"I know you're coming for me,” she said. “I know you are."
She thought back to the afternoon when she'd first come into contact with the Modartha. How frightened she had been! He not only had intimidated her, threatened her, giving her the scare of her life, he had awakened emotions in her she hadn't known she possessed.
Later, he had awakened a deep, abiding love in her that she freely and without reserve had given into his keeping. Not once had she regretted Joining with Crevan Byrne and she would not contemplate never seeing him again. She truly believed they had been destined for one another.
"The gods help me, Bailey, but from the moment I touched you, I had to have you and I wasn't going to let anyone or anything stand in my way. You belong to me. I belong to you. We belong together,” he had sworn to her.
And he would find a way to reunite them, she thought as she flexed her bare toes on the soiled mattress. She had to believe that her Modartha would move heaven and earth to get her back.
"You've been good for him,” Patrick had told her at the Joining. “I can't remember the last time I heard Vannie laugh."
"Vannie?” she had questioned.
"Oh, aye!” Patrick had said, his eyes wide. “He likes to be called that!"
Bailey smiled to herself, remembering how her husband had reacted when she'd used that nickname the first time.
"Where did you hear that?” he'd asked, his brow lowered, eyes narrowed.
"Paddy said you liked to be called by that nickname,” she said.
"Paddy said,” he repeated then reached out to pull her into his arms. “Aye, wench, I like it well enough but on your lips, it is more a sweet caress."
A week later Paddy had come to supper a little worse for wear. The black eye he sported had been quite a shiner.
"What happened?” she'd asked.
Paddy had mumbled something she didn't quite get so she'd looked to her husband for an explanation.
"Must have been something the punk said,” Van had told her with an evil grin.
"Vannie,” she said, whispering the name now.
How she missed him, she thought—his strong arms around her, his steady heartbeat beneath her ear, his lean body spooned against hers in their bed. She longed to hear his soft brogue as he whispered words in the old dialect that sounded so sensual to her ear. She ached to feel his sturdy weight upon her, his knowing, skillful hands plying her body with tenderness. She needed his body buried within hers, his mouth upon hers.
"You are my life, Bailey Byrne,” he had said to her. “Without you, I would not want to face another moonrise."
She knew he had to be in a special kind of hell at that moment, not knowing if she was being harmed, striving hard to reach her, to rescue her, to make those who had taken her pay dearly for having dared to snatch her from him.
Hating Kona Doyle and Lady Tara Cowart-Flynn for the anguish they were putting her man through, Bailey lifted her head, her eyes thin slits of anger. In her own way, she was as protective of her husband as he was of her. If the gods gave her the chance, she'd exact her own brand of revenge on the ones who were making her Modartha suffer.
* * * *
"We have two thousand fighters standing by,” Doyle informed the cadre of Resistance leaders who had gathered in the depths of the cave in which he and Lady Tara had taken refuge. “Scattered in seven caves to the north of us are nine Mass Trans, five star fighters and two L.R.C.s that we've been able purchase for the attack."
"That I was able to purchase, you mean,” Lady Tara drawled. She glanced at the two other leaders of the Resistance who were sitting at the conference table alongside her and Doyle. “And I'll not drop another copper into the pot until I see what this money has done for us."
Hinton Greer, Doyle's right hand man, gave her a cocked brow. “We've been doing all the work, Milady, but we do acknowledge your most generous financial support. Without your money, we would not have been able to filter the weapons and manpower here to stockpile on Madra awaiting the beginning of the coup.” He flicked a finger to his forehead. “We salute you."
Lady Tara rolled her eyes. The man annoyed her worse than Doyle did. She had no illusions that the men of the Resistance had any more respect for women than the Slandail Phoiblí. There would be no equality for females under the Resistance's regime. It would be status quo and she had come to realize that too late. The only consolation she had was that Crevan Byrne was paying a very high price for having offended her and—in the long run—that was all that really mattered to her. She had as much freedom and independence as any other upper class woman on Faolchú and she intended it remain that way after the revolution had destroyed the Central Committee.
