Shoot to Thrill (43 page)

Concerned but uninvolved. Male.
Not Rainie.

He kept his eyes closed. And tried to remember . . . “Where is she?”

“Checking on Mr. Zane, I believe. Right down the hall. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Relief zinged through him. A hospital of some sort, then. “They’re both safe? Alex and Rainie?”

“Both doing fine. Your woman has been driving the doctors here crazy taking care of the two of you. Making sure you’re everyone’s top priority. Helping Alex reacclimatize to the civilized world. Sleeping next to you tangled up in all those wires every night, in case you woke up from your coma.”

Coma? Hell . . . No wonder he couldn’t remember anything except Rainie’s worried face fading from sight. She
would
be a spitfire taking care of her wounded charges. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Kick smiled, and felt it through his entire being.
His woman
, the guy had called her. Damn, how great did
that
sound?

God
, he loved her.

Bits and pieces were coming back to him. Escaping capture . . . The air strike . . . Killing abu Bakr . . . But not how he’d gotten here, wherever
here
was. “I was in a coma?”

“Oh, far worse.” The man sounded completely serious when he said, “I’m very sorry to inform you of your tragic death from injuries sustained during your heroic rescue of Mr. Zane.”

Wait . . . Ah! Kick cracked an eyelid, enjoying a wry moment of relief. “I can live with that.”

The other man gave him a ghost of a smile. Took a sip of coffee.

He’d never seen the guy before. Midforties with short-cropped hair. Sitting in a chair by the bedside, one ankle carelessly resting on a knee, one hand holding a coffee cup, the other a silver envelope. He was dressed in jeans and a blue polo shirt. Too casual for Company. But the man’s watchful eyes were smart, cool, and assessing. Behind the relaxed façade, Kick recognized a man who’d seen action. And plenty of it.

“I’m Kurt Bridger. STORM Corps,” he said, forestalling Kick’s query. “If you were wondering, you’ve been admitted to Haven Oaks, a sanatorium in upstate New York. We own it and run it, but only a few of the staff know of the connection to STORM. Safer for our operatives who come here to be treated. I’d appreciate it if you kept it that way.”

“Of course.” Kick digested what the man was telling him.
He was back in the States
. Must have been some damn coma.

He glanced around at the array of instruments lining the wall, and the catheter line along his collar bone. It felt all too familiar. “What the hell happened to me? Did I have a relapse or something?”

“Not exactly,” Bridger said. “Abu Bakr injected you with a very nasty genetic hybrid of what appears to be avian flu virus vectored with anthrax. Luckily the mutation has some problems, so although the incubation period is alarmingly short, with treatment it’s survivable. We were able to get you to a hospital in time.”

“Jesus,” Kick breathed. Avian flu and anthrax? Talk about a lethal combination.

“You were in and out of consciousness for nearly a week. Some of it induced, but mostly just sick as a dog.”

He believed it. He still felt like shit. A whole week . . . “Who else knows I’m here . . . alive?”

“Miss Martin, Mr. Zane, Marc Lafayette, and STORM Command,” Bridger listed succinctly.

“Marc? He’s here, too?”

Bridger shook his head. “He’s recuperating down South. Wanted to see his family. He’s doing fine, though.”

“I’m glad. And Nate?” Kick asked, hoping against hope his friend had survived. He needed to apologize in a big way.

“Dr. Daneby is still in critical condition, taken to a private hospital in Paris as per DFP instructions. I can request an update if you like. I understand you two are friends.”

“We are.” At least he hoped so. If Nate could find it in his heart to forgive him. Kick sighed heavily. “I’d appreciate that.” He paused for a second, thinking of the bad start to the mission. “I’m sorry about the others—the guys who went down with the plane. Losing men really sucks.”

“Yeah,” Bridger said. A look of grim sadness snaked across his features. “It does. And it makes STORM all the more determined to find those responsible.”

“I killed abu Bakr,” Kick said, feeling a potent brew of satisfaction and relief. Then he frowned. “That’s been verified, right?”

“Mr. Zane did make a preliminary ID,” Bridger told him. “But the body was pretty badly torn up during the air strike. We’re waiting for your confirmation of the photos, to be 100 percent sure.”

“Shit,” Kick muttered. “I suppose DNA is too much to ask for?”

