Baggage Claim (Tru Exceptions - Christian Romantic Suspense Book 1) (4 page)

 The car spun around and flipped. Rachel couldn't tell which end was up. In one sense, it felt like everything transpired so quickly, her brain couldn't process what had happened until after the fact. In another sense, it was as if everything was in slow motion. Every fear, every sensation seeming like it would never end. Would they never stop spinning?

"Rachel… Rachel, come on. We've got to get out of here."

She gradually became aware of Dawson pushing at her, trying to get her to move. The taxi had landed upside down. Before she could completely gather her wits, Dawson pushed her seatbelt release button and helped her maneuver into an upright position, which was very difficult with a deployed airbag in the way. Reaching across, Dawson found the door handle. As the door creaked open, Dawson began pushing her out of the car.

It was at that moment that Rachel realized his movements were hurried, frantic even. Her brain suddenly kicked into gear. She remembered what had happened and the danger they were in. Quickly, she untangled each of her limbs from the crumpled taxi and slid to the ground. Dawson must not have been able to get out his own door for, using her side instead, he slid to the ground beside her. But Dawson wasn't alone. Rachel's hated suitcase came out of the taxi with him.

Putting his finger to his lips, he motioned Rachel to be silent. Grabbing her hand with his free one, Dawson led her in crawling toward the front of the wrecked taxi. Once there, they discovered it had crashed into what looked like a large garage door. Where the front of the car had rammed into the door was a rather large opening.

They heard voices very close. Although they were speaking a language Rachel didn't know, she understood that they were inspecting the taxi, looking for them. Their absence from the vehicle was met with shouts of frustration.

More footsteps. Were those getting closer?

"Go, Rachel! Go!" Dawson whispered, urging Rachel to crawl through the hole in the door.

Their movements failed to go undetected. Rachel heard an excited shout, then rushing feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dawson draw his weapon and fire, trying to buy them some time. As answering gunfire hit the building, he scrambled through the opening after Rachel. She heard their enemies clambering behind them even as she and Dawson struggled to their feet and began racing through what appeared to be a warehouse.

Their own footsteps echoed staccato on the concrete floor, providing an audible trail for those chasing. As if realizing this, Dawson suddenly grabbed Rachel and pulled her behind some kind of large wall or partition. Pressing into the deepest, darkest corner, they waited. The interior of the warehouse was pitch black. Trying to assess her surroundings, Rachel could only make out shapes in varying shades of black.

Although their own steps were now silent, the warehouse echoed the rhythm of what sounded like many other footsteps, all looking for them. Rachel thought there was probably only four of them, but the echoing effect of the warehouse multiplied their steps in every direction. To Rachel there seemed to be an ominous rhythm to the sound, like what she would imagine African drums would sound like when beating a funeral dirge.

One set of footsteps stood out from the others. It was close. Too close. Dawson stood in front of her, putting his arms around her, and pressing her back close to the wall. Rachel tried to shrink as far back as she could, willing their shapes to blend in with the darkness and go unnoticed.

A flashlight beam skimmed within inches of their position. Rachel's breath caught, then accelerated. Her body shuddered with gasps, yet she couldn't seem to get enough air. Still the footsteps kept coming. So close now! They were going to be caught!

Dawson suddenly shifted position, reaching one hand up to cup her face. Then his lips were on hers. Shocked, Rachel tried to turn her face away, but he held her securely, his silent lips gentle yet insistent. Why was he kissing her? Maybe he knew they were going to be caught. Maybe he wanted to share this one last moment before they would surely be killed--a glimpse of what might have been.

He caressed her cheek with his fingers as they slowly trailed up to catch in her hair. Succumbing to his kiss, Rachel put her arms around his neck and returned his every emotion. The kiss was slow and almost achingly tender. His lips moved across hers in a way that made her feel loved and cherished, yet still very much desired. The gentleness couldn't mask the passion that lay under the surface.

Yet, it wasn't a happy kiss, full of promise and dreams of the future. Instead, it was as if it was forbidden and this was the only time he would ever be allowed this indiscretion. Rachel's fear and surroundings faded away. The only thing that existed for her was Dawson. For that single moment, as he held her close, Rachel felt his every emotion, his vulnerability. And then, it was as if he slammed the door. When Rachel felt she could go on kissing him forever, Dawson suddenly stopped, pulled completely away, and removed her arms from around his neck.

