, trim, and strong. Drink?” Good ole Ruben asked, going to the cabinet Honey had opened.

  Jack nodded. “Whiskey. Neat.” Without the knockout pills. Ruben poured a healthy amount of booze into a glass, handed it over and repeated the process with a second glass, which he left in a holder on the table. “You give that warning to all the men who come on board?”

  “Fucking A. Anything else?” he said, and before Jack could answer he added, “You’re on your own,” and went back to the cockpit.

  Jack knocked back a good portion of the whiskey and looked around at the plane’s posh interior. Honey’s statement about having money was a pretty big understatement. The Gulfstream was a thirty-million-dollar-plus bird. Two pilots on the payroll was a hefty chunk of change by itself. The cost of maintaining a twenty-four-seven on-call flight crew doubling as private air marshals had to be astronomical. The glass in his hand was Baccarat and the whiskey was definitely not from a discount liquor store. Hell, the napkins were linen and embossed. He ran a finger over the lettering. Thorn Enterprises. A WTF feeling crawled across his scalp. Thorn was a company with a global presence. Philanthropic work. They funded an international think tank. Before he died, Eric . . . Thorn had been an advisor to world leaders. “Jesus.” A chill deeper than an arctic winter rushed through him.

  Honey emerged from the head wearing the black polo, the blood gone and her hair wrestled into order. She settled in next to him and he stared as she took a drink of water then picked up the glass of whiskey.

  “What?” she said.

  He held up the napkin. “You have something to tell me?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. She took a long pull on the whiskey and turned those blue eyes on him. “Yes. I am Eric Thorn’s daughter,” she said in a cheesy robotic voice. “I started calling myself Thornton in high school to keep from getting looks like you’re giving me now.”

  He said nothing, working at getting his brain around it, but all he could do was stare.

  “I had enough trouble without people knowing my daddy was one of the richest and smartest men in the world. Schools I went to, even college, will let you call yourself anything as long as their records and the billing department have it correct.” She took a section of the sandwich and opened it, examining the ingredients. “Problem came when I enlisted in the Marine Corps. I had to use and be called by my real name. I was old enough, so I had my name legally changed.” She shrugged and took a bite of the sub.

  “The Thornton part is easy. But Honey? You did that deliberately?” Fuck. All the thoughts and questions bouncing in his head and this was what he said?

  “Mmmm. Daddy always called me Honey.” She took on a soft look, savoring the memory. “And it’s better than my real name.”

  He waited for it, but when she didn’t say it, he had to ask. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Hildegard.”

  Jack tossed back the rest of his whiskey to disguise a smile.

  “I thought in the Marine Corps, Honey the stripper would be easier to deal with than Brunhilda Hildegard.” She lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “I wanted to make it on my own. No one in the Corps was going to connect Honey
Thornton with my daddy and Thorn Enterprises.”

  From what Jack knew of the Corps, people knowing who she was would have made her life harder, not easier. Brass would have used her to make diplomatic points certainly not in field duties. “I think you met your goal.” He rested a hand on her thigh. “For the record and if it matters, I like Honey much better.”

  “It matters. A lot.”

  He leaned to kiss her. Before he could, Liz’s voice interrupted, breaking the spell. “Hang on to your drinks and food, we’re beginning the descent to the first airport.”

  Ruben and Liz formulated a plan to land at three airports to confuse anyone tracking them. They touched down and taxied to a hangar. Honey briefly opened the door, and the moment they were cleared for takeoff they were on their way to another space shuttle liftoff. At the next airport it was the same procedure, except he and Honey deplaned, picking up a car Liz had arranged for them. The plane went on to its home airport.

  “A fifteen-year-old Fiat? Really?” Jack looked around. “How about we boost that Dodge truck? It has a reasonable engine.”

  “How about we don’t. We don’t need to add the DC police to the list of people looking for us.”

  “But this thing has a lawn mower engine.” He leaned on the hood, pleading with her. “If we do get chased I’ll have to get out and push to make any speed.”

  “No. You just want to keep up the demolition derby crap. No one will be looking for us in this.” She climbed inside. “If you don’t want to be seen driving, I’ll do it.”

  He gave it up. Grumbling, he squeezed behind the wheel and turned the fucking thing on. It sounded like a lawn mower. The tires were splashy, the steering was soft and the air-conditioner didn’t work. She was right, no one would be looking for them in this. He carefully observed speed limits and stayed off main roads, avoiding traffic cameras. There was no telling how far Global’s spy tentacles reached into government computer systems. His eyes constantly flicked to the rear views looking for suspicious cars, or someone on a bike, following.