Cherry Adair - T-flac 09 (35 page)

Shit.

He dropped his head forward, then reared sharply, slamming the back of his head into the man’s nose, at the same time spinning out of his way.

Guns were handy. But at this close range, mobility and balance were almost as good. And being quick, better still. And he was
quick.

Bending his knees slightly to lower his center of gravity, Caleb asked conversationally, “Who wants to die first?”

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Rook snorted in his ear.

Number Five came at him with blood in his eye, literally. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes were already swelling closed. Jesus, where did they find these guys? Caleb waited until the guy was three feet away, then gave him a roundhouse kick to the temple that took him out. A kick above the waist wasn’t always the smartest of moves; one snap kick in the balls from the bad guys could leave the good guy on the floor clutching his groin for a good five minutes.

But these guys didn’t have the spin-and-kick mentality.

And not only was Caleb faster, he knew how and where to kick, plus he was motivated to kill them all—preferably slowly. He’d keep one alive, just to force the son of a bitch to take him to Heather, even if he had to drag the guy there by his scrotum.

Number Seven scrabbled to pick up Caleb’s gun. Unless he happened to be employed by T-FLAC, the terrorist wasn’t going to get off more than one shot. It was the way he held the gun that gave him away. Hand shaking as he babbled in Arabic, he fired, only managing to hit Five as he was falling to the floor.

“Now see that?” Caleb told Seven sternly. “I
did
that already. Number Five got killed twice. How do you expect world dominance if you have a shaky trigger finger?”

He circled, watching Seven and Four’s eyes as they came at him. Six was creeping up behind him to his left. Caleb couldn’t see him, but he knew exactly where he was.

“You guys watch too many American movies. Straighten up, for God’s sake,” he told them, looking at Four. Seven wasn’t as dumb as he looked, and got it. Four straightened up immediately after. He heard Rook snicker, and had to agree. This was like taking freaking candy from a baby.

Four’s nose connected with Caleb’s fist. Since Caleb’s fist was going, oh, sixty miles an hour right then, the guy’s eyes rolled. He tripped over his own feet as he crumbled, bounced, and crashed into the wall before he lay down on the floor in a heap of bloody unconsciousness.

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Six was still behind him and to the left. Caleb shot a glance at his watch. Forty-three seconds since he’d walked into the room. Too long. “Gotta go, gentlemen.”

He spun around, grabbed the man coming up behind him by the wrist and collar with two fingers, his knife in his left hand, and jerked Number Six toward his body and off-balance. Then drove his right foot into the front of the guy’s knee.
Hard.
Six yelped, of course. They always did when a bone snapped.

While he dealt with Six, Caleb slashed to the side, connecting with Number Seven’s gun hand in a downward sweep that went through flesh and tendon to the bone. The man screamed, and his weapon dropped to the polished floor with a clatter. Caleb did a cool move his brother Duncan had taught him.

He stepped up on Six’s leg—his whole body weight, and practically walked up the man’s body. Six ducked, trying to get away from the force of Caleb’s foot on his broken leg.

When Caleb was high enough, he kneed Six in the face with a satisfying crunch to the nose.

You just never got this kind of satisfaction from just
shooting
a guy.

From his higher vantage point, Caleb twisted and jumped before Six collapsed against the wall. With his leg still extended, Caleb kicked Number Seven to the ground. Seven scrabbled across the floor, then turned on his back, blasting Caleb with Six’s fallen weapon. A good move.

A little too good. Because Caleb had miscalculated and thought the weapon was Seven’s and without ammo. The first shot missed, the second connected with his side.

“Shit!”

Lark had been right. Probably should have taken the time to suit up.

Annoyed, Caleb rushed forward to kick the weapon out of Seven’s hand before he had a chance to squeeze off another shot. The man was like a frigging Weeble as he rocked up and tried to stagger to his
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feet. Caleb grabbed Seven’s wrist as if to help pull him up, then forced his booted foot between the man’s legs, and stomped down hard on his balls. The guy screamed like a girl.

