Fuel for Fire

by Julie Ann Walker

  Steven darted from behind the boat, holding his SIG up and at the ready.

  Chapter 40

  The minutes after Dagan shoved the dinghy into the surf were foggy for Chelsea. But not the good kind of fog, not the sweet-smelling, first-of-fall fog. She was talking industrial spill, evacuate-the-area fog. Noxious fog. Fog tinged with terror and the haunting knowledge that Dagan had gone off to confront their enemies.

  Alone!

  She didn’t remember precisely what she had done. Time had gone all wonky on her, becoming fast and slow all at once. But given she, or rather her backpack, was pressed against one of the pilings supporting the harbor arm and her booted feet were sunk into the pebbles of the beach, she must have rowed to shore. And given she was gripping the cold metal of the revolver, she must have retrieved the weapon when she saw it skitter over the beach. And last but certainly not least, given Dagan was sprawled at her feet, facedown and cursing roundly, he must have escaped being hit by any of the shots she’d heard fired.

  Praise the Lord and all his angels!

  The dark shadows that had filled her vision were chased away when he looked up at her, blinked in astonishment, then growled, “Damnit, Chelsea! I thought I told you to get out of here.”

  “When have you ever known me to do anything you say?” She offered him a hand up and then quickly transferred the revolver to his grip. She wasn’t too proud to admit he was the far better shot.

  “There are only four rounds left in the cylinder,” she told him, surprising herself.

  Did I check?

  She must have. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember. Besides, she was distracted by the dark flecks dripping down his cheeks.

  Had one of those bullets found its mark?

  “Are you hurt?” She lifted a finger, touching the sticky substance.

  “It’s not mine,” he assured her. “It’s Morrison’s. He’s dead. I think his own man shot him.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because he was about to tell me who Spider is.”

  “Wha—”

  “Apparently Morrison isn’t Spider. But that’s news to be dealt with later,” he said in a rush. “For now, we need to get out of here. I think there’s only one guy out there, probably that black-haired fuckwad who tied you up and threatened you with the letter opener.”

  “Steven Surry.”

  “Yeah. Him.”

  “How did he find us?” They had been careful, hadn’t they?

  “Who knows. CCTV cameras, maybe? And if Spider’s network is as vast as we suspect, no doubt he has spies and informants inside law enforcement as well as the government. Could be he pulled some of those strings. Now, where’s the dinghy?”

  She pointed to the place where the little wooden boat rested on the beach. It was behind another piling.

  “We’re making a run for it.” Dagan grabbed her hand. “Stay behind me.” He jerked her into a run made awkward by her bouncing backpack.

  They’d gone no more than three feet when a bullet slammed into the beach in front of them, sending pebbles in a stinging, shotgun spray. Instinctively, they both jumped back, racing to the safety of a piling.

  “Damnit!” Dagan cursed. “He’s coming!”

  Her heart sputtered like the old outboard engine that had been on her father’s ancient aluminum johnboat. Before she could ask him, What now? Dagan pulled her out from under the pier and up to the moss-and-algae-covered retaining wall at the end of the harbor arm.

  Dead end. A worm of terror wiggled through her chest, winding itself around her lungs and making it impossible to breathe.

  Shoving the revolver in his jacket pocket, Dagan bent and made a basket of his hands by threading his fingers together. “Up you go!”

  She looked at him. Looked at the wall. “Go sell crazy somewhere else. I got all I can handle here.”

  “Hurry, Chels!”

  She slipped her foot into his waiting hands and jumped at the same time he gave her the ol’ heave-ho.

  Weightlessness.

  Vertigo.

  Dread.

  She experienced all of those as she sailed through the air until…wham! She slammed into the retaining wall, her arms over the top, her hands digging for purchase, and her boots scrabbling against the surface.

  “Just hang on!” Dagan hissed.

  Right. Because it didn’t seem she could do much else. Her arms didn’t have the strength to pull her over the top.