Rachel fell back to reality hard, frantically straining her eyes and ears to figure out what was happening. Flashlight beams bounced off every wall as if performing a choreographed light show. Footsteps still echoed, but they were all distant now.

Dawson grabbed her hand once more and quietly led her toward some dark shapes lined up against a wall. With each step, they softly planted a foot before putting any weight down, trying to be as soundless as possible. Dawson stopped as one of the flashlight beams came within a few feet of them then moved on.

Finally reaching the dark shapes, Rachel saw that they were actually large crates. Gently, Dawson removed one of the lids and peered inside. Replacing it, he went to the next one.

Apparently, finding this one acceptable, he motioned for Rachel to climb inside. Dawson crawled in after her, bringing the suitcase with him and lifting the lid back in place over top of them. The crate was large, but space was still tight with its new occupants. Rachel had never been claustrophobic, but sitting in a completely dark, cramped crate with a bomb while terrorists searched for them was enough to make her start reconsidering her position on the subject.

Taking out his phone, Dawson pushed a button and waited.

"We're trapped," he whispered, apparently confident his soft but urgent words would not reach outside the box. "We need extraction, now!"

In the close silence of the crate, Rachel could easily hear the other side of the conversation as well.

"We can't do that, Tate. We don't have the bomb deactivated."

Rachel felt Dawson's whole body tense with anger, but he only whispered, "How long?"

"Not sure. We are making progress, but this is technology we've never seen before."

"What are we supposed to do? They wrecked the taxi, we're sitting in a crate in a warehouse while they search every inch of the place."

"You've got to sit tight, Tate. Stay hidden. Maybe they won't find you. If they do, you are authorized to use whatever force necessary to keep them from taking possession of the bomb. We're working as fast as we can. You're one of the best we have, Tate, but we can't risk more agents, let alone civilian lives if we were to try for an extraction and have the bomb go off. As long as the terrorists think you're alone and the bomb is still recoverable, we don't believe they'll detonate it."

"So, for all intent and purposes, I am on my own."

The voice on the other end was silent. Then, "I'll let you know the second it's deactivated."

The call disconnected. Rachel felt Dawson lean his head against the back of the crate.

"So, I guess we just…?" Rachel whispered softly.

"Wait," Dawson replied. "Wait for the terrorists to find us or for my buddies to get the bomb under control."

Rachel felt wave after wave of helplessness. She could only imagine what Dawson was feeling.

Dawson sat for several minutes in silence, leaning his head back. If the quarters and position had been slightly less miserable, Rachel would've thought he was relaxing.

Seeming to finally remember her presence, Dawson lifted his head and asked quietly. "Are you hurt? You probably have a concussion. I think you got knocked out. Do you have any other injuries?"

At first, Rachel had no idea what he was talking about. Then the memory of riding in the taxi, being hit, and crashing rushed over her. Escaping and surviving since then had been such a top priority, she had blocked the crash out. For the first time, she took inventory of herself. Body parts all accounted for? Blood? Pain?

"I think I'm okay," she finally answered, matching Dawson's whispered tone. "I have a headache and probably some nasty bruises, but nothing major. And you?"

"I'm fine. A gash on my arm, probably some bruises, nothing major. The airbags all deployed. I told you to get your head down because I thought they'd try to shoot at us from the side. I didn't anticipate them hitting our car with theirs."

"Why would they bother shooting us when they could just crash our car and knock us into a building? What is this place anyway? It's some kind of warehouse, right?

 "We're in the part of Midtown Manhattan called 'Hell's Kitchen.' It used to have many warehouses, but most of them are long gone or have been converted to other buildings. I didn't get a good look at things outside, but I think this bottom level is still a warehouse while the upper levels have been converted to offices. By the products inside the other crate, I'm guessing it might be a distribution warehouse for some of the cruise ships that dock in the Manhattan area. Corporate offices are probably upstairs. I guess it doesn't really matter what it is though. The building is empty of everyone but us and the terrorists trying to kill us."