"I have ordered the troops to begin assembling on the ships later this evening,” Doyle said, rocking forward on his toes, his hands clasped behind his back. “Come the dawn, we will leave Madra and, with our deflectors in place, penetrate Faolchúan airspace and be on them before they know what hit them.” He looked at Tara, giving her a knowing smirk. “Will you be going with us or will your man fly you in on the Fiach after the deed is done?"
"I have no desire to be in the pitch of battle, Kona,” she told him. “I will stay here until you have control of the government."
"Just as I thought,” Doyle said with an insulting purse of his lips.
"I want to be there when you hang Crevan Byrne, though,” she stated.
"Oh, you will be. I'll even let you release the lever so his worthless hide can drop through the trapdoor,” Doyle promised.
"As you take his woman right before his eyes,” Tara said.
Doyle smiled brutally. “Aye. That would be fitting."
* * * *
"We will be over Madra in twenty minutes, Commander,” the captain relayed to Van via the Vid-Com audio link he had the Com Spec activate. Apparently he had decided not to use the video link.
The beast barely glanced at the black Vid-Com screen. It gave a snort of derision then shook its shaggy head before it dropped to all fours.
Patrick was watching his brother as the Modartha's body began undergoing the change from wolf to man. He looked at Liam. “Do you have any idea why he held his were shape all this time, Lee?"
"To maintain his anger,” Declan answered for Liam. “By allowing his animal side to govern him, he was less likely to do something else really stupid like destroying his quarters.” He was staring directly into Van's changing eyes. “Can't do as much damage with paws as you can with opposable thumbs."
"Wanna bet?” Van growled at him as he shook himself again and the fur disappeared from his limbs and face.
Declan chuckled. He and his brothers had spent the last three hours sitting in front of Van's door. His ass hurt as he got up to stretch. “Put some pants on that puny dangly of yours, Vannie. You're embarrassing me."
Van padded over to his wrecked closet and stood there with his hands on his bare hips. There were no uniforms that hadn't been ripped apart. He shorted with disgust. “Get me something to wear, then, if the sight of my cock offends you, Dek,” he said without looking around.
"That'll teach you to have a temper tantrum,” Liam said, stepping over the wreckage and into the demolished room. He glanced around, shaking his head. “What a fucking mess you made."
"Instead of mouthing off to me, make yourself useful and see if Donley has been able to home in on Bailey's or Doyle's voice,” Van ordered Liam.
"See to it, punk,” Liam in turn ordered Patrick.
Declan passed Patrick in the corridor as the younger man obeyed the order. “He's calm enough,” Patrick observed.
"For now,” Declan agreed.
Once dressed in the dark gray combat pants and gray t-shirt Declan brought, Van strapped his laser whip to his hip and slipped a tri-edged dagger into its sheath. “Vid on,” he called out and the Vid-Com screen flashed on. He wasn't surprised that the last image the screen had held was no longer in view. His lips pursed for a moment before he called for the ca
ptain.
"Aye, Commander?” the captain said, his broad face appearing instantly.
"Patch me through to the Madra president."
It took a few seconds but the sly face of the were-fox leader appeared on the screen. “We want no trouble with you, Commander,” the man said, his nose twitching.
"Then you shouldn't have allowed Doyle to use your planet as a base,” Van stated.
"We are neutral in this dispute between the two of you. As long as you do not target Madras citizens, we will stay out of it,” the president declared.
"We are monitoring your transmissions, President Butler,” Van warned. “Any communication between you and Doyle would be considered participation in his treason against Faolchú."
"We are not involved with this,” Butler snapped.
"What about your people?” Van queried. “Are any of yours among the Resistance fighters hiding in the caves on the Chura Plains?"
"None that we care about,” the president answered. “If any of our people have thrown in their lot with Doyle and his miscreants that is their problem, not ours."
"That's all I wanted to hear,” Van said and made a motion with his hand to cut the feed. He left the destruction of his room for the bridge, his brothers a step or two behind him.