  Oh, why hadn’t she hit the gym a little more? Or, for lands sakes, laid off the peanut-butter crackers? Dangling there, her backpack doing everything in its power to yank her backward, she felt as useful as boobs on a man.

  In contrast, Dagan jumped, caught the top of the wall, and hoisted himself up and over so easily that she cursed. Then he grabbed her by the armpits and dragged her up next to him. She marveled at his strength. The whole of him was like steel forged in fire. She imagined his bones were made of the same stuff used in Tolkien’s High-Elven Swords. Would he glow blue if an Orc were near?

  And great. Wonderful. Fear had made her a little batty.

  “Up you go, Chels,” Dagan said again, pointing to the railing on the side of the pier.

  Planting her foot in his hands, they repeated the jump-and-toss maneuver. But this time she was able to not only grab hold of the lowest rung on the rail, but also swing her leg up and over, which allowed her to hoist herself onto the pier.

  Praise Jesus!

  Ridiculously pleased with herself, she turned in time to see Dagan leap and latch on to the railing just as Surry raced onto the beach below. A dark newsboy cap was pulled low over Surry’s brow, making it impossible to see his face. But she had no trouble making out the evil black eye at the end of his pistol. It was staring straight at them. Or, more precisely, at Dagan.

  “Look out!” she screamed just as Surry’s gun belched up a round.

  The muzzle flash was blinding. The roar of the weapon deafening. But the bullet smacked the side of the pier six inches from where Dagan dangled, and she nearly fainted with relief. She might have done exactly that, had she not been looking around for something to throw at Surry, something, anything to distract him from taking another shot.

  But she needn’t have worried. Dagan didn’t need her help.

  Moving so quickly she could barely track him, he one-handed the pistol out of his pocket, aimed, and fired. Bam!

  A bark of pain sounded from below. Surry dropped his weapon and grabbed his shooting arm, his cap slipping off his head and landing on the beach. She wasn’t certain if the bullet hit him square or just grazed him.

  “Here!” Dagan handed her the revolver.

  The weapon was hot from its recent work. The barrel singed her fingers as she turned the gun and aimed for Surry who was already running for cover beneath the pier, pistol back in hand.

  Dagan hoisted himself over the railing and wasted no time yelling at her to run!

  Yup. Good plan. But which way?

  Back into town where more of Spider’s or Morrison’s or whoever’s goons probably waited? Or worse, the police? The cry of sirens sounded in the distance. The gunplay had obviously been overheard and reported. And yessiree, given Chelsea was a wanted woman, and given that the guy she was supposed to have stolen something from lay dead on the beach somewhere down below, getting apprehended by the local law was something she should probably avoid at all costs.

  But that left…what? What else could they do? Where else could they go?

  Dagan must have realized she was caught on the horns of a dilemma because he snatched the revolver from her hand, threaded their fingers together, and gave her a tug down the pier.

  “We’ll jump,” he said as he broke into a run, dragging her with him. “And hope Gautier is still there.”

  What are the chances? she thought,
racing beside him. Then she figured since straws were all they had, they might as well grasp at them.

  It wasn’t until a few seconds later, when the lighthouse loomed large, that she remembered the first thing he’d said. We’ll jump.

  Lord have mercy! Jump? As in off the end of the friggin’ pier?

  If memory served, it had looked to be a least a two-story drop. Now, with the tide out…what? Three stories? Four?

  Her legs felt like pinwheels, spinning, spinning, spinning until her thighs screamed in protest. But finally they made it to the lighthouse. The motor atop buzzed as it spun its white lights over the Channel, warning away passing ships.

  Peering into the dark water below made Chelsea dizzy. “Holy crap,” she breathed, gripping the railing so hard her fingers ached. “Are we crazy to even consider this?” Three. It had to be three stories.

  Before Dagan could answer, they both saw it.

