Omega Force 01- Storm Force

by Susannah Sandlin

  Once he had her pinned, he allowed her to lift her muzzle from the water. They were frozen in this position for what seemed like forever, although Mori knew it couldn’t have been more than seconds.

  The stupid, stupid man still thought he could get what he wanted. He was giving her the chance to submit, wolf to wolf, in exchange for her life. A few days ago, she would have, thinking she could at least keep Kell safe.

  Now she knew Kell’s only hope was for her not just to survive but to conquer. And sometimes, to win, the good guys had to stop playing by the rules.

  She willed her muscles to relax and whined to indicate her submission. Michael’s wolf relinquished his hold on her neck. They stared at each other, rain dripping off his face onto hers.

  Mori raised her head and licked the muzzle of Michael’s wolf in another sign of submission and obedience — and then bit as hard as she could. She locked her jaws and held on as he tried to shake her off, unable to reach her with his own teeth.

  Blood poured into her mouth, and she relished it, keeping her jaws clamped as Michael’s wolf tried to roll, then shake.

  Finally, he slammed himself against the side of the boat hard enough that she lost her grip and tumbled overboard, hitting the water on her back and going under.

  Mori’s first instinct was panic, and she used her legs to bring herself to the surface. Dires were big animals with heavy muscle, which made them poor swimmers. But while Michael had more experience with boats, Mori had been on her college swim team, her long arms and legs well suited to moving her through water.

  She’d sink when she shifted, so she tried to steel herself for that and focused, but nothing happened. Her wolf’s legs kept pumping, telling her survival instincts they had to keep moving.

  She thought of Kell, lying on the floor of that cabin, unconscious, with the water rising so fast it could be seeping through the floorboards at any minute. The thought was enough to force her legs to stop struggling to keep her afloat, and she let herself go under.

  The shift seemed agonizing and slow, and by the time it was done, Mori’s burning lungs felt as if they would burst. She’d like to know where Michael was — and whether or not he’d shifted before she resurfaced — but she couldn’t wait.

  She swept her arms to the side and kicked upward, trying to come up for air as close as she could to the dark shadow of the boat visible from below.

  With a gasp, she surfaced face-first, struggling even then to get a deep breath of air with the rough water and the blinding rain. The only consolation was that Michael couldn’t see any better than she could in this mess.

  Something grabbed her ankle, and she barely had a chance to suck in a lungful of air and rain before she went under again.

  Beneath the water, the world was eerily silent. The rain pelted the surface above her with muffled beats, but the wind-driven currents remained silent. Visibility was poor, but not so poor that she couldn’t see the big hand clutching her ankle.

  Using the last of her energy, Mori twisted in an imitation of an alligator death roll while kicking at Michael’s head with her free foot. The spin did it. He let her go, and she swam not for the shore but for open water.

  Normally the water of the bayou, which came off one of many branches of the Atchafalaya River, flowed south toward the Gulf. But with the hurricane pushing the water ashore ahead of it, the bayou — and Mori along with it — pushed north, away from the cabin.

  She let it carry her along, keeping her focus on breathing, on staying afloat. So far, she hadn’t seen Michael behind her, although he’d proven himself adept at sneaking up on her today.

  To her right, a portion of the bayou branched off, and she followed the swell of water into an area of mixed water and land, the swamp grasses growing in clumps. It looked like a dead end, but maybe it would give her a place to catch her breath and hide from Michael.

  Here, unlike on the main branch of the bayou, she saw the cypress knees Kell had talked about, sticking out of the swirling, muddy water like skeletal fingers next to the huge trees they helped nourish and support.

  Shoulder and thigh muscles burning from the work of keeping herself above water, Mori made her way to the most solid-looking of the knees, sheltered from the main part of the inlet and tucked a bit out of sight of the main swell of Bayou Cote Blanche.

