Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection) (31 page)

Rook simply shrugged as the plane banked sharply left.

“What’s going on?” Beauty asked.

He readjusted his blanket. His knees were getting a little chilly. “Like I said—We are heading home.”

The other passengers began to whisper amongst themselves as the jet accelerated in the opposite direction of Lisbon. Chad moaned as their seats vibrated from the thrust.

“But—” Beauty sputtered. “There’s no way.”

“That’s what I said.”

“But we don’t have enough fuel to cross the Atlantic. And to try to fuel a passenger flight in midair? That’s just…”

Rook shrugged again, wondering if he should ask for another glass of champagne before they ran out. “Hey, all of that is Savage’s problem.”

Beauty, though, still didn’t seem able to accept their new fate. “What could be this important to divert a plane in midair?”

Poor Beauty. She always asked questions that she really didn’t want to know the answers to.

“Just the warm-up act for the Apocalypse. No biggie.”

Relishing the look on Beauty’s face, Rook decided that he didn’t want another glass of champagne. With such a long flight, a nap was in order, and the drink would only give him fuzzy mouth. Not the feeling he wanted just before the Second Coming.

As he settled against the bulkhead, he heard Beauty shake out some pills. Rook was pretty sure they weren’t just for Chad.

* * *

Angela felt heavy and light at the same time. As though her burdens were lifted, but her arms were still bound. She tried to raise her hand, but something stopped her. This wasn’t an allegorical problem. She was physically strapped down to a hospital bed.

The memories of the abduction and Brian’s face as he tilted forward, clutching his blood-splattered shirt, hit at once.

“You’re sure we can’t use any of this equipment?” a man said.

Angela craned her neck, trying to look behind her. She found two men dressed in suits speaking with a much shorter and thinner man in a white lab coat. There was an entire panel of instruments in front of them.

Was this a hospital of some sort?

“As I told you over the phone, Mr. Carson,” the small man said in a heavy Eastern European accent, “there is a peculiar energy field around her.” Angela risked another glance over the bed as he pointed to an ultrasound machine. “We can’t use any of the typical electronic devices to confirm or deny that this is a normal pregnancy.”

They were talking about her, Angela realized. What exactly would an abnormal pregnancy look like?

“Doctor, the suits upstairs want to know, ‘yes,’ or ‘no.’ Not ‘maybe.’”

The doctor sighed as he cleaned his glasses. “The fact alone that we cannot get any clear readings from the instruments greatly increases the chance that this is not a normal gestation. Which is why I have repeatedly recommended that we move forward with my plan.”

“And if she got knocked up the usual way?”

Angela lay back down and feigned sleep as the doctor led the men out of the room.

“Then we have lost nothing. But if she is the one, then…”

The door closed before she could hear the rest.

Then? Then what, exactly?

* * *

Beauty cursed her advanced fashion sense as she nearly tripped on her stilettos while helping Chad up the gangway. Other irate passengers pushed past them, rushing toward customs, cursing in a motley mix of different languages. All angered that they were somehow in America.

Fine. Let them rush. They only rushed so that they could stand in the never- moving customs line.

As they stumbled out of the gangway, an airline attendant held up a sign. “Smith Family.”

Beauty angled them in that direction.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Rook sneered. “What are we? Daddy bear, Hot Momma bear, and drunk cousin Chad?”

“Shush,” Beauty urged as they approached the attendant. “The Smiths. That would be us,” Beauty announced to the attendant.

The lean man led them through a side door. “I have been instructed to assist you past customs.”

Thank goodness. How exactly would they have declared a Hellgate? But if Savage could arrange midair refueling, he could easily get them past Miami customs. Quickly, they passed through several sets of doors until they entered another section of the airport.

“Your private jet is fueled and ready for takeoff at Gate Number 87-B.”

“Thank you,” Beauty said, since she knew Rook was not going to.

Even though the gate was only four rows down, they guided Chad to the first available seat. Hellgates were a helluva heavy species. And in stilettos? My word. Beauty’s nose cringed at the terminal’s smell—a combination of bananas and body odor. Not the fragrance that she was accustomed to. In Miami, give her the beach, or give her nothing.