Patrick met them at the elevator. “They've been able to lock in on Doyle's and Lady Tara's voices. There's nothing so far from Bailey.
Van nodded but made no comment. Once on the bridge, the Modartha asked for a status report.
"We've pinpointed fourteen caves from which sound is pinging back to us,” the captain reported. “We did a heat scan but, as we expected, we're not picking up engine or body temps. The T.I. heat deflectors are taking care of that, but we're picking up a little over two thousand individual heartbeat patterns, including the three most important ones."
"All right,” Van said and looked relieved. He took a seat beside the captain. “Start locking your transporters beams on the heartbeats you are picking up. Keep a lock on Doyle and Lady Tara as well as my lady...."
"That goes without saying,” Liam said with a grunt.
"When you begin bringing the others up to the Mass Trans, make sure Doyle and Tara are not among the retrievals."
"Why?” Liam asked.
"They're mine."
* * * *
When the first group of twenty people suddenly vanished before his eyes, Hinton Greer knew they were in deep trouble. Even before he had time to react to the disappearances, other people around him began departing in clusters—there one moment and gone the next. Their surprised looks might have been comical if the situation hadn't been so terrifying.
"We're under attack!" he shouted into the Vid-Com that linked him to Doyle. “We're.... “
Doyle blinked as Greer's alarmed face disappeared from the screen. He sat there stunned for several seconds, listening to shouts and cries coming from other parts of the cave then jumped to his feet, reaching for his laser pistol.
Lady Tara came running toward him as soon as Doyle reached the main gallery in the cave system. Behind her was the pilot of her Fiach. “It's the Modartha!” she shouted. “He's here!"
All around them, people were vanishing at a phenomenal rate and there was the unnerving vibrations beneath their feet that signified bombs were being dropped, plasma missiles striking the caves around them. The stench of scorched metal and burning plexicore stung the eyes and made it impossible to draw a decent breath.
"Get to the Fiach!” Doyle yelled, coughing violently. “I'll be right behind you!"
"Leave her!” Tara snarled, suspecting where Doyle was headed. “I won't wait for you!"
Doyle ignored her and continued on toward the cell in which Bailey was locked, dodging people who were scrambling to hide from the invisible retrieval beams snatching up their compatriots. He pushed aside tumbled furniture, stumbling as the fumes from deeper in the cave came roiling out of crevices and fissures in the rocks to blind him. He had to fumble in his pocket for the key to Bailey's cell, choking on the smoke billowing toward him.
Bailey was crouched on the mattress, a pillowcase to her face to filter out the noxious fumes, her eyes watering. “What's happening?” she asked.
Doyle ran into the cell, grabbed her arm, and pulled her from the mattress. When she jerked against his hold, he dragged her against him. “We have to get out of here before the cave collapses around us!"
Deciding it was safer to go with him, Bailey did not fight him as he pulled her from the cell and out into the melee of people trying to flee. Seeing the desperation all around her, the people simply vanishing into thin air, she knew Van and his rescuers must have arrived.
The Resistance leader pulled her down a narrow corridor and into a section of the cave that had a large chimney vent high up the rocky wall and to the rear. A Fiach runabout sat idling, the hatch open, Tara standing just inside the doorway, motioning frantically for them to hurry. Just as Doyle dragged Bailey to the bottom step and was about to pull her up behind him, the cacophony of sound suddenly ceased, the quiet eerie with only the idling engine of the expensive machine to break the silence.
Doyle saw Tara's face turn pale and she stumbled back from the doorway, yelling at the pilot to get underway. “No!” he bellowed, afraid he and Bailey would tumble backward down the steps if the runabout lifted off its skids. He furiously yanked on Bailey's arm, mindless that she fell and her shins scraped on the metal rungs of the steps as he jerked her inside the runabout.
"He's gone!” Tara shrieked. “The pilot is gone!” She was shuddering violently.
"I can fly it,” Doyle hissed and pushed Bailey toward her. “Get strapped in!"