  There wasn’t enough unbroken waterway to swim here, so she pulled herself along using some of the flotons — literally “floating land” covered in grasses — Kell had shown her last night. It looked solid enough to step on, but there were no guarantees. One step in the wrong spot, and a person would sink right through it and straight into the water.

  Finally, Mori pulled herself to the cypress knee she’d been working toward. She wrapped her arms around it, taking comfort from the smooth, wet wood and thankful for a couple of knotty areas she’d found below to rest her feet on.

  There was no sign of Michael, and given her first chance to indulge in speculation since opening the door of the cabin and finding Michael’s macabre calling card, Mori’s mind went back to Kell. Would Michael give up on her and go back to the cabin? Whether or not he thought she was dead, would he try to finish turning Kell into a hybrid, just out of spite?

  He would.

  Mori had to get back to the cabin.

  A swirl of water rose over her mouth and nose, and she scrambled higher onto the cypress knee. The water had risen at least an inch in just the minute she’d been there. At some point, and soon, her wooden sanctuary would be underwater, and again, she’d have to swim for it.

  Back to Kell.

  CHAPTER 35

  Two of the earth’s biggest dust bunnies stared at Kell from beneath the bed. Or was it three bunnies? And why was a high school drum corps pounding out a dissonant rhythm in his head?

  Groaning, Kell rolled onto his back and struggled to hang onto his cookies until the wave of nausea subsided. Above him, two beams spanned the ceiling of the cabin where he knew good and well there was only one. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he slept a while longer, he’d wake up from the world’s most realistic dream.

  Except, the vision his mind conjured up — a snarling, shouting Michael Benedict, bursting into the cabin and knocking him to kingdom come and back — was no vision. He remembered his skull cracking against the footboard of the bed, but nothing after that.

  Where the hell is Mori?

  Kell sat up too fast and had to grab the desk chair to keep from fainting or throwing up from the nausea spins — or both. When the Tilt-A-Whirl sensation eased, he rolled to his knees and pulled himself onto the bed with his right hand.

  Funny how his left hand didn’t seem to hurt as badly now that jackhammers were going off in his skull and his back was in full spasm mode.

  He’d closed his eyes and almost faded out again when the banging of the front door startled him back to awareness. That big son of a bitch had broken his grandfather’s cypress door. Part of it lay in splinters on the floor, while the rest swung open and shut on worthless hinges with every gust of wind.

  The rain blew horizontally from the south, which meant either the eye of the hurricane hadn’t arrived yet or he’d slept through it.

  There would be time to have a concussion later. For now, Mori was out there somewhere with that sociopathic jackass, and Kell had to find her.

  He stood up and congratulated himself on staying upright — at least until he staggered to the desk and upchucked the remains of his protein bar in the trash can.

  From his new vantage point, leaning over with his face resting on the desk within easy puking distance of the trash, he could see the dock — or, rather, the expanse of water where the dock used to be. The storm surge hadn’t brought brackish floodwater into the cabin yet, but another foot, and he’d be in a wading pool. There was no sign of Trey’s boat. Had they taken it, or had it become untethered in the rising water? Could wolves swim? Of the questions he’d asked Mori, that one hadn’t occurred to him. Dogs could swim, but no
t all of them liked it or were good at it.

  No time to worry about that now. Kell took a deep breath and stood upright again, getting his legs under him before shuffling to the door. No fast movements because his head might explode. No sudden turns because his back might give way. He’d never felt more pathetic and useless. How could he help Mori if it took his every ounce of strength just to walk across the room?

  Her voice came to him, and the look on her face when they’d talked this morning about going after Benedict together. They’d agreed she was physically stronger than him, even if he were at a hundred percent. But he had the ability to think strategically and to plan, even if he were injured.

  Benedict was strong and smart — he’d give the son of a bitch that much. But he also ran on emotion, usually anger. Emotional people made bad decisions, and Kell would bet emotional Dire Wolves did as well.

  He could find them if he was smart, thorough, and dispassionate. This was just another mission. The target, Michael Benedict, was on the move, with an unknown destination. His choices were limited, however, especially in this weather, and Kell knew the terrain.

