Rush (16 page)

“Fair enough.” He turns to Tyrone. “You and Luka take north.”

Luka crosses his arms over his chest. “Miki stays with me. I’ll watch her back. I’ll keep her safe.”

Whoa, where did that come from? Before I can come up with an appropriate comment, Jackson answers, his tone harsh. “And that’s why she’s staying with me. Watching her back? Keeping her safe? That’s a good way to get yourself killed, Luka. Miki can take care of herself.”

He sounds so certain of that.

“He’s right,” Tyrone says, sounding bleak. “You know it, Luka. If you’re trying to keep an eye on her, you’ll split your focus. It might get you killed. And you might end up getting her killed, too.” There’s so much pain in his tone that I wonder if that’s what happened to Richelle. If she was trying to keep an eye on Tyrone and that’s part of how she ended up dead. I remember hearing her scream his name right before she screamed in pain.

Luka’s eyes narrow. But he doesn’t answer Tyrone directly; he’s saving all his venom for Jackson. “And you’re not gonna watch anyone’s back but your own, right, Jack?” He hits the
k
hard. “You don’t care what happens to Miki.”

But he does. For some reason, Jackson cares. I know that, and I don’t trust it. From what I know of him, Jackson isn’t the type to offer things up at face value. There are layers and layers of motivations behind everything he does. I don’t know why I feel certain of that, but I do.

And I don’t think Luka’s being fair. Jackson took more than one hit for me in Vegas.

“Look at your con,” Jackson says with a little shake of his head. He’s always so calm, so controlled. What would it take to push him across the line?

Luka lifts his wrist and grimaces.

“What?” I ask.

“The con decides how we split up,” Luka says, his voice vibrating with anger as he glares at Jackson. “Mine’s not doing anything. Look at Tyrone’s.” Tyrone lifts his hand. His con has a green border, but the majority of the screen is showing a live stream of our surroundings, and in the left corner is a small map with green triangles clumped together. Four of them.
Us
. “It’s a map. His con’s like a GPS.” Luka lifts his wrist and shows me that his con is still green. “Mine won’t tell us where to go. Neither will yours. Looks like either you’re with Jackson or I am, Miki.”

The look on Luka’s face is frightening. For a second, I think he actually might haul back and punch Jackson in the face.

“Hey,” I say, “it isn’t like this is Jackson’s choice. He doesn’t decide who does what.”

“Doesn’t he?” Luka shoots a dark look at Jackson.

I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here. I swear that back in the clearing there was some sort of guy-bonding thing going on. And I don’t recall this much animosity between them on the last mission. Maybe separating them for a while is the best option.

“I’ll go with Jackson.”

Luka takes a deep breath, then steps close and stares down at me. “Stay safe. We have groceries to unpack when we get back.”

Then he and Tyrone are gone, and it’s just Jackson and me, all alone.

We move on, not talking, just walking, falling into a numb routine of one foot in front of the other. We must have been down here forever . . . or at least for days. My mind wanders and then settles in to think of nothing at all. Right foot. Left foot. Right. Left.

And then I’m jerked from my lethargy as our glow sticks snap out and we’re plunged into darkness so thick and heavy it chokes the breath from my lungs. Something grabs me, arms like bands of steel, a hand pressed tight to my mouth, stifling my cries. I struggle and push, but the grip on my body only tightens until I can’t breathe at all. Light-headed, I take the only option I can see. Hoping to catch my captor off guard, I let my legs drop out from under me.

MY PLOY DOESN’T WORK. THE HAND THAT’S PRESSED TIGHT against my mouth and the arm across my waist only tighten all the more, taking my weight as I try to drop, holding me immobile. My struggles are worthless. Whatever has me is stronger than I can ever hope to be. Panic chokes me. I fight it down. I need to think. I’m not stronger, so I need to be smarter.

I need to—

“Tsss.”
There’s the faintest hiss in my ear. It’s enough. That hiss is familiar, and I realize who’s holding me and why. I stop struggling and nod, hoping my message is clear. I won’t fight. I won’t make a sound. Jackson drops his hand from my mouth and changes his hold on me so he doesn’t have me pinned against him anymore and he’s leading rather than dragging.

The darkness is smothering, thick and black. The second he became aware of the threat, Jackson must have snapped off our lights without me realizing he’d done it.

I try to compensate for my loss of sight by straining my ears, listening for the slightest sound. Jackson thrusts me behind him, and I’m trapped between cold rock at my back and his lean, hard body in front of me. His hand closes on mine, and he guides it to my cylinder. I get the message and pull my weapon free. It molds to my palm, hugging my fingers, and I feel the same connection to it that I felt last time.

My chest feels tight. My limbs buzz with hypersensitivity. I press my lips together and think about breathing as quietly as I can. I don’t want to give us away. I lift my weapon cylinder but have no idea in which direction to point it. Jackson closes his fingers on mine, stilling my movements. Whatever we’re hiding from he doesn’t want to engage. He wants to let it pass, at least for now.

The darkness is suffocating. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I can feel the movement of Jackson’s chest as he breathes, not fast and rough like mine, slow and steady. It’s enough to steady my own rapid inhalations. I can do this. I can hide in the dark and, failing that, I can fight.

I don’t hear footsteps or conversation. I don’t hear anything at all. But I sense them passing close by us. The horrific fear that I felt in the alley in Vegas unfurls in my limbs, my gut, my chest. I need to scream, to fight, to flee.

Can they sense me as I sense them? Will they find us? Will they kill us?

Run. I need to run.

They’re close. Close enough that I could stretch out my hand and touch them. I know they’re here, even though it’s only my instinct telling me so.

