Bone Rider (6 page)

Misha rolled his eyes and let his head thump back against the chair’s high, wooden backrest. “
His
name was Jace. He was a transvestite. I’m still hoping Anton didn’t realize that when he hired him.” Thump. Thump. “Also, I was sixteen; I was desperate.” And Jace had been very sweet, if not Misha’s usual type.

“So what?” Vasiliy said, unmoved by logic, though he did sound a tad uncomfortable with the issue now. “He looked like a girl, which means your equipment works with girls. That’s all that’s required. Fuck her, knock her up, keep a boy toy on the side, I don’t care. She won’t care. She comes from Izmaylovskaya stock, she knows how to be a good wife.”

Sometimes, his father drove Misha so crazy he wanted to scream. Or bash in his own head instead of merely giving himself a headache. It was usually this kind of conversation that started it, when Misha tried to explain why he didn’t intend to do something and Vasiliy waved aside everything he said as though it didn’t matter at all. As though Misha was a stupid kid who couldn’t make his own decisions, not a man leading the field in one of the most dangerous professions there was. Though he had to admit, his father didn’t do this to him when it came to the job. It was the family stuff that was killing Misha: the guilt trips carefully engineered by his mother, the games of one-upmanship instigated by his sister, the exercises in frustration conducted by his father, the expectations and demands hitting his soft underbelly from all sides.

It was useless to keep arguing on a personal level; experience had taught Misha that his only chance lay in citing business reasons.

“Even if I wanted to come—which I don’t—I can’t.” He looked back at the map, wondering how far Riley had run in the time Misha had wasted in disagreement. “I told you about the situation down here. It’s not resolved yet, but we’ve got a new lead. Another week, maybe two. We’ll talk about the party then.”

“Ah, yes,” Vasiliy rumbled, disapproval heavy in his tone. “That
sooka
{7}
 of yours who ran away with your hard drive.”

“Flash drive,” Misha corrected automatically. He didn’t defend Riley’s honor mostly because the insult was meant to provoke him and Misha wasn’t about to fall for such an uninspired ploy, but also because calling Riley Cooper a bitch was so damn ridiculous it simply didn’t deserve a reaction. “We’ve been over this, Papa.” More than once, actually, but Misha was used to repeating himself. His father could be remarkably passive-aggressive when he chose to be. Anything he didn’t want to hear, he tended to forget. Of course, Misha never hesitated to remind him. “Riley was in a hurry, he took my bag, the damn flash drive was in the inside pocket. It’s encoded; he can’t do anything with it, but I can’t let him run around with that kind of data in his possession. So I’m sorry, but this is important. I’m not flying into New York until it’s resolved. You taught me better than that.”

“I understand,” Vasiliy said, and Misha would’ve relaxed had he not smelled a “but” coming. “It is a good thing you are so… diligent… in this matter. I respect that.”

But….

“But your mother has been working very hard to organize this party, Misha. She deserves to have it. She will have it. This data thing must be back in your possession by Friday so you will be able to attend.”

“Three days?” Misha protested, tensing. “That’s not enough time to—”

“If you don’t have enough manpower, I can send Anton and his men,” Vasiliy interrupted. It sounded like a sincere offer. It was. It was also a serious threat to Riley’s life and Misha’s authority.

“That won’t be necessary.” Misha realized he was crumpling the Texas map in his fist and let go of it with an effort. “I clean up my own messes.”

“Glad to hear it,” his father said, pleased. “We’ll see you Friday. Be there in time for lunch. We’ll discuss the details then.”

Misha’s mouth tightened rebelliously, but he swallowed down his anger and didn’t argue again. “I’ll call you when I have the flash drive,” he replied, dodging the issue. “Tell Mama I said hi, okay?”

“Friday,” Vasiliy repeated, a note of warning ringing through.

“Friday,” Misha confirmed reluctantly. “Bye, Papa.”

“Take care, son.”

And then there was blessed silence.

Misha closed the phone carefully. He put it on the table, then let his head thunk down on the map next to it. Three days. Fuck. This was the kind of thing that could drive a man to drink.