  Mori might be with him, and she might not. His target had to be Benedict.

  First, he needed to be able to maneuver the best he could, given his injuries. Pretending they weren’t there hadn’t worked out so well for him. The time for being stubborn and stupid was done.

  Turning slowly, he made his way to the corner of the sleeping area and moved the fluorescent lantern off the top of a trunk that served as a bedside table.

  The old leather trunk was one of the few things Kell had of his grandfather’s. He’d found it in the attic of his parents’ house after they died, and moved it out to Cote Blanche when he put the place in Jeanerette on the market.

  Pulling open the lid with his right hand, he stared at the item on top. He’d been such a fucking dickhead. He’d been given a back brace when he was sent home from his last tour, and had he ever worn it? Hell no. Mr. Macho had seen it as a sign of weakness. He was a Ranger, a man’s man. He could tough through the pain. That’s what Rangers trained for — persevering through adverse conditions, never giving up.

  They hadn’t been trained to be stupid, prideful idiots. No, he’d learned that all by himself.

  He fitted the brace around his waist and cinched it good and tight. The effect was immediate, with the muscles surrounding his spine no longer straining to support his upper body without help.

  Next, a weapons check. Kell dug in his duffel and pulled out the lightweight black muscle shirt that went with the combat pants. They’d been made of some high-tech fabric that didn’t absorb water, so they were perfect for working in these conditions.

  He pulled out the rifle and looked from it to the rising water. There was no point in taking it. He made sure it was ready to fire and stashed it on the ledge above the front door. He’d know it was there if he needed it.

  Kell’s head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and nails, but he forced himself to keep moving. He took the Beretta and strapped on the shoulder holster. At the apartment in Houston, he had a specially fitted holster that nestled the gun at the back of his neck, at his collar line, but wishing for it didn’t accomplish anything. He’d have to keep the Beretta as dry as he could and hope like hell it fired if he needed it.

  His knives had been lost in the Galveston fiasco, so Kell returned to the trunk. He seemed to remember some of his granddad’s old hunting knives being stashed there.

  He pulled out a box of letters and mementoes he’d always meant to go through, but hadn’t found the time or the right frame of mind; a few photographs, mostly of relatives he didn’t recognize anymore; a big, folded piece of burlap that had been used for God only knew what; an old, rusty thermometer from the 1930s, about a foot long and sporting a big gold and red logo for Shell Oil Company; and below that, the knives.

  One, a pocketknife, had a cracked handle and was so worn Benedict would be able to kill Kell before he ever got the damned thing open. The other was a jewel — long, with a serrated edge and a good grip. It had been well cared for, and even had an aroma of ancient oil. His grandfather had probably used it to skin gators back when such things were legal. Now, a thirty-day gator season was all the swampers had, and Kell thought it was plenty. Not to sound like one of Mori’s tree-hugging friends, but people had almost killed off the gators in the 1970s and they were as much a part of life in the bayou as the cormorants and egrets.

  Kell took the burlap, wrapped it around the knife blade, and looked around for something to carry it in. He’d left his own backpack at Nik’s, but Mori’s sat inside the door next to the life jackets.

  He opened it, took out her wallet and phone, and set them on the desk, along with an assortment of pens and a couple of small notebooks. And that damned contract promising her to Benedict — it went on the desk, too.

  Before sliding the knife into the pack, he unwrapped it again and used it to cut a big square out of one of the tarps. This, he used to wrap the Beretta’s barrel and grip, leaving only the trigger exposed. Might work, might not.

  He placed the knife back in the pack and looked around for anything else that might prove useful.

  A pole in one corner caught his eye — he’d brought it in off Trey’s boat when he removed the cover. Brilliant. If he could swim to the nearest bank without losing everything, it would be the perfect tool to use in navigating flotons, to test their solidity.