  A submersible bobbed just beyond the pier. It was torpedo-shaped and painted black as pitch. They may have missed it altogether if not for the fact that the hatch was open and standing in the center of it was a man with the face of a medieval monk, all long and pale and slightly foreboding.

  “Bonjour!” He waved up at them. “The problem on the beach has been eliminated, oui?” His French accent made it sound like zee problem on zee bitch.

  Dagan didn’t answer, just lifted his hand. And that’s when another shot boomed through the night.

  The round hit the railing two inches from Chelsea’s fingers, and the ping of the bullet against the metal sounded louder than a gong. Since she was holding on to the rail, the reverberation traveled up her arm and rattled her brains inside her skull.

  Once again, Dagan was lightning fast. He swung around and fired.

  Now, when taking a shot, a shooter had to consider environmental factors. Like wind and elevation. But Dagan was so skilled—or so battle-tested—that he did it all automatically. She couldn’t see where his bullet buried itself into Surry’s body, but Surry yelped and hit the deck.

  Before she could do more than blink, Dagan was climbing the railing, holding a hand down and pulling her up beside him. Another bout of vertigo hit, the world doing a fast spin. But before she could get her bearings, Dagan squeezed her hand, his fingers so strong, his palm so warm and rough, and together they jumped!

  Chapter 41

  He was dying.

  He knew it as surely as he knew his mother had named him Steven Jonathan Surry.

  The dark, nearly burgundy color of the blood on his hand when he lifted it away from the gruesome wound was highlighted by the relentless revolution of the lighthouse. His liver had taken the deathblow. And the pain… Oh, the pain was unlike anything he had ever known.

  Pressing his blood-soaked hand back against his wound, he struggled to stand. His thoughts focused on his mother. He had failed her by failing Spider. But if, before he succumbed, he accomplished this one last task, then maybe…just maybe Spider would take pity on him.

  He had heard stories of such. That if one were to fight for Spider ’til the end, Spider would have mercy.

  The first step toward the end of the pier had Steven crying out. There was a breathtaking agony so deep inside. But he gritted his teeth, palmed his SIG, and pushed forward. His heart fluttered in an effort to pump what blood remained in his poor, ruined body. And by the time he made it to the railing, his boot was full of the stuff. It was warm and squished between his toes.

  His vision blurred when he peered over the rail into the undulating water below. To his surprise and dismay, what he saw wasn’t the couple treading water back to shore. It was Beard. He was climbing into an oddly shaped vessel that rode low in the drink.

  A submarine? If Steven hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. As for Chelsea? Regrettably, she was nowhere in sight. But he would take what he could get.

  Lifting his SIG, he was disheartened to see his hand shaking. Needs must, he thought and stopped applying pressure to his wound so he could use his free hand to support his firing hand. He could feel his liver leaking faster.

  Closing one eye and sighting down the barrel, he gathered his strength to fire. Oddly, his muscles refused to obey, and before he could force them to his will, the hatch on the vessel slammed shut with a loud gong! Then the whole thing sank beneath the waves. A quiet glug-glug and a faint eddy were the only things proving it had ever been there.

  “No. No!” he cried, collapsing onto the pier.

  Pain and anguish filled the spaces his leaking blood left empty. The echo of sirens was louder now. But he suffered no illusions that the local authorities would get to him quickly enough to save him.

  He decided to use his final minutes to call Spider and beg. Not for his own life—that was already forfeit—but for his mother’s.

  The mobile was hard to grip in his blood-slicked hands, but he managed to enter Spider’s number. When the man himself answered, his bored tone worked over Steven’s raw nerves like sandpaper.

  “Sir.” Was that Steven’s voice? There was barely anything left of it. “I’m dying, sir. Sh-shot in the gut.” There was silence on the other end of the line, and Steven hurried to finish his report while he still had the breath to do it. “Morrison and I followed Miss Duvall from the fisherman’s house back to the Folkestone Harbor Arm. There was confusion. A gun battle. Miss Duvall and her partner escaped in a…a submarine. But not…” He panted against the pain. “Not before I killed Morrison. Had to. He was going to give you up.”

