Afterglow (38 page)

“No.”

His fingers tightened around the grip of his Glock; beside him, Dakota had her tiny S&W special in her hand. He didn’t like her being there. But then, he hadn’t wanted her anywhere near him at the start of the trip. Life was fucking funny that way.

The hangar, large enough to house a commercial 747, held only one small, bright yellow Air Tractor. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath as he approached the aircraft cautiously. If he was ID’ing it correctly, it could have a payload of up to a thousand pounds of … airborne Rapture?

Dakota closed the gap between them. “What?” she said, barely above a whisper.

“That’s an ag-plane.” Rand recognized it from a stunt he’d done in a movie several years ago. “A crop duster,” he clarified. Question was, had the load been dropped, or was it still sitting in the tanks?

“Stop!” Dakota grabbed his arm.

Rand paused, noting the bodies of his men beneath the fuselage and the lifeless white of their eyes.

“They’ll still be dead in two minutes! I’m sorry, Rand, just give me a minute.” She pulled him back, sticking her weapon into her bag as she rustled around for something else. “Let me find …” She pulled out something—not the gun he’d instructed she keep out and ready at all times, but something in a sealed package. A second package quickly followed the first.

“Just put this on.” She ripped one of bags open with her teeth. “If that’s a crop duster, chances are it’s got Rapture in it, on it, near it. Your men certainly took a big hit.” She shook open a mask and handed it to him, before tearing into the second one.

He put the elastic over his head. While it was only made to prevent smoke inhalation in a residential setting, it was better than nothing. Her resourcefulness impressed the hell out of him.

Rand helped her adjust her mask over her face and the wig she was wearing, then gestured for her to retrieve her gun from the bowels of her bag.

Together they approached the plane and the two dead men beneath it. Dakota crouched beside Ron Ligg and pointed to his open, staring eyes—fully white. He’d received a massive dose of Rapture. Same for Derek Rebik.

Had the payload already been dropped, or was it a disaster about to happen?

Rand climbed up into the small cockpit and turned on the engine. It roared to life. He looked at the gauge. The hopper capacity was eight hundred pounds, and the level showed … eight hundred pounds. Relief flooded through him, and his fingers gripped the controls for a moment before he shut the engine off. His ears throbbed in the aftermath.

God. If this shit had been sprayed … anywhere, anytime. The death toll could’ve been in the thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands.

Emerging from the cockpit, he stepped onto the wing, then jumped down and walked around to look at the tank under the fuselage. Aware that Dakota watched anxiously from a safe distance away, Rand quickly removed the regulator and pressure valve, rendering the spray boom inoperable. He shut the cover, pocketed what he’d just removed. “Okay,” he said, double-checking that the cover was secure. “We’re outta here.”

He heard a slight scuffle and muffled shout, and spun, ripping off his mask, tossing it aside, and raising his gun in what felt like slo-mo. “Shit.” A trap.

Six armed men dressed in airport coveralls formed a semicircle, boxing them in. One man had Dakota. Her mask had been ripped away, and she looked more pissed than terrified.

A military-looking guy with a buzz cut gripped her from behind, his arm wrapped tightly under her breasts, his engine-greasy hand covering her mouth. The semiautomatic in his other hand was pressed to her temple. He did not look friendly.

The short and wiry guy beside them, booted feet spread, had his weapon trained on Rand. Rand focused on the muzzle at Dakota’s head, ignoring the five who had him in their crosshairs. He could make a shot or two, maybe three, but for Dakota, there was no wiggle room.

“Drop your weapon,” the man holding her said in strongly accented English, bending her into his chest so she was off balance. Cheeks flushed a pissed-off pink, eyes wide over his fingers, she tried to maintain her balance and pull away at the same time. She used both hands to pry his fingers away from her face, bending them back until he let go. Of her face.

She dug her nails into the forearm clamped across her body. The guy didn’t so much as flinch. Didn’t stop her trying to break free. “Shoot the son of a bitch!”

Rand’s heart did a tap dance, and his finger squeezed the trigger. “Who do you work for?” he demanded, ignoring her request and the other men closing in as he concentrated on the guy he figured was in charge.