“We took samples, but there’s nothing to compare it with. Meanwhile, one of the other al Sayika leaders from the camp is unaccounted for. Abbas Tawhid.”

“
He
was there?” Kick strained to remember, but came up blank.

“Yes, according to Mr. Zane. You didn’t see him?”

“No . . . but I was unconscious a lot.” Unwillingly, he thought about the photo of Nate and Tawhid that Forsythe had shown him.

As though reading his thoughts, Bridger quickly explained about Nate saving Tawhid’s mother’s life and the subsequent deal they’d made over the kidnapped aid workers. It sounded exactly like something Nate would do. Why hadn’t he just said so?

Why hadn’t Kick just trusted him?

Hell.

The same reason he hadn’t trusted his feelings for Rainie
. Or hers for him. Trust issues? Just a bit.

“Anyway,” Bridger continued, “Tawhid escaped with a briefcase which Mr. Zane believes contained vials of the bio weapon they were developing there at the camp. The same virus they injected you with.”

Alarm zinged through Kick. “Abu Bakr had a briefcase on him. But, surely it was destroyed in the air strike.”

Bridger pursed his lips. “We recovered traces of the case abu Bakr was carrying, and the vials. The heat of the attack obliterated any trace of the virus itself. But according to Mr. Zane, there were two cases. We have to assume Tawhid took the other with him.”

Kick stared. The implications hit him hard. “
Je
sus! Al Sayika is already planning their next attack.”

“That’s STORM’s assessment, too.”

He swore harshly. “We have to find that briefcase.”

“Already looking,” Bridger concurred. He set the coffee aside and leaned forward. “Mr. Zane seems pretty sure al Sayika has turned someone on the inside. CIA, FBI, maybe the military. Someone highly placed.”

It was unsettling to hear Kick’s own conspiracy theory spoken aloud. “You’ve questioned Alex?” he asked, buying time to think.

Bridger nodded. “Every day since you arrived. Mr. Zane has one hell of a story. It’s a goddamn miracle he’s still alive.”

“Shocked the hell out of me,” Kick admitted. Never in a million years would he forget that split second when time stood still and he realized that his emaciated fellow prisoner was his best friend. He let out a shaky breath.

Bridger gave him a moment, slowly spinning the silver envelope in his hand, then said, “He told us there was a Western doctor who was working with abu Bakr.”

Kick nodded. “Count Girard Virreau. Ran into him during the air strike. Pretty damning.”

The other man darted him an assessing look. “He’s dead. They searched his belongings at the DFP refugee camp. It appears he was smuggling blood diamonds for al Sayika.”

“Marc and I surmised as much.” Kick thought about the mysterious warning the count had given him.
You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Kill me and they’ll just find someone else to take my place.
“A lot of terrorists get their funding through the illegal diamond trade. But Virreau was only a pawn in the bigger scheme. The real traitor is closer to home.”

“So you agree with Zane’s theory about the mole in our government.”

Kick met the other man’s eyes. “Yeah.”

“Sure you’re not both being—understandably, mind you—paranoid?”

He wondered how much more he should say. One word to the wrong person and he was as good as dead. He was pretty sure he’d only stayed alive these past sixteen months because he’d quit Zero Unit and kept his mouth shut about his dark suspicions. Which, admittedly, had eaten at his soul the entire time like a cancer. But with his injuries it had been impossible to do anything about it. Then—with the help of his addiction—he’d convinced himself it wasn’t his problem.

But now he could. Bridger and STORM could ferret out the bigger scumbags and expose them. Being dead to the world was great, but Kick wanted that normal life with Rainie. He wanted to be able to walk down the street without fear, wanted Rainie to be able to pursue her career without worrying that some bad guy would find her and use her against Kick.

This man Bridger could do that. Kick just had to level with him. Give him all the information he had. Share his theories. “Yeah. I’ve been convinced there’s a traitor on the inside ever since A-stan,” he told him. “It’s why I went off-grid for so long. There’s definitely a connection here in the States. I’m sure that’s how we were ambushed in A-stan, and hit going into the Sudan. Abu Bakr was warned.”

Bridger smiled. But it wasn’t a nice kind of smile. “STORM Command agrees. Which is why we’d like to offer you a job.”

