Thrill Ride (17 page)

Merde.
He couldn’t think that way. These men had had his back for years, and he trusted each of them implicitly. Still, that didn’t stop the breath from shuddering out of him as Boss opened the door and shouted, “He’s coming out! Hold your fire! He’s unarmed and coming out! Do I have your word you will
hold
your
fire
?”

A long, interminable second passed, then that deep voice that’d been issuing commands and yelling threats for the last forty-five minutes sounded over the loudspeaker mounted to the top of the van.

The van that was now parked across the street. The same one the women were huddled in front of, being held at gunpoint—and,
oui,
that
particular situation completely coddled his balls. “This is Special Agent Patrick Wilhelm! And you have my word, Mr. Knight, that as long as there’s no funny business, we will hold our fire!”

Boss turned to Rock then, and the expression on the man’s face was enough to have Rock shaking his head and grinning. “Don’t worry,
mon
ami
. We’re the Black Knights.” And harking back to their days with the SEALs, he added, “Hoo-ah?”

“Hoo-ah, Rock!” Those Knights gathered around him barked in unison before he threw the door open and stepped over the threshold.

The first thing to hit him was the pungent smell of aviation fuel. The choppers overhead were perfuming the jungle and neighborhood beneath them. The second thing to hit him was the setting sun. It was a bright, orange ball, glowing low along the horizon, and he blinked against its molten brilliance. It was beautiful, perhaps the last sunset he’d ever see…And too soon, a sound to his left diverted his attention. The people from the house next door were standing out on the road, watching the unfolding drama with wide, worried eyes.

Of course, that was nothing compared to Vanessa’s expression.

When his gaze zeroed in on her, held securely between Eve and Becky, he felt like keeling over then and there. Before his cue. Because the woman was bawling her pretty eyes out, pulling against the two women and shouting over and over again, “Rock, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay,
chere
,” he whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. “It’s gonna be okay.” Then he closed his eyes and waited for his end…

What
happened
to
the
plan?
Vanessa thought frantically.

Steady was supposed to have a plan! But this wasn’t a plan. This was Rock giving himself up in order to save all of them, which
wasn’t a plan
!

“He can’t do this,” she sobbed, noting that now instead of her holding Becky back from rushing into the house to be with Boss, both Becky and Eve were having to hold
her
back from sprinting to Rock. “There has to be another way. There has to—”

“Stop it, Vanessa!” Becky barked in her ear, wrestling her back toward the van’s bumper like a pint-sized bar brawler. “If you go flying up to him like some sort of wild banshee, the CIA just might kill both of you. Use your friggin’ head, woman!”

And, yes, Becky was right. She wasn’t using her head; she was listening to her heart. And she’d already done enough of that today, hadn’t she? Because it was her heart that’d insisted she bring Rock back here…

Gulping down the hard knot of fear and remorse that’d been steadily growing in her throat ever since Bill and Steady tackled him off that dirt bike, she forced herself to stop struggling. But, it was obvious both Becky and Eve didn’t trust her as far as they could throw her, because each woman kept a restraining hand on her arm.

She didn’t care. Nothing mattered right now except the man who was standing on that threshold, looking so brave and honorable as he sacrificed himself for all of them.

She wanted to yell at him to come down from that cross he’d climbed up on, but she knew it’d do no good. Once Rock made a decision about something, it was nearly impossible to change his mind. And he’d obviously decided, along with the rest of the Knights—and you better believe she was going to rip every single one of them a new asshole for agreeing to this—that giving himself over to the CIA was the only solution. The only way out. For
them.
Not for him.

Jesus, what did I do by bringing him back here?

Doomed
him,
that little bastard of a voice answered.

She closed her eyes, hoping beyond hope that when she opened them again she’d discover it had all been a dream. A very,
very
bad dream…But, no. No such luck. Because when she took a deep breath and blinked against the brightness of the sun glinting off the whitewashed stucco house, he was still standing there. Still looking so brave and honorable and…and so goddamned
sacrificial
.

She could not believe she’d
done
this to him, brought him this point of no return, of no more options except to give himself up. She’d destroyed him and any chance he had of clearing his name by trying to save him. And she’d never, never as long as she lived, be able to forgive herself. She’d just made the biggest mistake of her life, and what made it all the more terrible was the fact that the biggest mistake of
her
life might very well result in the end of
his
life
.

The world around her dissolved into nothing but a blur as she allowed her eyes to linger on his wonderfully plain and, at the same time, wonderfully beautiful face.