Buzz Cut looked taken aback. “Drop your weapon or the girl dies.”

Rand allowed his gaze to flicker to Dakota. They’d snatched the wig off and tossed it on the floor. Her hair tumbled in a crazy, bright cloud around her shoulders—something that a son of a bitch like the man holding her could use to keep her tight in front of him. Rand had to force his eyes away from her to concentrate on her captor.

“Razor’s Edge,”
she told him meaningfully.

In which he’d doubled for Jackman, and saved the girl by shooting the bad guy who was holding her in the head, missing her by inches. Those had been blanks. And he hadn’t given a fuck about the actress. Eyes on the man behind Dakota, Rand shook his head. Not just no. But no way in hell.

The guy wasn’t familiar, but his type was. Military. Buzz-cut black hair, pug nose, strong jaw. No fat. Just slabs of rock-hard muscle. Trained. They were a good thirty feet apart, but Rand could see his dead black eyes over Dakota’s bright head.

“Go for it,” he said coldly. “The girl means nothing to me. And feel free to shoot me. Policia e Shtetit are on their way. We called them to come get the bodies.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’ll be here before you turn around. I hear Peqin is particularly nice in the winter months.”

The high-security prison was known for its inhuman treatment of prisoners and complete disregard for human rights. Albanians had a profound mistrust of the justice system, and just the word Peqin stopped the men in their tracks.

For a few seconds. Then one of the men flanking Buzz and Dakota fired a hail of bullets from his semiauto. The barrage missed Rand by several feet, but he felt the breeze go by his ear. Buzz snapped out a command in what sounded like Greek and jerked his chin; his men closed in on Rand—no weapons.

So they wanted them alive; something to consider later. If there was a later.

Rand spread his feet, adjusting his weight over his knees as the five men rushed him. He’d trained for these kinds of kick-butt action scenes, rehearsed the hits to make a scene look as authentic as possible in front of the camera. Over and over. Cut after cut. He had muscle memory on his side. But since he didn’t have the directive not to shoot anyone, he fucking fired into the mob.

One down, four to go. He slammed the Glock on the closest guy’s nose with a gratifying crunch. The man howled and dropped, blood gushing from his nose and mouth.

The next guy, silver hair, baby face, rushed him from behind, but Rand had already spun, leg extended. His foot slammed up into the guy’s jaw.
Crack
. Blood sprayed from baby-face’s mouth and nose. He was unconscious before he hit the cement.

Defense. Offense. Kick ass. Blood pumping. Mind moving three steps ahead as he circled.

Momentum building, Rand went headfirst into the next guy, ramming him in his hard belly and wrapping his arms around him like a wrestler going for the tag. Someone kicked him as he was getting up; pain radiated down his side. He stumbled from a punishing blow to the back of the head. Ignoring the black snow in his vision, Rand grabbed the man’s hand, bent back his fingers like twigs, taking him to his knees. Then Rand brought up his knee into his esophagus.

He staggered to his feet and swung back to see Buzz half-carrying Dakota from the building. Fuck it! Everything had been a diversion. It was
Dakota
they wanted.

Razor’s Edge
. Without hesitation or finesse, he fired. His bullet hit Buzz in the temple, and inches over Dakota’s head. She let out a bloodcurdling shriek of surprise as he crumpled behind her, almost taking her down with him.

The last man standing was better at taking orders than at improvising; the loss of his leader slowed him down. He fumbled for a better grip on his weapon and grabbed at Dakota’s arm as she tried to get out of the way. She swung her purse and slammed it into his head, making the shot he was about to fire go wild. She ducked as it ricocheted off the metal ceiling, sounding like a bullet in a tin cup.

White-faced, the asshole swung the weapon in Rand’s direction, shouting at the others to get up, to help him, in a combination of Greek, Italian, and broken English. His call for help needed no translation; he was out of his depth and he knew it.

Dakota lunged at him, slamming her body against his arm, and again the shot missed the intended target. His semi went, spewing ammo as it cartwheeled in the air to slam into the corrugated metal wall behind them. It was a fucking miracle that they weren’t all dead where they stood.