Both Rachel and Dawson fell quiet. For Rachel the hopelessness of the situation felt close and suffocating. Of course, the fact that they were in a small confined space probably intensified those feelings. There didn't seem to be a way out. The terrorists would either find them and kill them to get the bomb, or, if finding them was too much trouble, they could just detonate it and have the same result--their death.

As they sat in the ominous silence, Rachel gradually became aware of just how physically close Dawson was to her. The tight space required her to be snuggled up against him. There was no part of her right side that wasn't touching his left. Suddenly, the air inside the crate seemed tense and heavy with sudden awareness and attraction. Rachel wanted to ask Dawson about his kiss, but she felt too awkward. Turning toward him, she tried to peer through the dark to read his face. He had to be feeling this same magnetism. If she could just see or touch his face, maybe she could read him and know.

She felt a touch on her cheek and leaned in to Dawson's caress.

As the physical pull became almost unbearable in its intensity, Rachel choked out, "Dawson…?"

Dawson jerked his hand away, startling like he'd just had a bucket of ice water dumped on him. The spell was broken.

"Did you grab Joe's gun off the floor of the cab?" He asked, his tone all business

Rachel's mind spun, trying to catch up to Dawson's abrupt question. "No, it didn't occur to me at the time. I didn't even know it was Joe's gun. I'm sorry."

"Can't do anything about it now," he said, shifting and reaching his hands up to the lid. We'll just have to make do without it."

Without pausing, he continued, "I'm going to open the lid a little since we haven't heard any action in quite a while. No more talking. No noise at all, you got it?"

Irked at being treated like a child, Rachel still managed to nod her head. Then she realized, with satisfaction, that Dawson probably wouldn't even be able to see her nod.

Regardless, Dawson moved the top of the crate off a little and waited. There was no sound. There almost seemed to be an eerie hush over the whole building. Not a single footstep, not a voice, not even the groans or creaks of an old building.

After several minutes, Rachel did notice something. At first she dismissed it. She must be imagining things. Then it became stronger. Finally, she could deny it no more. Breaking Dawson's order for silence, she whispered, "Dawson, do you smell that?"

Dawson, as if just waking up, immediately began scrambling to get his feet under him as he said the one word Rachel was dreading to hear.

"Fire!"

Shoving the lid off completely, Dawson bolted upright out of the crate, the danger of terrorists fading significantly with the immediate threat of fire. Standing up beside him, Rachel's eyes immediately began burning. There were no flames yet visible, but the warehouse was rapidly filling with dense smoke that, if possible, made Rachel even more blind in the dark interior. Feeling an immediate shot of panic, her hands frantically fumbled for Dawson. Connecting with his arm, she grabbed it with both her hands, afraid that if she let go for a second, she wouldn't be able to find him.

Rachel heard Dawson search for his phone with his other hand, then heard the beep of him sending a call.

"They set the warehouse on fire!" he practically yelled into the phone. "I need satellite images and building specs RIGHT NOW!"

After listening for about ten seconds, he continued. "We don't have a few minutes! I need to know how to get out of here now! In a few minutes we'll be dead!"

Rachel started coughing. She couldn't seem to get the smoke out of her lungs.

"Do it!" Dawson replied, disconnecting the call.

"Get down, Rachel," he said, pulling her down to the floor beside him. "We have to stay low where the smoke isn't so bad."

"What did they say?" Rachel choked out, her throat feeling like sandpaper. "Did they tell you a way out?"

"They're working on it, but we can't wait. We're going to have to start crawling to the nearest exit."

"And how do we know where that is?"

Dawson's phone beeped. He looked at it. "They sent me some of the building specs as well as our location in the building based on my tracking beacon. The wall directly north of us is an exterior wall with a door. Let's head there."

"But which way is north? We'll probably end up wandering around in circles!"

"Thank God for apps," Dawson said, his cheerful tone contrasting sharply with their situation. "I just so happen to have a handy-dandy compass and flashlight on my phone."

They crawled as quickly as possible across the cement floor on their hands and knees. Rachel focused on breathing and maintaining physical contact with Dawson at all times. She found if she breathed through her nose rather than her mouth, the air seemed to burn a little less.

Dawson pushed the suitcase ahead of them, rolling it along on its wheels. Knowing he couldn't push the suitcase, crawl, and drag her with him at the same time, she had to settle for making sure her right shoulder kept constant contact with Dawson's body.

