Thrill Ride

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Get Ozzie on the phone!” Boss bellowed, wrestling the truck around another curve, shifting like a racecar driver. “Tell him to have the garage door up and ready. We’re coming in hot!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pain.

  That was Rock’s entire world. Pain in his shoulders where they were wrenched behind his back. Pain in his nose where Ghost had inadvertently ground his face into the dirt road back at the park. Pain in his hands as the pickup slammed into another curve and, unable to control his momentum, he rolled onto them, squashing them between his ass and the corrugated metal of the truck bed.

  Pain in his heart…

  “I’m gonna have to cut you loose!” Bill yelled from beside him, and, just like that, all his maladies were forgotten. Had he convinced Bill he wasn’t screwing around? That letting him go was the only way to keep everyone safe? His heart soared with relief, only to come crashing back to Earth when Bill continued, “We’ve got the CIA on our tail, which means we need all hands on deck!” The truck swerved into another curve, and Bill squeezed him tightly, trying to keep them both from doing the whole slide-and-slam routine against the top of the rusted wheel well. “We can’t fight with you hog-tied!”

  Fight…

  They were determined to fight the CIA.

  For him.

  Goddamnit!

  The military had a warm and fuzzy acronym to describe this situation. FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all recognition. Because not only were the Knights now involved in this god-awful mess, but it also appeared his worst nightmare was coming true. The stupid, loyal connards were determined to put their reputations, their freedom, and more than that, their very lives on the line.

  For him.

  He wanted to howl with frustration and fear, just have himself a good ol’ fashioned tantrum. But he’d already indulged in that, and look where it’d gotten him. Exactly where he’d always sworn he’d never be…

  As Bill sliced through the zip ties shackling his hands before scooting down to tackle the bindings at his feet, Rock wondered if it was possible just to jump out and save everyone the trouble.

  If he died on impact with the road, so be it. At least his friends would be alive.

  And if he didn’t? Well, undoubtedly he’d be in the hands of the CIA, which was as good as dead since they considered him a rogue operator and traitor. But again, his friends would be alive…

  So as the world around him exploded into chaos, as Boss continued to drive like a madman—about three times faster than anyone should attempt on this winding, mountainous road—and as some stern-sounding voice echoed through a loudspeaker and up into the canopy of trees, “Pull your vehicles to the side of the road unless you want us to open fire!” everything inside Rock screeched to a standstill.

  His decision was made.

  And even though it meant Rwanda Don would remain at large, even though it meant he’d never clear his name and that Fred Billingsworth’s real murderer would go unpunished, nothing mattered except the men with whom he’d he spilled countless drops of blood—an ocean of blood. And, as if in agreement of his decision, every scar on his body ached in memory.

  Knife wounds, bullet wounds, broken bones. The Knights had been there through it all. Carried him when they needed to, donated blood when they had to, and always, always risking everything they had in order to ensure he made it out of every grisly, gut-wrenching situation alive.

  But not this time.

  This time he’d brought trouble down on himself, and he’d be damned if he’d let the Knights give up their reputations, their lives for him.

  Oui, he was going to do this. The instant his ankles were free, he pushed to his knees and, holding onto the edge of the truck bed, managed to clamber unsteadily to his feet.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bill yelled, looking up at him in alarm, trying to scramble into a kneeling position even as the truck rocked and bounced.

  “Tell everyone I’m sorry!” Rock said, planting one of his jungle boots on the side of the bed, wishing that he could see Boss and Becky grinning at each other with love in their eyes just one more time, wishing he could taste some of Shell’s homemade pasta, or…or hear the husky timbre of excitement and desire in Vanessa’s sweet voice when she spoke to him.

  He took out the memory of the two of them locked together back on that narrow access road, mouths fused, hands hungry and searching, and held it close, held it in his mind’s eye. Reveling one last time in the feel of the humid Costa Rican air tunneling through his hair just like her soft fingers had done, sucking in the tart smell of damp foliage and wild orchids that reminded him of her salty sweet taste. Through the truck’s back windshield, he saw the back of her messy, dark head, realized it was the last time he’d likely lay eyes on her, and lamented the fact that he’d yelled at her earlier.