The idiot and Dakota crashed to the cement floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

Two of the attackers had made it back to their feet, streaming blood, and they converged on Rand, hell-bent on vengeance. He kicked out, making one guy jump out of the way. The other thug put on a surprising burst of speed and grabbed him in a bear hug from behind. The man tightened his hold, squeezing the air from Rand’s lungs as he swung him in an arc like a rag doll. The Glock slipped from his bloodless fingers.

He used the guy’s momentum to lift his legs, giving him his full body weight so the guy staggered backward just as his partner came at Rand with his fists.

Rand took a punch to the jaw. His head snapped back, and he tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. Even as his eyes watered from the blow, he shot out a foot.

Thwak
.

His foot slammed down on the man’s thigh. He felt the vibration travel all the way up his own leg as he heard the crack of bone. The man howled and dropped.

Rand struggled in the implacable grip of the last man standing, panting and trying to break loose as the steel bands of the guy’s arms squeezed until black spots danced in front of his eyes. He slammed his head back, heard cartilage crunch, and jumped out of the way as the man fell full-length, face-first, into the cement.

Lungs heaving, he swiveled his head to find Dakota across the hangar. The place was littered with bodies. He swiped his hand under his bleeding nose. It hurt like hell, but he laughed anyway at the picture she made.

She was straddling the man’s chest, her little peashooter pressed to the guy’s left eye. Her hair streamed in a glowing waterfall down her back. She turned her head, her eyes glittering in the muted light. Her position was overkill, because the man was quite dead.

Rand went over and grabbed her arm to haul her to her feet. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. This really pisses me off. Who the
hell
are these people, Rand? And what do they want?”

Holding her arm in a gentle but unyielding grip, he did a visual inspection of her from top to toe. She didn’t seem hurt, thank God. He tucked a long strand of bright hair behind her ear, the backs of his fingers lingering on her warm cheek. “We could stick around and ask them when they wake up.”

She growled low in her throat, making him smile, despite his throbbing nose and aching ribs.

“If you’d done
that
in the first place”—she indicated Buzz—“you would’ve saved time. How badly are you hurt?” She ran her hands over his face, murmured “Sorry,” when she touched a tender spot, then ran her hands over his shoulders and chest.

“I did stunts like this for years, and got paid a shitload of money to do it.” Except that a faux blow, no matter how realistic-looking, didn’t hurt.

He retrieved both masks from the floor, and picked up the wig as well, handing them to her as they went outside. “This was incredibly foresighted of you.”

“Thanks.” She shoved everything into her bag. “I’m sorry about your men, Rand.”

“Me too. I’ll make sure their families are taken care of.” He breathed deep. “My men must’ve disabled the plane. When I turned the engine on, a few of the dashboard lights stayed dark. But someone will be back to offload the Rapture and transfer it to another plane.”

“We can—”

“I jammed the tanks. Plane won’t fly, and they won’t be able to empty the tank to transfer the liquid. Not for a while, anyway. I’ll call the authorities after we leave, warn them to bring in a hazmat team and clear the area. I thought you said this stuff was too unstable to transport in a plane.”

“A crop duster would work for an airborne application because it flies so low the stability of the product wouldn’t be affected by altitude.” She closed her bag and faced him. “You’re certain it wasn’t dispensed?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Tanks are still full.” They had the plane locked and loaded, ready to disperse Rapture, and his men had been killed … so why the hell was the plane still just sitting in the hangar?

“Thank God. Now what?”

Rand rubbed his hands together. “Call in some favors and get the hell out of here before we’re asked questions we can’t answer. I’ll claim their bodies later, once this is all over. We have to get to Greece.”

They were damned fortunate. Neither had been badly hurt or worse, and Rapture hadn’t been misted over an unsuspecting city. Rand called it a good day.

THEY FLEW THE CESSNA
they’d rented in Fontainebleau to Thessaloniki in northern Greece. Once again, they went under the radar with no flight plan. Their flights alone broke so many laws that if he was caught, the book and the whole damned library it was in were going to be thrown at him.

Not on his list of things he gave a shit about right then.