  Finally Spider spoke. “Give me up? What do you mean?”

  “They th—” Steven gasped when a sharp pain arrowed through his gut, making him nauseous. He thought it possible he might die while tossing his cookies. But then the sickness subsided and all that remained was unimaginable agony. “They thought Morrison was y-you. That’s why they infiltrated his systems. They were looking for proof to bring you down.”

  He could hear Spider fumbling with the phone. Gone was any boredom in his voice when he said, “Any idea who they are?”

  “CIA? I don’t know. Maybe an…interagency effort.” Between gasping breaths, Steven managed to tell Spider about the supposedly dead but surprisingly alive Christian Watson. “He is with four others. They left in the fisherman’s truck and are being followed by Ramón, Morrison’s driver. I think they have the thumb drive because I heard the man with Duvall admit that the device wasn’t on him, but that he could get it. It would just take a little while. There—” Another pain lanced through him, the blackness closing in. “There might still be time to locate the others and find the drive.”

  “Yes. Yes, there might. Even so, I need to begin transferring and emptying any accounts tied to Morrison.”

  A herculean task, Steven knew. But if anyone could pull off making millions of dollars disappear without a trace, it was Spider. “Please, sir,” he finished with a crackling wheeze. “My mother… She is innocent. She—”

  “Not to worry.” Spider’s voice was calm, almost blasé. “You did as well as can be expected, I suppose. I knew Morrison was a liability from the beginning, but…” Spider’s voice trailed off. Or at least Steven thought it did. It was becoming difficult to hear. Steven’s eyesight was almost completely gone now. He suspected his ears were next. “Miss Duvall and her companion are likely headed to France,” Spider continued as if they were having no more than a friendly conversation, as if Steven wasn’t, in fact, dying.

  “I would suspect they will be putting in at Calais as it is the closest point on the French side. I’ll have men waiting to take them out there. As for this Christian Watson fellow and the group traveling with him, I’ll ring up Morrison’s driver myself. Once I know the location of the rest of the group, I’ll send your backup to deal with them.”

  Steven had never doubted Spider could right his own ship. The man gave new meaning to the word resou
rceful.

  “I thank you for your service this day, Steven,” Spider added, but Steven didn’t want thanks. He wanted bloody assurances.

  “Sir?” His voice was a bare whisper. “Please, my mum?”

  “Will finish her days in the luxury she’s grown accustomed to,” Spider said, and Steven nearly fainted with relief. Or blood loss. Probably both. “Like I said, you did well today. I reward my loyal employees.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he managed, though his mouth had filled with blood. The iron-rich smell assaulted his nose. He hadn’t the strength to spit it out, instead letting it slip unheeded from the corners of his mouth.

  “You’re welcome, Steven. Now, be a smart chap and toss your mobile and your weapon into the Channel before you go. Best not to leave more evidence behind than necessary. Good-bye.”

  The line went dead, and the last of Steven’s strength left him. He dropped the phone and his gun to the pier. It took him forever to nudge them over the edge but somehow, eventually, he accomplished it.

  With his final task for Spider complete, he surrendered to gravity and toppled onto his side. The pain was less now. Which he knew meant his time was short. He wished he could still see. He would have liked to gaze one last time at the stars above. But he satisfied himself with visualizing his mother’s beloved face.

  As he lay struggling to breathe, feeling his heartbeat go thready, he tried not to think of her coming heartbreak and disappointment. He had always been her little hero. Her good boy. But sometimes, due to circumstances beyond their control, even good boys turned into bad men.

  He was a bad man. He could admit as much to himself. But it hadn’t always been so. Once upon a time, he had been one of the good guys, fighting to bring the criminals of the world, men like Spider and Morrison, to justice.