My nerves are twisted so tight, I think they’ll rupture like an overwound guitar string. Then Jackson snaps his light. The greenish glow forms a neat circle with two terrifying figures at the center—almost human but not quite. The second Jackson’s light hits them, their bodies flare with a blinding white light, like the magnesium strip in chem class.

The instant the flare roars, something inside me demands I close my eyes. I obey, but the flash is bright enough to pierce my lids and make me see stars.

Temporarily blinded, I don’t think, I just act. My hand comes up, and then I see them, moving so fast they’re visible only because of the light trail they leave behind.

So I aim just ahead of the light.

I thought I remembered what it was like in Vegas, but as the cylinder hums its high-pitched song and the darkness punches from the muzzle, I’m struck again by the horror of it. The force of the recoil jerks my arm back. The dark pulse surrounds the Drau, engulfing it, sucking it in. I think of an amoeba digesting its dinner.

And then the Drau is gone, snuffed like a match.

The other one comes at us. Jackson slashes at it with his knife. The Drau bares its jagged teeth as Jackson hits the mark, and I smell something sharp and astringent. Then the Drau fires its own weapon and a thousand sparks of light rain down on Jackson’s chest. He gasps and dodges. I know the shards of pain he’s feeling, the bite of agony that tunnels through skin and muscle and bone. I’ve felt it myself.

With a cry, I put myself between Jackson and the Drau. Defend. Protect. I take out the second threat. The sound it makes as it’s swallowed by the black surge is bone-chilling: a high, keening wail that makes my skin prickle. I feel sick with horror even though I had little choice—it was the Drau or me.

My whole body shakes. Gasping for breath, I press my palm flat to the rock and struggle for control. I did it. I took them out almost before they realized we were there. After a few seconds, I straighten and realize that Jackson snapped my glow-stick light back on. My pulse slows, and as it does calm returns.

I lift my head to find Jackson watching me with his hip cocked so his weight rests on one leg and his arms are crossed over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but something intangible gives him away. He’s anything but pleased.

“You got a problem?” I ask, eyes narrowed, breath still coming too fast.

“I was hoping to question the second one,” he says. “Next time, maybe wait till I get information before you shoot.”

Oh. That must be why he was using his knife instead of his weapon cylinder.

“Question it? The Drau can speak?” I haven’t heard them. Not during a battle, and even now, just before we fought them, they weren’t holding a conversation. “Can they speak English?”

“No.”

I close my eyes and strive for patience. “Which of my three questions does that
no
apply to?”

The corner of his mouth kicks up in the barest hint of a smile. “They don’t speak English.”

Well, at least he answered something.

“So glad I amuse you,” I grouse.

He leans close and whispers against my ear, “Me too. There hasn’t been much that makes me smile in a very long time. But you do. So thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” I whisper back, feeling off balance. He never says or does what I expect.

So I cross my arms over my chest and shift my weight to my right leg, mirroring his stance. “And next time, if you want to question one of them, tell me your plans before I shoot.”

“Point taken, well made,” he says.

“And while we’re on the topic of next time, maybe just tap my arm to give me a heads-up rather than grabbing me right before we’re attacked.”

“Did I scare you?”

Not ready to acknowledge that, I say, “You threw off my game. It could have cost us.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, then he says, “And I scared you. I’m sorry.”

Jackson apologizing. I’m left speechless.

“By the way,” he says, “I was expecting you to ask whether or not I speak Drau.”

“Call me unpredictable.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

Of course I want to know. That isn’t even something I need to acknowledge aloud.

“No, I don’t,” he says. Just that, nothing more. But something inside me loosens a little because Jackson just offered up information voluntarily.

We stand like that, facing off.

“You did good.” That incredible, dark, sexy smile carves the dimple in his cheek and bares his white, white teeth. “I think I like you, Miki Jones.”

I find myself smiling back. I think I like him, too, and that is not smart. Not smart at all.

Fatigue tugs at me. The adrenaline rush of our encounter with the Drau faded a few thousand steps ago. I don’t know how long we’ve been walking—hours? days?—but my feet are starting to drag. Jackson’s in front of me, leading the way. We’re moving at a good clip, and the exhaustion slithering through my muscles doesn’t seem to be hitting him. Some time ago, he reached back, took my hand, and drew my fingers to the loop of the harness that angles across his hips. I was already tired enough that when he told me to hang on, I didn’t argue. I’m still hanging on, and that’s helping me keep pace.

“You okay?” The sound of his voice jars me. It’s the first thing either one of us has said in quite a while.

“Exactly why are you asking me that?” I can’t help the suspicion that curls through the words. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to admit my exhaustion. Stubborn, I guess. If he can keep going, so can I. Or maybe I want to prove I’m as strong as he. A holdover from my kendo days when I was the only girl in the class, driven to be faster, better, hit harder than any of the boys. But the most likely reason is because I don’t trust solicitous Jackson. It isn’t a persona he wears easily.

“You think I have an ulterior motive in asking if you’re okay?”

I stare at his back. Broad shoulders. Lean hips. Honey-gold hair falling in ragged layers almost to his shoulders. Even in the weird, greenish light, he really is beautiful from any angle. “Actually, I think you have an ulterior motive for pretty much everything you do.”

“You don’t think much of me, do you?” He sounds amused rather than offended.

“I figure you think highly enough of yourself.” But the truth is, I sort of admire the complicated layers of his personality. The way he’s always thinking and planning. The way he’s in control.

He gives a short laugh. I feel it inside my chest, a soft flutter.

“And since you asked, I’m fine,” I say as I sidestep a deep dip in the stone floor, my fingers tightening on the harness. Other than the fatigue, I
am
fine. I now have my own light. I know what our goal is, thanks to Jackson’s earlier explanation. I feel a measure of control. Well, as much control as is possible when I’m who-knows-how-many miles underground, getting towed along like a stalled car, on my way to face the next attack by a deadly enemy.