  She’d only done what she thought was right. What he’d have done if the situation were reversed…

  “Tell Vanessa I’m sorry and I understand why she did it!” he yelled as he made his final peace and allowed his muscles to bunch. The next instant, he pushed off the truck with everything he had.

  But instead of going airborne, instead of the whole human-flight-that-would-inevitably-result-in-a-deadly-crash move he’d planned, he found himself being slammed onto his back in the middle of the truck bed, Bill’s hand clutching his waistband, the man’s face looming above him and contorted with fury.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you!” Bill roared, eyes filled with rage and disbelief even as they slid and smacked against the top of the wheel well—bam! Rock’s ribcage felt that one—when Boss raced into another curve.

  “Let me go!” he shoved at Bill frantically, wondering idly if he had a cracked rib. It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I won’t be able to live with myself if—”

  But that’s as far as he got, because huge vacation houses appeared to the right of them and that deep voice once more sounded over the loudspeaker, “This is your last warning! Pull over or we will open fire!”

  And a solution suddenly presented itself. Rock didn’t like it, but he’d take it.

  Snatching one of his SIGs from where Bill had stored it in his waistband after disarming him, Rock pressed the cold circle of the barrel it into the man’s thigh. “If I have to shoot you in the leg in order for you to let me go I will,” he promised.

  “You’re too late!” Bill grinned gleefully, and the next thing Rock knew, the truck was shifting down through the gears, the tires screaming against the asphalt, and he was sliding up the truck bed and crashing into the cab. He barely had time to gather his wits before Boss executed a hard right, gunning it one last time and then slamming on the brakes.

  The truck came to a shuddering halt inside a well-appointed garage. A split second later, Ghost and Steady screamed to a stop on their right, and the garage door rolled down behind them.

  Tick, tick, tick…

  That’s all that could be heard for a few interminable seconds. Just the loud clicking of the overheated engines once Boss and Ghost switched off the ignitions. Stars spun in front of Rock’s eyes from the introduction his skull had had with the truck cab. It was very shades of Wile E. Coyote after the Roadrunner dropped an anvil on his head and, oui, he’d obviously watched way too many cartoons as a kid. But when he managed to blink them away and push up into a kneeling position, it was to find Ozzie standing by the door that led into the house, one hand on the control for the garage door opener, the other gently cradling an Mk-43 Mod 1 machine gun like a mother cradles a baby.

  And the kid was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Boy, is it ever good to have you back, Rock,” he said, chuckling. “Things were getting mighty dull without you.”

  ***

  “They’re holed up in Ms. Edens’s vacation house,” the CIA agent relayed, causing Rwanda Don to sit forward, heart beating out a too-fast rhythm, breath coming in short, staccato bursts that resulted in the cell phone slipping.

  Fumblin
g with it, R.D. managed to get it back in place before, “Is he with them? Rock? Is he with them? Did they get visual confirmation?”

  Jesus. Get a hold of yourself. You’re blathering like an idiot.

  R.D. forced a little self-control, as much as was possible given the situation, and leaned back in the leather chair.

  “Affirmative.” Hearing that one word had R.D.’s breath rushing out silently and relief washing like a benediction through clenched muscles. “Babineaux was spotted standing in the back of the truck bed before the vehicle disappeared inside Ms. Edens’s garage. The team on site is doing their best to surround the house, but there aren’t enough of them. So we’re waiting on the choppers to pick up the two units still in the Cloud Forest and bring them back to San Jose. Once that’s done, offensive maneuvers will commence.”

  Offensive maneuvers that likely would not have been needed if that stupid CIA observation team had stayed put, like R.D. had advised, instead of chasing after the two women!