Tara grunted, stumbled back as Bailey careened into her. She pushed the younger woman away and staggered to a seat, fumbling with the safety harness, mindless of anyone other than herself.
Bailey spun around and would have fled the craft except the stairway hatch was already closing, shuddering into place as Doyle began flipping switches and toggles to put the runabout into flight. She had no choice but to take a seat and buckle into the harness. Her shins were bleeding, but the pain didn't even register. It was the utter stillness after the headlong rush to the runabout and the explosions and ground rumbling that had her praying Van was all right.
"What the fuck are you waiting for, Doyle?” Tara yelled. “Get us in the air!"
It had been awhile since Doyle had flown a craft as complex as the Fiach. He finally had the machine lifting off when the engines suddenly died, gearing down in a low rumble that told him he was no longer in control of the runabout.
"What are you doing?” Tara screeched. Her eyes were wild, her mouth an ugly slash.
Doyle didn't answer. He unbuckled his harness and got up, striding purposefully to the hatchway where he slammed his hand on the control to lower the steps. His face was set, his teeth grinding together, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Doyle, what the hell are you doing?” Tara asked again. She was gripping the arms of her chair as though her life depended on it.
"He wants a fight,” Doyle said. “I'll give him one.” Then he disappeared down the steps.
"What?” Tara screamed. “What?"
Bailey unbuckled her harness and stood up, wavering for a moment as the pain in her shins finally made itself known. She glanced down at the front of her white cotton gown and saw the streaks of blood but didn't stop to see what had caused it. The bottoms of her bare feet were stinging, too, but she pushed that out of her mind and raced out of the runabout, stopping outside to turn her head from left to right, searching for any sign of Doyle or her husband.
It was the sound of clashing metal that drew Bailey around and behind the Fiach and down a narrow tunnel. She hobbled along on the rock-strewn floor of the cave until she came to a grotto she hadn't known was in the cave system. Her heart did a funny little flip when she saw Van standing toe to toe with Doyle, their daggers crossed at the hilt as both maneuvered to get the upper ha
nd. The skirl of the metal was shrill in the silence, punctuated by the grunting of the combatants and the scuffling of their boots on the loose rocks beneath them. She saw Van's gaze dart to her for just a second before he swept his leg out and hooked Doyle's, the Resistance leader careening backward but not falling as the Modartha had intended.
Fear for her husband's safety kept Bailey where she was and out of the way. She didn't want him worried about her or concerned that she was in any danger. Backing up against the rocky wall of the cave, she kept her gaze locked on Van. Around her were limestone stalactites and stalagmites that had sheared off from the explosions and ground tremors. In the milky glow of the waters of the grotto, the cylinders of calcium carbonate looked like the bleached bones of some fantastical creature.
Doyle struck out, sweeping his dagger in a low arch meant to gut the Modartha, but Van jumped back agilely, the blade of the lethal weapon barely slicing into the fabric of his t-shirt. The Resistance leader thrust recklessly, sidestepping when the werewolf parried but didn't get away cleanly. Van's blade caught Doyle on the forearm, placing a nasty slice into his opponent's flesh.
"Son of a bitch!” Doyle hissed, stumbling back. He shifted his dagger to his other hand as blood oozed from his wound.
Crevan Byrne's smile was slow and mean as he moved to his right, making Doyle follow him in the lethal dance. He feigned a jab at Doyle's midsection, but the Resistance leader jumped back, barely missing the point of the blade.
Bailey was shocked at the chances her man took as he put a nick here, a slice there on Doyle, drawing blood each time his blade flashed. She watched in awe as Van flicked out his hand and a long horizontal slit appeared in Doyle's pant leg, blood welling up out of the cut.
"I'm going to take you apart piece by piece,” Van promised.
The look in his eyes frightened her. She barely noticed the other men who suddenly appeared in the grotto to observe the fight taking place there.
"Are you all right, Bailey?” Patrick asked.
Wind Wolf Page 10