They never made it to the wall. Instead, they located the source of the smoke. Bright flames danced in their path.

Dawson yanked out his phone.

"They started fire around the entire perimeter of the building! We can't get out!" Although he was yelling to be heard over the snapping fire, his voice was raspy from the smoke. Pausing, he listened. "You have the satellite feed?" Listening again for about ten seconds, he then started yelling. "That's not good enough! Get us out of here!"

When the call ended, he reported to Rachel, "The satellite feed shows every exit is covered by waiting terrorists. We can't get out."

"Are they sending people to come get us?" Rachel rasped, panic threatening to overwhelm her.

"No. Our lives aren't worth the others that could be potentially lost. They're supposedly trying to come up with a plan, but we don't have time."

The flames were getting rapidly closer. Heavy smoke was filling the warehouse like it was a glass bottle. Even with her face pressed to the cement floor, Rachel felt like she couldn't breathe. Fireworks started exploding in her vision. She knew she didn't have long.

"Dawson… I… I…" she couldn't finish her sentence. She couldn't even remember what she'd wanted to say in the first place.

"Hang on, Rachel! I'm not going to sit around waiting for us to die." Reaching out, he grabbed her arm, dragging her, trying to get her moving. "Rachel, come on! I have an idea. Get moving!"

Struggling to maintain consciousness, she roused herself enough to follow Dawson a few yards toward the middle of the room where the flames hadn't reached. Through the flickering light, Rachel could see a large machine, probably like a forklift. Although Rachel was not an expert on warehouse machinery, she thought it was probably used to move heavy equipment and objects, like the crate they had hidden in.

Climbing up into the machine, Dawson started the engine. As she watched him, Rachel pulled her shirt over her mouth and nose, desperately trying to filter out the smoke and keep alert. Coming back down to her, Dawson explained his plan.

"I'm going to set the machine to drive forward. Hopefully, it'll hit the large warehouse door and keep going. We have to follow behind it so that when the terrorists are distracted by it, we can escape."

Rachel was still aware enough to feel paralyzing fear. "But the flames! We'll have to run through the flames?"

"There's a clear path to the door Rachel! We can make it! They probably purposely lit the whole perimeter, except the exits on fire, leaving us a way to come to them. Come on, Rachel! This is our only chance!

Not waiting for her response, Dawson pulled her to her feet and placed one of her hands on the back of the machine. Taking her other hand, he wrapped her fingers around the handle of the suitcase.

"You're going to have to take it, Rachel. I have to drive the forklift and jump off right before it crashes. You can do this."

Rachel found herself nodding, but it was almost an out-of-body experience. She felt numb, as if her body was on autopilot while her mind was strangely disconnected.

Coughing heavily, Dawson managed to climb up to the forklift once again. As it began moving forward, Rachel's feet moved as well, keeping time as it rapidly increased speed. Before her mind could catch up with what was going on, Rachel found herself running in between the flames.

Nightmares of being caught in a burning building couldn't compare with the reality. She could feel the intense heat, burning through her clothes to her skin. She imagined the flames grabbing, reaching for her as she passed. She gasped for air, but it was so hot and laced with smoke so acrid that it smoldered all the way down. Fire burning from the outside, and fire reaching down her throat, burning from within.

The forklift was going too fast now. She couldn't keep up, losing her handhold on it. But still she ran. Amidst the roar of the fire, she heard a loud crash. The forklift in front of her faltered but kept moving. She heard men's voices yelling as she tripped over rubble and flames still licking at her heels.

Emerging into a blackness that seemed less dense, Rachel tried to suck in great mouthfuls of air, but her lungs were so filled with smoke, she just coughed all the more.

Suddenly she felt someone grab her arm and pull her rapidly to the right, away from the forklift, away from the building. She had no strength to protest, but stumbled as the insistent hold on her arm pulled her along. In the distance she could hear the sirens of fire engines.

After what seemed like a long time faltering on unsteady legs through alleys and around buildings, the person leading her pushed her up against a wall in a dark alley and held her there.

"Rachel, are you okay?" Dawson's voice! Raspy and barely above a whisper, but definitely Dawson! She sagged with relief and exhaustion. Dawson caught her, supporting her weight and holding her close.