  He took one last look around, mentally ticking through everything he saw and gauging its worth. A tarp would keep the rain out of his eyes, but would be cumbersome to carry and impossible to swim with. Foodstuffs were useless; he didn’t plan to be out there that long. The life jacket would be helpful in the storm, but too bulky with the other stuff he needed to carry.

  His gaze passed over the old Shell Oil memento, then returned to it. He stuffed it in the bag with the knife.

  Slipping his arms through the straps of the backpack, he adjusted the fit to make it snug, then secured the bottom strap around his waist. He reached up and loosened the pack’s flap enough to stick his right hand inside, and positioned the knife handle so he could make a quick draw if he needed to.

  Taking a deep breath, Kell stepped onto the porch and squinted through the gray gloom. His watch said it was noon, but it looked more like dusk. The dark, swaying outlines of the trees along the bayou were vague shadows. Nearly unrecognizable as they were, if he hadn’t known them so well, he might have thought them giants dancing in the storm.

  The water seemed to have crested in the last few minutes, which he hoped meant the eye of the hurricane was drawing close. The dock remained passable.

  A gust of wind caught the backpack and almost blew him off the porch. He was too top-heavy. Kell descended to a crouch, moving his center of gravity lower, and splashed his way to the end of the dock, ignoring the protests from his back.

  He knelt at the end and looked around. Nothing within his limited field of vision looked out of place, so he scanned what he could see of the shoreline, which wasn’t much. The water ran down his face in streams and hit him like a slap when he faced the south, into the wind.

  He couldn’t see much, but he knew this bayou. The bank on the south side looked closer, but the water between the cabin and the north bank was normally more shallow and less likely to be clogged with tangled underbrush invisible from the surface. He doubted the storm surge would change that.

  Plus, the north side usually had more flotons. In a boat, they were a nuisance. On foot, they would help him navigate.

  Kell wedged the end of the aluminum pole into the backpack and took a few seconds to get centered, to transport himself mentally back to his training. One of the tests to be admitted to Ranger School was a series of water-combat survival exercises, including a distance swim wearing full combat gear, and that shit was a lot heavier than what he carried now. The exercises were the easy part, designed to weed out who would and wouldn’t get into the pro
gram. Then they got to the real Ranger training. The final sixteen days of Ranger School had been spent in Florida, testing swamp-survival skills under extreme conditions and low rations.

  So Kell had done this before. The hurricane added an extra twist, but he could do it.

  “Rangers lead the way,” he announced to the wind, then took a deep breath and jumped in feetfirst. He let himself drop to the bottom, adjusting to the pressure of the water and the weight of the wet pack before launching himself back toward the surface.

  Although he hadn’t thought about it when deciding which way to swim, heading for the north bank meant the wind and rain slashed at his back, helping to move him along.

  He swam in steady strokes, cursing every time his swollen left hand hit the water. Splash, shit, splash, shit. When the bank was clearly within view, he pushed on for a few more strokes before lowering his feet. Normally, from this spot, the water would hit him mid-calf. Now, it lapped just beneath his armpits.

  Can Mori swim? He pushed the thought aside and struggled to the bank. Benedict was his target. Benedict had to be his focus.

  He pulled the pole free of the backpack and used it as a walking stick, placing it on the muddy bayou bottom and pushing himself out of the water and onto the bank. The land was solid there — at least by Atchafalaya Swamp standards — running in a narrow, tree-filled ridge that, on summer days, was full of birds and the lazy rustle of Spanish moss.

  Most of the moss was gone, and the trees were denuded of leaves. Probably blown halfway to Lafayette by now. A lot of limbs littered the ground, but the wind levels had dropped, and Kell no longer worried about being hit by projectiles.

  The eye must have finally moved ashore. The rain slackened and, within seconds, stopped.

  Kell looked at the sky, where there was an impossible bank of clouds to his north and, moving overhead, a clear patch of blue sky so rich and clear it didn’t seem real. The eyewall and eye of Geneva.