T
HE
ground was shaking. The air vibrated with a dull roar. The stink of rubber and exhaust fumes was everywhere. Still mostly unconscious, Riley muttered a protest when a bright light burned through his closed eyelids. He’d have turned away his face, but his limbs felt so heavy and he was still so tired. He couldn’t rouse himself enough to twitch, let alone move with a purpose. Something huge and dark shrieked past his prone body and pelted him with dust and gravel, but by then the light was gone and Riley couldn’t care less. He lay there for a minute or two, woozy and doing his best impression of roadkill as he struggled through the cobwebs in his mind to try to figure out what the hell had happened. He remembered glimpsing one of Misha’s men at the Southern Screw and hotfooting it out of town, because the only weapon he had was his dad’s old Heckler & Koch pistol and he didn’t intend to ever use it on a human being. He’d been driving, drinking coffee, and then… then….

“Hey, buddy, you okay?”

Riley blinked open his eyes carefully and quizzically stared at the pair of scuffed cowboy boots in front of his face for a moment. Something was wrong with that picture.

“Hey. Hey, can you hear me?”

Deep voice, Midwestern-flat, wary but with a hint of concern beneath. The boots shifted, were replaced by knees in grimy jeans. A hand closed around Riley’s shoulder, shook him carefully. It helped bring him back, made him realize he was lying on the ground, cheek pressed against the cooling surface of the I-10 emergency lane next to his truck. He just didn’t know how he’d gotten there. Had he passed out? Why would he? He tried to roll over and was surprised to find he could do so easily. Somehow, he’d expected to hurt. He wasn’t sure why.

“I’m okay.”

His throat ached a bit, but not too bad. It felt like the aftermath of giving a really good blowjob or maybe the first twinges of a minor cold. He sat up and finally took in his surroundings, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched—and not by the guy who was eying him critically now. The Good Samaritan was the only one there, though, so Riley dismissed the notion and focused on the man. He was stocky and bearded, well-worn around the edges in a way that spoke of a long time on the road. Riley assumed he was a trucker because there was a big-ass truck parked a few yards ahead that explained the noise and the lights that had woken him. Hard to sleep with an eighteen-wheeler braking right next to you.

“You sure?” the trucker asked, understandably skeptical. “You looked dead, pal. I was about to call 911. What happened?”

“I—” Riley floundered, stopped. He had no idea what had happened. “I’m not sure. Head rush?” he suggested, thinking it was as likely an explanation as anything.

He felt odd: queasy, claustrophobic, crowded in his own skin. Bruised.
Heavier
, in a way he couldn’t have defined. Kind of shocky, as if he’d been in an accident. He squinted at his car, found it undamaged and parked neatly with the hood up. Not an accident, then.

The trucker frowned. “Well, you all right now? ’Cause I gotta be in Tucson by noon and I wanna swing by my old lady’s place on the way, so I can’t hang around for long. You need anything? Want me to call an ambulance?”

Riley shook his head. He didn’t feel all that bad, not even dizzy now that he was fully awake. He hadn’t eaten in a while, though; he supposed his blackout might have something to do with that. “I’m good,” he said, then offered his hand with a smile. “Hey, thanks for stopping, man. I appreciate it.”

“Sure thing.” The trucker grinned, grabbed his hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Listen, maybe you shouldn’t get behind the wheel if you don’t know why you passed out. I can take you to Sonora, if you want. Drop you off at a motel.”

It was a tempting offer. Riley would’ve liked the company and the idea of taking a time out, and going to sleep in a nice, clean bed was alluring, but he wasn’t sure he could afford to stop. He didn’t think he had a tail, but it was possible, and he didn’t know how long he’d been out. He glanced at his watch, but the display was cracked and dark. With no idea how much time he’d lost, he decided he better get moving, and he wasn’t about to leave his truck behind.

“Nah, I think I’ll be fine,” he said. “Got some trail mix in the car; that should help. Get going, I’ll be right behind you.”

“All right. You take care, man.”

“I will,” Riley promised.

The trucker walked back to his rig and climbed in after a final glance at Riley. The dark metal behemoth hissed and groaned as he put it in gear, then rolled back onto the interstate and picked up speed.

Riley watched the taillights until they were but little specks in the distance before he turned back to his car. The hood was still open and he frowned… and then he frowned some more when he became aware of the sick feeling of dread that pulsed in his stomach. He paused halfway to the truck, hesitant to step closer. Something had happened here, but damned if he knew what. He thought it was probably connected to the nagging suspicion that he wasn’t alone when he clearly was, that itchy, unsettled impression of being too full that made him want to turn himself inside out, shake out every crease and cranny until the sensation went away. He touched a hand to his belly and pressed down gently, but there was nothing to feel, no pain or discomfort, so he dropped his arm and reluctantly contemplated the Dodge again.