“Dude, I seriously feel your pain. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that if you shoot someone, you’ve got a good chance of taking one in the balls?” Of course Seven couldn’t hear him down there in la-la land.

“Tell me you left some for me,” Rook bitched in his ear as Caleb took a quick glance at his opponents scattered about.

“’Fraid not. Hell, I barely broke a sweat.” A bullet to the side didn’t rate a mention. Been there. Done that. Right now, with adrenaline pouring through his system, he barely felt it anyway.

“Anyone capable of moving—eventually—won’t be going anywhere for a good ten minutes,” he said quietly into his mic. “Order the garbage detail since you appear to have time on your hands.”

He bent to pick up his weapon, checked the clip, then spun around to leave. He paused at the door.

With a quarter turn, and a small flick of his wrist, Caleb covered the dead woman’s naked body with her clothing, which had been scattered all over the floor.

He glanced at his watch and cursed. Minute five.

The head honcho’s private office was right next door to the OR. A feeling of intense dread weighed Caleb down as he opened the door silently. Thanks to his training, his eyes adjusted immediately to the dimness after the bright lighting in the outer hallway.

There was a double click in his ear, the signal indicating that Rook was right behind him, invisible yet lethal as he covered Caleb’s back.

The room was washed with an undulating glow. Caleb glanced left to see the source of light. It came from an enormous fish tank situated across the room. The tank was supported on a black stone base that made it look as if the huge glowing body of water was floating three feet off the floor.

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Heather and the tango were behind the tank, their shadowy forms undulating in the reflection of the water. Bile rose up Caleb’s throat.

Jesus—

Al-Adel had Heather by the hair as he held her head under the water.

Caleb sucked in a breath. Held it. Jesus. How long could she stay under? How long had she been submerged? No sign of air bubbles. Not movement other than her hair, which floated around her face like seaweed.

“Al-Adel!”

Was she alive? Pushing emotion aside, Caleb’s attention was pinpointed on his prey.

A flicker of movement from the left. Without removing his attention from the horrific spectacle, he got off a shot at the guy coming up out of the darkness. Rook blasted the dude too. They hit him at the same time, as evidenced by the gurgled scream and thump of a falling body. Caleb didn’t give the asshole another thought.

“Release my wife nice and slow,” Caleb said in clear Arabic as he approached, his gun out and steady.

He didn’t have a fucking one hundred percent clear shot. Heather’s bent form was sandwiched between the backside of the tank and Al-Adel’s body.

Caleb, who’d never hesitated over a shot in his career, hesitated now.

Jesus. Al-Adel was using her as a shield. Heather stood on something behind the tank—a stool or a chair. He was behind her, standing on the floor. The only part visible was the small section of the man’s arm holding Heather’s head under the water and the top quarter inch of his head.

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“Your wife?” the terrorist said blandly in unaccented English, not bothering to look up. He plunged her upper body deeper into the tank. “She is being
most
uncooperative. And unattractively stubborn. I’ve been compelled to punish her. No. Stay where you are if you want her alive,” Al-Adel warned when Caleb continued to approach him in ground-eating strides.

He couldn’t feel his heart beating, Caleb thought vaguely, his eyes fixed on Heather’s limp and lifeless form. All his internal organs seemed to be paralyzed, and his eyes burned as he searched for the slightest sign of life. Terror reverberated in his ears.

“Stupid woman refuses to tell me what I wanted to know,” Al-Adel said conversationally, foolishly believing that if he assured Caleb of Heather’s relative well-being, he could use her body as a shield.

“Perhaps you can persuade her where I cann—”

Caleb didn’t hesitate, squeezing off the shot.

The bullet sliced off the top of Fazuk Al-Adel’s head as neatly as a knife through a hard-boiled egg.

Brain matter sprayed the wall, and bloody bits plopped into the tank, dissipating swirls of red through the water.