Whoa. Wait.
“
Me?
”

“Marc Lafayette has already requested this mission. And highly recommended we recruit you for it, too.”

Not exactly what he had in mind for his immediate future. Or the long-term. He’d wanted to get out of the sniper business for good.

On the other hand . . . what else did he know how to do, really? And what kind of a future could he enjoy if he didn’t do everything possible to stop this threat to his country . . . and himself?

Damn.

But he had to talk to Rainie. Work out a few important things first. “Give me a couple of days to think about it,” he told Bridger.

The older man stood. “No problem. It’s the kind of work that could easily get a man killed. For real this time.”

Nothing new in that. “If I accept,” Kick said, “I’d want complete protection for Rainie.”

“We’ve already offered her a job, too. Here at the sanatorium, taking care of Alex. Secure facility, twenty-four-hour guards.” Bridger held up a business card, then set it on the nightstand along with the silver envelope he’d been holding the whole time. “When you’re ready, give me a call. Meanwhile”—he winked—“enjoy being a dead man.”

“THIRTY
-three.”

Alex collapsed on the soft carpet of his room at Shady Acres—No, Haven Oaks. Apparently it was a small, private sanatorium—no doubt very expensive. He didn’t know why STORM Corps was footing the bill, but he wasn’t about to complain. He was just grateful they’d been able to keep his return to the States top secret and need-to-know, so the press hadn’t gotten wind of the story. Just what he’d need—his face to be splashed across every damned newspaper and TV news show in the country:

LOST HERO RETURNS FROM THE DEAD!

Nothing like handing his ass to the enemy on a platter. The Sultan of Pain might be dead—thank you, God and Kick Jackson—but al Sayika was alive and well, no doubt determined to tie up a talkative loose end in the form of one Christopher Alex Zane.

Cheek to the carpet, Alex gulped down several stinging lungfuls of air. He wasn’t supposed to be out of bed yet. Doctor’s orders. Rainie was being a real Nurse Ratched about it, too. He’d had to sneak behind her back. But if he could fucking do push-ups back in his old prison hellhole, he sure as fuck could do them now, too . . . even if they were of the one-armed sissy variety. And not take a shower? Just try and stop him. So he’d carefully watched how she attached the IV leads so he could unhook himself, and had confined his covert infractions to naptime.

After tortuously climbing to his feet again, he hurried across the room—if by hurry you meant shuffling like a hundred-year-old geezer—to the bathroom. He peered into the mirror in disgust. Some damn hero. Body like a skeleton and could barely see an inch of skin between all the bandages. Hell, could barely see, period. His eyes were so inflamed the doc was amazed his sight was slowly coming back at all. Thank God for modern medicine.

He swiped a fluffy towel from the rack and pressed it to his sweaty face. And thank God for civilization. For a moment he just stood there, holding the towel against his cheeks, absorbing the miraculous softness and breathing in the clean, flowery scent. Trembling like a baby but counting all of his goddamn blessings.

He was doing well with his exercise regime. Up to thirty-three one-armed push-ups, and twice that number of sit-ups today. A record, for sure. The gunshot arm was healing nicely. And all the torture wounds. They’d grafted skin from where he still had some. Shaved him and given him a fly haircut. Finally able to keep food down, he’d gained eight pounds in the past week. Good progress, his doctor said.

But the memory? Not so much.

Give it time, his doctor said. Baby steps.

Every morning his bed was wheeled to the video confer encing room, where a whole string of military and intelligence people took turns interviewing him, his old bosses from Zero Unit included. They’d been pretty furious that STORM wouldn’t tell them where they had him stashed. But that was the deal—the only way he’d agree to talk to them. Kick was convinced, and he agreed, one of the bastards was a traitor and surely out to kill them both. Alex didn’t want to push his luck. He’d probably used up all his come-back-from-the-dead tokens over the previous year.

He peered into the mirror, studying his own unfamiliar face. And wondered which of the faces on the video monitor was that of an enemy whore. . . . He was keeping careful notes on everyone who questioned him. He’d bet anything the bastard who had sent him to die was one of those flag-waving hypocrites who were interrogating him like
he’d
done something wrong. Too bad he hadn’t recognized a damned one of their faces. Not even his old commanding officers.

Fucking scary as hell. And fucking depressing, too. Almost made him miss the cruel but brutal honesty of his late tormentors.