  Damnit! It was days like this that made R.D. happy to no longer be a part of The Company.

  Bumbling imbeciles…

  Of course, now was not the time for I told you so.

  “You realize the Knights have friends in high places, too. They could call in—”

  “They won’t be calling anyone,” the agent interrupted. “The observation team has activated the cell phone jammer. It’ll be nothing but hiss and static over the airwaves around that place.”

  Good. That was good. So no more of Rock’s friends and colleagues would be racing to the rescue.

  “You mentioned offensive maneuvers. What, exactly, will those entail?” R.D. asked anxiously.

  This thing needed to be over. The sooner, the better. And then things could start getting back to normal. Well…the new normal. Because with Rock out of the picture, The Project, R.D.’s baby for the last half decade, was officially dead.

  But maybe, just maybe, if everything continued to work according to plan, there would be a resurrection of it one day. All it would take was a tiny policy change, and The Project could once more be breathed to life. But that required the party nomination, which required campaign funds, which required—

  Christ. It was all so complicated and messy.

  “It’s simple,” the agent interrupted R.D.’s spinning thoughts. “Either Babineaux gives himself up without a fight, or the CIA teams storm the castle, killing everyone inside. After all, as far as the CIA knows, they are aiding and abetting a rogue operator and known serial killer.”

  Serial killer…

  If The Company only knew the caliber of men Rock had supposedly murdered, they’d likely saint him instead of sacrifice him.

  R.D. leaned forward once more, picking up the end ball on the stainless steel Newton’s cradle sitting at the edge of the maple wood desk. It’d been a gift from a grateful patient—the Newton’s cradle, not the desk. And, unlike the other gifts received over the years, this one hadn’t been thrown directly in the trash.

  Why?

  Probably because it was a reminder that for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Releasing the ball, R.D. watched distractedly as it slammed into the row of stationary balls, causing the one on the opposite end to shoot out. Kinetic motion at work.

  Click, click, click.

  Rock was like that ball. He had the power to affect a cascading change that could eventually blow up everything R.D. had worked toward for years. Already, he’d caused a series of ripples that were spreading…

  Storm the castle. Kill everyone inside.

  That would certainly solve most, if not all, of R.D.’s problems. But, unfortunately, it’d never come to that. Rock would never let it come to that…

  “You know as well as I do that Cajun bastard will give up everything, fight to his last breath to protect the innocent, to do what he thinks is right. And if given a choice between sacrificing himself or watching his friends fight a battle they have no hope of winning, he’ll choose the first option each and every time. We can’t have that.”

  Click, click, click.

  The balls continued to bang against each other, their cadence keeping time to R.D.’s rapidly beating heart and—

  “Which is why I’ve secured an alternate ending.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a hit man in place to take Babineaux out if he decides to do the honorable thing and give himself up.”

  Jesus. He said it without any remorse, without any thought to the good work Rock had done for them over the years. Still, R.D. had to appreciate that pragmatism. This was a situation that required one and only one solution.

  “The Cleaner?” R.D. asked hopefully. “Have you found him?”

  “No. The Cleaner is still off the grid.” Which was just one more thing R.D. needed to worry about. “I have another man in place. No worries. This is almost over.” With that, the line went dead, and silence reigned in the wood-paneled office, broken only by the click, click, click of the balls on the Newton’s cradle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What do we do now?” Vanessa asked anxiously, blowing like a racehorse and glancing around Eve’s plush living room at the harried faces of the Knights.

  Harried…except for Ozzie. He didn’t look the least bit harried. Quite the opposite, in fact. The big goofball was grinning like a loon, chomping on his gum to beat the band, and squeezing Rock with one arm while clutching a mean-looking machine gun with the other.

  “First things first,” Boss said, running a hand through his hair. “We need to call Becky and Eve and tell them to hold back. We don’t want them blowing in here and giving those CIA pricks a reason to open fire.”