As Beauty made sure Chad did not fall out of his seat, Rook looked down the terminal away from their gate.

“You get Chad to the safe house in LA,” Rook said as he headed off. “I’ll meet you there.”

Beauty grabbed his sleeve. “Oh, no you don’t! You can’t leave me alone! With him? No way.”

Chad groaned and lolled his head over, murmuring something about fire and pain.

Rook wagged his finger at Beauty and spoke in an upbeat tone. “Remember, only nice, happy thoughts.”

Equally chipper, Beauty replied, “Rook, my darling, my love, the father of my imaginary children, where are you going to go, exactly?”

“Oh, Snuggums, I’m talented, but even I want a little backup when we face the End of Days.”

Beauty sat down next to Chad, leaning his head against her shoulder, soothing his hair, trying to quiet him before Miami became nothing more than a hellish sinkhole.

“Rook, sweetie, you know that I can send for anyone you need. It’s my job.”

Rook leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Sorry, but I’ve got to do this on my own.”

Beauty squinted. Rook was up to something. Which was the norm, but usually he filled her in. Well, at least with the ZIP code where he was headed. Rook urged Chad up and helped her carry him toward their gate.

“But you need to me to organize transportation and—”

A flight attendant from their gate took Chad from Rook.

“I’ll be fine,” Rook reassured her. “Now, shoo.”

Reluctantly, Beauty headed down the gangway after Chad. Rook gave a royal wave making her grin. Feeling slightly better about a cross-country trip with an active Hellgate, Beauty kicked off one pump, then the other. Her stockinged feet greeted the thin, worn carpet of the gangway like it was silk and butter.

She turned to say a final good-bye to Rook, but found him standing in the middle of the terminal staring out the window. Normally, Rook was a “man of action.” The guy who yelled carpe diem as their boat capsized. To see him so quiet and forlorn made Beauty realize that maybe escorting the walking Hellgate was the easier assignment.

* * *

Angela breathed in, and then out, trying to mimic sleep as the doctor hovered over her.

“I have an EEG reading, Angela. I know that you are awake,” he said with that thick, slow, and menacing Eastern European accent.

She opened her eyes to find his thin, sharp nose only inches from hers.

“How are you feeling?”

“Kidnapped,” she answered tersely.

“Good, good,” he said, nodding vigorously. “You know your surroundings. How else are you feeling?”

With Brian’s shocked look still in her mind’s eye, she answered, “Homicidal.”

“Your sense of humor is intact, I see.” The doctor patted her arm as if he had the best bedside manner. “But I was asking more along the lines of abdominal cramping or headaches.”

“What am I doing here?” she demanded.

The doctor stroked her cheek. “Angela, I think you already know that, no?”

Angela jerked her face away.

“Now, now,” he said, as he leaned in even closer. “I am loath to use drugs to control your temper, but I will if I must.”

Angela squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her face as far away from the bony doctor as she could.

“It is going to be a very long nine months if you insist on behaving this way.” He dug his fingers in her cheek and forced her face to his. “I could make it easier on you…”

Angela lifted her lip and bit down on the end of his finger. Salty, warm blood was her reward. The doctor backhanded her. Her cheek stung from the blow, but it was worth it. Her survival instinct seemed to have kicked in full gear. Brian would be so proud.

If he weren’t dead, Angela reminded herself.

The doctor sucked on his injured thumb. “Once you’ve given birth, you are mine,” he wheezed. “Just remember that.”

* * *

Rook gripped the dashboard of the beat-up pickup truck as they hit another pothole—while going forty miles an hour. His butt was lifted off the seat a good six inches, and then came crashing down. The old beater may fishtail on its bald tires at every turn, but they were making decent time.

Still, it had been a long trip. Another four-hour plane ride, and then he had to hop into a puddle jumper to fly this deep into the Rockies. They had landed in a small clearing in a wildflower meadow. Snow still capped the mountains surrounding the reservation, as clouds built up on the horizon. A late-season storm was forecast. Rook was lucky to have flown in ahead of it.

Rook glanced over at the older Native American driver. He seemed to take the jarring and jangling bumps as a matter of course. It was like his body had simply adapted to the conditions, and he rode the truck like a bronco.