He was pale. Even at a distance, she could see that. His dark goatee stood out in harsh contrast to the skin of his face. And the clean bandage he’d applied over the wound on his neck was almost indiscernible against his pallor.

And, yeah, who wouldn’t be pale? He was about to turn himself over to the CIA as a traitor, and The Company wasn’t exactly known for its leniency toward traitors.

Pale, but clean, she noted distractedly. At some point he’d washed off most off the mud and grime they’d accumulated from their trek through the jungle, and she didn’t doubt that was because he figured he was in for a very long, very rigorous examination—both mental and physical—and why add sweat and dirt to the discomforts he was sure to suffer at the CIA’s hands?

He’d traded in his tank top for a loose, gray T-shirt, which only emphasized how much weight he’d lost over the last few months. He’d definitely been running on empty when she found him.

But
at
least
he’d still been running,
that taunting voice whispered.

A hard sob shook her as she watched him take a step forward at Agent Wilhelm’s command. Then a gunshot rang out, loud and shockingly obscene. It was followed by three more in quick succession, and that’s when her world ended…

***

When the first charge blew, Rock didn’t need to pretend to stagger back as blood sprayed out from his chest and up into his face. The C4 packed quite a little punch and, even though they’d put protective tape beneath the cap containing the small amount of explosive and a good amount of his blood, it still managed to sear his skin.

The second and third blasts were a little harder to fake, but he did his best.

Of course, the fourth shot caught him completely off guard and had him landing flat on his back with a loud
umph
. His left ear felt like it’d been sheered clean off the side of his head.

Had Ghost decided to take one real shot? Make it count? Maybe to help Rock out with his bid for an Academy Award? If so, Rock was certainly going to give the man a piece of his mind, because…

Merde.

He’d didn’t remember the part where he signed up to be Picasso.

Then again, going through the rest of his life minus one ear was a small price to pay if this thing actually worked. And that was the last thought he had before utter confusion exploded around him.

Suddenly Boss was screaming, “You bastards promised not to shoot!” at the same time Agent Wilhelm shouted, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Which one of you assholes is firing!”

And Vanessa?

Well, Vanessa was just screaming her head off. Even through all the pandemonium, Rock could hear the agony in her wail as Boss hooked strong hands beneath his armpits and, with a mighty heave that had every single one of Rock’s sore muscles protesting, began hauling him back into the house. He let his head loll back on his neck, kept himself completely boneless. And once the soles of his boots cleared the threshold, Steady, ready and waiting at his predetermined spot, slammed the door shut with a loud
bang
.

Then it was Ozzie’s turn in this little sideshow they’d scripted. The kid, after receiving his cue from Boss, squirted some of the blood Steady had drawn from Rock’s vein not more than thirty minutes ago onto the floor. Boss dragged Rock back through it, creating a huge bloody trail indicative of a man who’d just sustained three shots to center mass and a fourth one—four, really?—to the head. At the designated location, about fifteen feet down the hall and mostly concealed by the partition leading into the kitchen where they’d faked a humongous pool of blood, Boss dropped him.

Rock opened one eye, caught the concerned look on Boss’s face, and gave him a thumbs-up. The C4 had managed to singe him, and he thought he smelled the pungent aroma of burning hair—which told him they should have shaved his chest before taping the explosives on—but, other than that and the god-awful ringing and burning in his ear, he appeared to be in one piece.

Huh….

He hadn’t really believed it would work. Then again, Wild Bill Reichert
did
know more about the esoteric use of all things that go
boom
than any man in the world.

Agent Wilhelm’s voice sounded again over the loudspeaker, only this time he was relaying his intention to enter the premises and ascertain the condition of the rogue operator.

Rogue. Rock detested that word. It was synonymous with a cheater, a blackguard. And, while technically he was operating outside of orders—had been for the last six months—none of those descriptions accurately portrayed him.

“Come on in, you sonofabitch!” Boss shouted after he’d run back to the door, throwing it wide open. Rock figured now was the time to pull out his best Meryl Streep as a beam of golden sunlight slipped in through the opening, highlighting the back of his head where he lay in that sticky pool of fake blood and…

Sweet
Lord.
The sound Vanessa made when she saw him.

He was certain he’d hear it in his nightmares from this day forward. Because if heartbreak, guilt, denial, and grief all combined together into one huge, ugly lump, it would make the awful noise tearing out of Vanessa’s ravaged throat.

It’s not real,
chere.

But for her, unfortunately, it was. And there was nothing he could do to reassure her. In fact, he felt a little guilty when it occurred to him that the scene she was causing likely went a long way in helping convince the CIA that what they’d just witnessed was, indeed, his death.