  “I’m on it,” Ozzie said, releasing Rock in order to dig his cell phone from his hip pocket.

  “Please, don’t do this, Boss,” Rock pleaded, briefly closing his eyes. “Just let me go. Let me—”

  “I’ll let you go if you tell me you’re responsible for what happened to those men,” Boss said.

  And, oh, no. Oh, crap.

  Quite unintentionally, Boss had posed the question in such a way that Rock could answer in the affirmative. If what Rock had told her, about being the reason those men were dead, was true. And, yep, right on cue…

  “Oui,” Rock said, opening his eyes and nodding, his hard expression even more stony than usual—which probably had a lot to do with the fact that his face was covered in dust and blood. “I’m the reason they’re dead.”

  Everything in the room came to a standstill.

  No one moved, no one blinked, no one so much as dared to breathe. The Knights just stared at Rock, their expressions varying from absolute shock to wary disbelief. And Vanessa was about to open her mouth to refute Rock’s claim when, suddenly, in the resounding, pin-drop silence, she picked up on a gentle whirring she hadn’t realized had been nibbling on her subconscious since they’d barged into the living room.

  Now, it burrowed under her skin like a chigger, driving her batty.

  What is that?

  It wasn’t the air conditioner or the clothes dryer. It wasn’t the subtle hum of the refrigerator. No…this sounded familiar. It sounded like…

  She glanced around, and that’s when she saw a big blue dick taped to one picture window. She blinked, but there was no mistaking what she was seeing.

  Big. Blue. Dick.

  And not only that, but the other two windows in the room were equipped with a tube of lipstick. Except each tube of lipstick appeared to be vibrating.

  What in the—

  “So now will you let me go, mon ami?” Rock asked, his tone tinged with desperation as he stared at Boss’s ravaged expression, which dragged Vanessa’s attention away from the plastic cock and oscillating lipsticks and back to the crisis at hand.

  “Bullshit, Rock!” she spat, clenching her hands into fists in order to keep from grabbing him so she could shake some sense into him. “You told me yourself you weren’t the one to pull the trigger.” />
  And boy, oh boy! If she’d thought the look he shot her when he’d been in the back of that pickup truck was enough to boil her blood, it was nothing compared to this one. Because she’d take the fire of hatred any day—after all, Rock had once told her that love and hate were two horns on the same steer—over this ice cold derision.

  Was it just her? Or did the temperature in the room drop twenty degrees?

  “It doesn’t matter!” he hissed through clenched teeth, frosty daggers shooting from his eyes, his tone glacial.

  “Of course it does,” Boss asserted at the same time Ozzie said, “Uh, yeah, dude. It kinda does.”

  “We have you surrounded!” That deep voice sounded over the loudspeaker once again, and Vanessa was astonished to see Ghost—the man whose face was usually fixed in unreadable lines—actually roll his eyes.

  “Are they kiddin’?” he asked, shaking his head. “There are, what? Six guys in that van at the most, and they think they’ve got us surrounded?”

  “They’re CIA,” Steady replied completely deadpan. “Full of their own pomp and circumstance. If there were only two of them, they’d think that was enough to do us in.”

  “But that won’t be the case for long,” Boss added. “They’ve got to be calling in backup, so what’s our plan? Any ideas?”

  “Boss,” Rock said, then implored, “Frank.” And, oh, hell no. Nobody called the big man by his Christian name save for Becky and his sister. Vanessa turned to the Black Knights’ leader and, yep, sure enough. The muscle in Boss’s square jaw ticked out a hard rhythm, and there was actual fear in his eyes. Fear that Rock might say something to change his mind. “You have to let me go, mon frere. It’s the only way to keep everyone alive.”

  And that would be the something…

  She held her breath as she watched Boss consider Rock’s statement, then the big man shook his head “I…I refuse to believe that.”

  That’s what he said, but Vanessa wondered if Rock could hear the uncertainty in Boss’s tone. To her, it was as clear as a struck bell.