“Go, go, go.” Rook yelled unnecessarily behind him. Caleb had already closed the distance between his position and Heather’s. Oh, Christ…

Hips supported by the rim of the tank, she was bent over the edge, her entire upper body submerged.

Without Al-Adel’s hand holding her under, her torso floated just below the surface. The underwater lights leached every vestige of color from her face.

Kicking the dead man out of his way, Caleb vaulted onto the base where she’d been standing. Her feet swung free as her body was more inside the enormous tank than out.

No time for being gentle or using finesse. He hauled her limp body out of the water, sending up a formless prayer. Water and blood immediately soaked into his clothing as he cradled her limp body against his chest.

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Eyes half open and lifeless, her head flopped back, baring the pale, still line of her throat.

No pulse.

No fucking pulse.

Pain stole his breath, almost incapacitating him in its intensity. His brain knew what his heart refused to acknowledge.

Heather was dead.

He teleported her the hell out of there.

Shimmering into the safe house, he was grateful to see his men waiting for them. He took in at a glance the medical supplies neatly laid out beside the bed. Lark had warned his men, and they were ready for anything.

“Stopwatch.” He had no idea how long she’d been dead. “Start at a minute ten,” he instructed Farris calmly,

He was already sending energy through to Heather as he laid her on the bed. Her hair crackled and dried instantly, then surrounded her face with static electricity as he passed his hands inches above her face. Gently he closed her lids over her sightless eyes. His hands shook.

Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Her beautiful face…Nose and left cheekbone shattered. Throat, contusions. Left arm broken in four places, two ribs…
Bean
—Caleb blocked out everything but pouring healing energy into her ruined body.

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“One twenty-two,” Farris told him. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig yourself, you know?” In some dim recess of his brain, Caleb felt his shirt tear away from his side, then the prick of a needle as Farris did his thing, sewing him up without touching needle and thread.

Whatever.

The front of her delicate flowery sundress was torn. There was so much blood…
Bean,
he thought again, throat aching. He ripped the fabric down the front of her dress with both hands, exposing her blood-soaked bra and panties, and the cold, marble whiteness of her skin.

Dekker came over, felt the side of her throat for a pulse. His hand came away bloody. He shook his head at the other two men as he straightened. “She’s dead,” he said carefully, stating the freaking obvious.

Caleb held out both palms, inches above the swell of her breasts, directly over her heart and lungs, willing every particle of magic at his disposal to flood through her body. His own body vibrated, but Heather remained still. Her skin was as pale as the sheets on which she lay. Her lips were slightly parted and bloodless.

She’d been battered. Beaten. There was no purpose to Al-Adel’s vicious treatment before he’d successfully drowned her. Caleb doubted if the son of a bitch had even bothered to question Heather about his missing goddamned money. She’d been sport. As had everyone else the tango and his men had tortured at the medical center.

Sport. Nothing more.

Sick to his stomach at the excruciating pain she’d endured, he braced a knee against the edge of the mattress and yanked his thoughts away from Al-Adel. Away from anything and anyone that would take even a fraction of his attention away from what he had to do.

Dek put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Edge. You didn’t get there in time. She didn’t—”

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“Jesus,” Tony Rook said urgently. “TiVo time quick!”

“One-fifty-three,” Farris inserted.

“Can’t,” Caleb said hoarsely. “Not until—Won’t work if she’s dead. Christ…” He almost took a second to magically make the blood covering her disappear because he couldn’t stand seeing her covered in it, but he didn’t want to take away even that much juice from healing.

Palms warming, he moved his hands slowly across her chest. God help him, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. What if he wasn’t?

Was he using the right power?

The correct intensity?

There was no one to ask.

He was it.

“Two-nineteen. You can bring her back, right?” Farris, who’d known him for twelve years, asked quietly.

I don’t know. Christ. I don’t know.“Yes,” he said flatly. Yes was the only acceptable answer.
Yes. God
damn it. Yes.