Rachel tried to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, her efforts triggered another bad coughing spell. Dawson helped her slowly sit on the cold concrete. Walking a few steps to the corner, Dawson peered around.

Turning back to Rachel, he said, "Don't move, Rachel. I'll be right back."

Rachel didn't think she could move even if she wanted to, but Dawson was back in less than a minute, unscrewing the cap off one of two large bottles of water and handing it to her. Rachel drank eagerly, feeling the cool water all the way down to her stomach.

"Thank you," Rachel whispered, sound finally croaking past her swollen throat.

Dawson nodded, sitting down next to her in the alley. Sitting on the concrete with their backs up against the brick wall of a building wasn't the most comfortable position, but, at the moment, Rachel was too exhausted to move.

Dawson spoke. "We should probably both be treated at a hospital for smoke inhalation, but that's not really possible at the moment. We'll just have to do the best we can."

"Have you talked to your superiors? Do they know we got out of the warehouse? What are we supposed to do now?" Rachel asked, her mind finally kicking into gear and spinning with questions. Unfortunately, her voice wasn't quite recovered enough to keep up and about every other word was missing in her speech.

"They already know we got out," Dawson said, apparently able to fill in the blanks and understand. "They're tracking me, remember? They'll call me if they have any news. Until then, I don't really feel the need to report our every move. It's not like they were much help when we were trapped in the fire. And, they certainly didn't do anything to help prevent Joe's death. It's obvious that, to them, we're expendable. No, I think we're better off on our own, at least until they actually come up with a plan."

Beneath the anger, Rachel also recognized feelings of helplessness and grief.

"My head was down in the taxi, and I didn't see what exactly happened to Joe," she said. "But, short of sending in the A-team, I doubt that there was anything anyone, including you, could have done to prevent his death."

"They should have sent someone," Dawson muttered angrily. "We couldn't lose them. Joe got desperate. He slammed on the brakes and spun around, trying to catch the terrorist off guard and head in the opposite direction. As he hit the gas and passed them, one of them got a got a good shot in at our side. Joe was killed instantly. If we'd had any kind of help, Joe wouldn't have even tried to pull a stunt like that in the first place."

Rachel reached out and gently took Dawson’s hand in both of hers, trying to offer comfort

"I'm so sorry, Dawson," she whispered, rubbing his calloused hand lightly with her thumb. "I know Joe was your friend. It had to be very difficult to lose him like that.

"It's not the first time I've lost a friend."

"I guess that doesn’t make it any easier," Rachel said. "Had you and Joe been close friends for long?"

Dawson shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Looking at her, he said abruptly, "Your face is filthy."

Okay, so Rachel could take a hint. He did not want to talk about Joe. Still reeling with the jolt of shock and embarrassment from his unexpected words, she rummaged around, trying to find something, anything, to clean her face off.

"Here, I'll do it," he said, his voice surprisingly kind. Pouring some water from the bottle onto the sleeve of his jacket, he used it to gently wipe Rachel's face, his motions soothing and almost tender as they caressed her skin. She closed her eyes as he touched her cheeks, her eyes, her neck. Rachel felt the air around them become charged once again with an awareness of each other, an undeniable attraction and connection that she couldn't ever remember feeling with another man.

As his hand finally slipped from her face, Rachel opened her eyes, her gaze locking with his in the dim glow from a nearby streetlight. Pouring some water onto her own sleeve, she returned the favor, carefully wiping the dark soot and dirt from the masculine planes of his face. But, instead of closing his eyes with her ministrations, Dawson's dark blue gaze remained on her unwavering, making her slightly self-conscious with its intensity.

Finishing, Rachel's hand dropped. Dawson blinked, breaking eye contact and restlessly shifting his position. The moment was over and was quickly replaced by the cold dampness and lurking fear of the alley.

As the minutes passed, Rachel found herself fidgeting with her hands, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the tension from Dawson's silence.

"Rachel," he said finally, "we've had to be very close for the past few hours, much closer than usual for two people who have just met. I know I've even had to kiss you twice in order to keep you safe. But, you need to know, I don't plan on making a habit of that. I don't want you to get the wrong impression."

He paused, as if trying to choose just the right words. Then, giving up, he blurted, "I have no interest in you romantically."