Not soon enough, they pulled to a stop. The old man said nothing. He just nodded up the sloping hill to the sweat lodge.

“Thanks,” Rook said, but there was no response. Funny. He was usually the enigmatic one.

Rook got out and tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t close all the way. Finally he hauled back and slammed the thing closed. The old man gave a grunt of approval, and then gunned the truck. Dirt and debris flew up around Rook in a hail of pebbles.

Sputtering, trying to get the grass blades out of his mouth, Rook conceded. “Maybe next time I’ll take Beauty up on her offer.”

Several loincloth-clad Native Americans walked by, looking at the strange white man dressed in a long black trench coat mumbling to himself. Spitting out some sort of pine nut, Rook let them stare. If everything went as planned, he would be out of here before they could say “Kemosabe.”

Bracing himself for the harsh welcome that was sure to come, Rook headed up the gentle slope to the split-timber sweat lodge. The building must have been constructed by hand, how their ancestors had, before the white man came and messed everything up. Rook might have appreciated the effort if he weren’t in black loafers with hay kernels in the folds of his shirt.

Rook opened the thatched door and entered the lodge. He waited a moment until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Rook knew that he was supposed to strip bare, dip himself in sacred water, but he just didn’t have the time… or inclination.

Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he walked deeper into the lodge. Several older Native Americans sat cross-legged, still as statues, as they sweat out their worries. The central fire was stoked high as the heat pressed in on Rook. People really found this relaxing?

But Rook put all that aside and found the person he came for. Younger by three decades than the others, Tomahawk’s burnished skin glistened from the sweat. His long hair fell straight past his shoulders. He was like a warrior from a politically correct Disney movie.

Sighing, Rook could delay no longer. He headed straight across the lodge and stood before his former teammate. “Tomahawk.”

The man slowly opened his eyes. Recognition registered, but then Tomahawk closed his eyes again, taking in a deep breath and letting it out again.

“Really?” Rook asked. “You really want to do this here?”

Tomahawk must not have as he silently rose, standing a good three inches taller than Rook. Damn, he’s forgotten just how tall the guy was. Not that Beauty didn’t stop talking about it, of course, but Rook had the whole “you are dead to me” thing tuning her out. Which Rook wished that he could have kept up, but when Savage sounded worried, he knew he would have to break a personal vow or two.

As they exited the building, Tomahawk grabbed a coarse towel and wrapped it around his waist. Rapidly, they climbed the rest of the hill until they came upon a small cabin perched upon the plateau. Tomahawk didn’t need a key to open the unlocked door and ushered them into the spartan interior. Rook glanced about. There were a few candles, a table, a chair, and a log-framed bed. Except for the fireplace and a few cooking utensils, that was it.

“I knew you were on a back-to-nature kick, but what happened to all your toys, Tommi? Where’s your laptop? Your tablet?”

Tomahawk tugged on a pair of jeans. “Computers no longer dominate my world, Rook.”

“Yeah, but damn, not even high-speed Internet?”

After donning a shirt, Tomahawk turned toward Rook. His tone was flat. There seemed to be no anger. Nor was there a hint of familiarity. “I am going to ask you once to leave my home and never come back.”

“Ah, you are so sweet for asking, but no,” Rook replied.

Rook honestly wasn’t ready when Tomahawk lunged at him, knocking him back and pinning him to the floor.

“So much for your oath of nonviolence, dude,” Rook said, just before he coughed from the impact.

“You bastard!” Tomahawk growled.

“Now, technically, my parents were married when I was—”

Tomahawk bounced the back of Rook’s head against the solid wood floor. “How dare you come here? How dare you—”

Okay. Rook had enough of the “how-dare-yous.” Locking his leg over Tomahawk, Rook used his elbow for leverage and tipped Tomahawk over, slamming the weekend warrior’s head against the wood. Tomahawk may have had the advantage in superior strength, but Rook had been out in the field battling hell’s reject. He had some skills of his own.

“In the last twenty-four hours I have played chess for my soul, been hounded by hell’s welcome wagon, and schlepped across the jungle while Beauty complained about her heels,” Rook listed, and then took a breath. “So I would not push me.”