And, as if Boss could read his thoughts, the big guy continued yelling, “You’ve killed him!” And even though Rock had his eyes closed, he imagined Boss was standing in the doorway like an avenging angel, all two hundred forty pounds of pissed-off operator, puffed up and looking ready to shoot someone. “You might as well come and see your handiwork!”

Uh-huh. Rock could just imagine Agent Wilhelm jumping right on that, especially since it would require him to approach Boss.

A couple of interminable seconds passed before heavy footsteps pounded up the steps of the front porch. Rock tried to pay attention to the direction those steps moved, but it was difficult given he was distracted by the noise of all three women sobbing hysterically. And the guy who’d been holding the gun on them, who was
still
holding the gun on them by the sounds of it, kept shouting, “Get back! Stay put!”

Rock silently promised to kill the
morceau
de
merde—
piece of shit—if he so much as twitched that trigger in the women’s direction, but his attention was soon diverted by the conversation taking place at the front door…

“Who took the shots?” Boss demanded, his tone filled with enough authority and rage to make most men curl into a protective fetal position. “Because I want that bastard’s balls on a platter!”

“It wasn’t us,” Wilhelm declared vehemently. His voice sounded far less official when it wasn’t booming at them over the loudspeaker. “Swear to God, it wasn’t. One of my men saw a flash from a scope coming from the trees across the way. I’ve got part of my team in pursuit of the shooter.”

Shooter. That would be Ghost, and no way in hell would the CIA catch him. That man came by his nickname honestly. If he wanted to disappear? He did. Period. End of story. Just…
smoke.

“Bullshit!” Boss thundered, sounding like he was vibrating with fury.
Go
Boss! Way to sell it.
“You just killed an innocent man. And when we find out who was
really
behind all those murders back stateside, I’m going to see that you’re stripped of your position and the only job you’ll get in the intelligence community is that of urinal cake replacer in the men’s bathroom at Langley’s detention center!”

Urinal cake replacer? Was that even a real job?

“It
wasn’t
us!” Wilhelm shouted ferociously, and, okay, so
there
was that official tone.

For a couple of minutes, obscenities were exchanged, and Rock imagined the two men were face-to-face like a couple of rabid dogs, snarling and barking and slathering. Then Wilhelm said, “I need to examine the body.”

Body.
Mon
dieu
, it was bizarre to be referred to as such.

“You lay one finger on that man,” Boss rumbled, his voice pitched so low you could feel it in your chest like the boom of fireworks on the Fourth of July, “and I’ll personally put a bullet in your brain.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Wilhelm scoffed. And Boss must’ve made a face that begged the CIA agent to call his bluff, because a couple of seconds ticked by before Wilhelm opened his mouth again. And this time, his tone was far less assured. “Look, Mr. Knight, my men
didn’t
kill Babineaux. Someone else did. As a rogue,” there was that despicable word again, “he probably made a lot of enemies. Someone was waiting to take him out.”

And, as Rock’s dear ol’ daddy used to say,
B.I.N.G.O. That spells bingo
!

Because that was
exactly
the conclusion to which they’d hoped the CIA would jump.

“Even if what you’re saying is true, you’re not touching him,” Boss declared, his uncompromising tone saying it all. Rock was pretty positive the guy’s Rock-of-Gibraltar expression probably said it even better. “That man lying dead over there,” he imagined Boss hooking a thumb in his direction and he held his breath, “has done more for the safety and for the sovereignty of our country than you and all those men you’ve brought with you combined. He bled red, white, and blue since the day he was born,” mostly just red, Rock could vouch for that, “and I won’t have you poking and prodding at his corpse, defiling him more than you already have.”

“I’ve got orders—”

“You’ve got orders to confirm his death,” Boss interrupted. “Well, as I’m sure you can see, the man is dead. If you want confirmation that that’s really Richard ‘Rock’ Babineaux lying over there in a pool of blood, you can just scoop up a sample and take it back to your fancy-schmancy lab at Langley. I’m sure you have a DNA profile on him from his time with the SEALs.”

And hadn’t
that
been a fun day in the Teams? When they’d all filed down to the infirmary where an automaton-looking asshole with a needle and some plastic tubes took their blood, swabbed their cheeks, and removed a follicle of hair from each of them? Funner still was the fact that it’d all been done on the not-so-unlikely chance that their bodies were so badly burned or shredded or
whatever
that normal means of identification wouldn’t work.

Of course, he never thought he’d be using those tissue samples to help
fake
his own death. But if there was one truism in the spec-ops community, it was always expect the unexpected.