Outwardly, there didn’t seem to be anything amiss. The truck was waiting patiently, a dull black shape in the moonlit night. Riley picked up the flashlight from the ground and inched closer to peer into the engine compartment. A part of him almost expected something to jump out and bite him, but nothing happened. The engine looked fine, too, and with a muttered curse he slammed the hood shut and got back into the cabin.

He turned the key. The truck started without a hitch, then idled with a contented mechanical purr while Riley looked around suspiciously once more. He
was
alone. There was nothing hiding in the shadows, no sign of anything but the usual trash under the seat. The glove compartment yielded a few wrinkled road maps with unidentifiable stains, a half-full box of ammo, a dirty cleaning rag, a single wrapped condom way past its expiration date, a partially melted chocolate bar, and a folding knife. No monsters there, either.

You’re losing it
, he told himself. He sounded frightened even to his own ears, which made him close his mouth with a snap and clench his jaws for good measure.

Fuck this.

He put the car in gear and got back on the highway.

M
UCH
to his surprise, Riley didn’t get tired again until he hit El Paso in the morning. He’d been there before, didn’t care much about the place one way or another. It was a pit stop in his book, somewhere to rest when he was traveling between Texas and the Rockies. Good steaks. Too many dust storms. He didn’t bother checking out the city as he passed through because it just wasn’t that exciting. Most of it was flat and desert-colored even in the rosy light of the rising sun; shades of concrete and grit.

Rush hour was in full swing and he inched along with the rest of the crowd, following the wide, winding band of the I-10 that ran through the city like a jugular vein. The sight of all those cars packed so closely together briefly intensified the anxiety that had haunted him ever since the uncanny interlude in the desert. He’d stopped twice more on the way, ignoring the need for speed long enough to search his truck top to bottom for possible memory-erasing stowaways. He hadn’t found a thing, but he knew he wasn’t alone. He could sense another presence so close by he should’ve felt hot breath against his skin, but there was nothing and no one around. Only him and his truck, and it wasn’t the truck. He’d checked. Parked in a rest area and walked away from the vehicle like an idiot to see if his invisible stalker would stay behind, but no such luck.

He’d sniffed his coffee as well and inspected it for any kind of residue that might indicate he’d been drugged, but he hadn’t smelled or found anything, and while he admittedly wasn’t a human crime lab, he did have some experience with people attempting to roofie him. None of the signs were there. Except for the blackout, he felt physically fine. Not drunk, or overly confused, or slow. No nausea, tremors, blurred vision, or trouble breathing. It didn’t make sense, anyway, because why would anybody randomly spike a gas station coffee machine? Wasn’t like anybody had known Riley would go there. He hadn’t even known. It had been a split-second decision when he’d decided he needed to caffeinate to make the trip west.

Still, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t shake the insane conviction that he’d picked up a stowaway. Maybe he really had gone crazy, but sometimes he could’ve sworn he felt something move in him. Nothing much. A twinge here, a subtle shifting there, but it didn’t quite feel like normal muscle flutters or tics. It made him think of spiders inching along his bones, slinking between his sinews, tapping delicately against the inside of his skull. The mental image made him shudder every so often in violent revulsion, but people can get used to a lot of things and after six hours of driving, Riley’s distress had leveled out. It helped that, bit by bit, exhaustion was catching up with him.

The visual lack of space around him might’ve brought back his agitation for a short time, but his body simply couldn’t keep up the high tension for so long. Maybe it was the hypnotic glint of sunlight on glass and chrome that was lulling him into drained indifference; maybe it was the monotonous crawl-stop-crawl of bumper-to-bumper traffic. The result was the same. His heartbeat slowed down to a healthier pace. He loosened his death grip on the wheel. He slouched in his seat, suddenly dog-tired. It got better once he was past the downtown exits and the road cleared some, but he decided to take a break anyway, find a motel and catch some Zs. He’d put a lot of distance between himself and San Antonio, and El Paso was big enough to make tracking him a challenge, so he figured he’d be safe enough. As to the paranoia that was still plaguing him: since he couldn’t do anything about it, it would have to wait until he was fully operational again.