Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The helicopter bucked in the shearing winds, engines screaming, the scent of smoke swirling through the cabin as Foster flared hard into the tree line.
The skids kissed the dirt, Rowan and her team jumping out before Foster had to fully settle — lose the fragile control he still wielded over the machine.
They stayed low, crouched against the blast of downwash before Foster lifted the bird, limped out of sight, skids barely clearing the treetops. She stared at the silhouette until it vanished into the storm, a hollow feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach.
Bodie shouldered up beside her. Calm. An unmovable force in a changing landscape. “They won’t let anyone hurt him. I promise.”
She leaned into his touch, aware now wasn’t the time but too damn scared to care. “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re hurt.”
She swept her gaze over him. Hair spiked up in every direction, blood, mud, and grime from the laundry chute smeared across one cheek, he looked more than formidable, and she couldn’t stop herself from falling harder. For wanting that future he’d talked about.
He tugged her against his chest. “If you’re having second thoughts…”
“Foster’s gone. It’s ride or die time.” She drew in a deep breath, forced one foot to step back — ease out of his embrace. “Just don’t die on me. I can live with Walsh getting away. With my dad never knowing who I am. But losing you…”
She wouldn’t survive it.
Which sounded cheesy and cliché, but damn it, it was also true. He was the other half of her soul.
The piece that made her whole.
“Rowan, I…”
“Just don’t die.”
Bodie opened his mouth, then closed it, answering her with a tight smile before Nick jogged over to them.
He looked between them. “Do you two have to stare longingly at each other for another five minutes or are you ready to join the class?”
Rowan shoved him as she took a step. “I see why Sloane wants to shoot you all the time. You’re an ass.”
He merely smiled, led them across the open area toward the main structures.
She tamped down the surge of panic. The plan had sounded clever in the chopper — lure Graves to the off-season camp using the tracker, disable his forces in an epic ambush.
But now that they were standing in the middle of the campground, rain drizzling around them as fog breathed throughout the forest, it seemed ridiculously overzealous.
Buck stood next to an old, rusted generator, grease smeared across his knuckles.
He grabbed the backup cord, yanked it a few times until the unit bucked, coughing out clouds of thick, obnoxious fumes before roaring to life.
A handful of lights winked on around the main lodge, the soft, dim glow just enough to draw Graves’ attention. — funnel him into their kill box.
Dalton lit a diesel-soaked rag on fire, tossed it in an old metal barrel.
He rolled it just out of sight of the gate, the smoke and the smell creating the illusion of a downed chopper.
“It’s not great, but with the rain and the fog, the strobe light blinking behind the shed, it’s enough to get them through the gate. ”
Rowan toed at the mud. “I’m not sure I know how to thank all of you for what you’ve done. Rescuing my father like that…Then, this…”
Avery snorted. “Please, no goodbye speeches before we’ve even started. It’s back luck.”
“Then, I’ll just tell you what I told Bodie—”
“No declarations of love, either.” Nick smiled. “Some of us have sensitive stomachs.”
“I was going to say, don’t die, jackass, but now, I’m rethinking that.”
Lights.
Bouncing down the one-lane logging road leading up to the camp. Casting the fog in a bright yellow glow. Rowan nodded, and they took off, vanishing into the darkness a breath later.
Rowan followed Bodie into the lodge, took point by an open window on the east side. What gave them a clear view across the campground. She checked her vest — two extra mags and one smoke grenade. What should be overkill, except where Graves’ crew likely had more. Wouldn’t be a simple takedown.
Bodie stood beside her, a solid, deadly presence as two SUVs and a pickup rounded the far bend, crept slowly toward the gate. Twin headlights cut a line along the metal barrier, threw a long shadow across the mud as the vehicles rolled to a halt, brakes squeaking in the rain.
The rear door opened, a dim light brightening the interior, silhouetting four men in black tactical gear. One guy jumped out, ballistic vest snugged around his massive chest.
Graves.
She recognized him from the facility. The arrogance. How he walked as if the ground bowed before him.
He stopped at the gate, tested the flimsy lock, then worked it free. Under two minutes, and he had the barrier swung wide, the vehicles rolling into the clearing.
Her earpiece crackled, Nick’s voice whispering through. “They’re in. Blow it, Landry.”
A breath of silence, then a flat boom from the tree line, a massive spruce crackling like kindling. The bark exploded as the trunk gave way, dumped the tree across the road beyond the gate, effectively trapping them inside.
Regardless of the outcome, they were committed.
Doors thumped. Shapes fanned out across the clearing — three up the center, two right along the generator line, and another two left, toward the bunkhouses. All moving in well-practiced formations.
A floodlight from the pickup strobed the area.
Until the lamp shattered.
No warning. No crack, just a soft chug and the darkness folded back in on itself.
Dalton. From a nest on the camp’s water tower. No fuss. No fanfare. Just his steady hands finding their mark.
The men froze, silhouettes bent low, weapons sweeping the grounds until the group scattered, the center point man quickstepping it across the clearing. He got halfway to the lodge door when Dalton’s rifle coughed, again — dropped him into the mud.
That kicked everything into high gear.
Muzzles flashed in the misty rain, return fire lighting up the cabins and trees as Graves’ team pushed forward.
Bullets thumped into the lodge’s thick walls, the window by the dim light shattering inward.
A couple canisters skipped along the dirt, grey smoke billowing out.
Choking off any visual references as boots pounded the ground nearby, the main door splintering inward.
Rowan fired two controlled bursts, downed the first merc before he crossed the threshold.
Had the next asshole lined up until a canister clicked across the floor.
Bodie shoved her beneath him as the world washed white, just like in the cannery, the sound vibrating through to her molars.
The floor tipped, muffled footsteps closing in when Bodie’s weight vanished.
She managed to push onto her hands and knees before one of the assholes landed beside her, head cracking against the floor, blood splattering across the wall.
She blinked, tried to focus as Bodie hooked her elbow, yanked her to her feet.
He snapped his fingers in front of her face, waited until she nodded before dragging her into the next room.
He leaned in close, his breath feathering across her cheek. “You back with me?”
She managed a guttural version of, “Yeah,” ears still ringing, stomach threatening to empty. She didn’t know how he pushed through, just that she’d be dead if he hadn’t been there.
Another click on the comms, Dalton this time. “Walsh just crept from the rear SUV. He’s flanking left. I don’t have a clear shot.”
Ice sluiced through her veins.
This was her chance to take him down.
She tapped her mic. “On it.”
They headed for the rear door, Bodie guarding her six when he inhaled, shoved her sideways a second before Graves crashed through a glass door, shards spraying out in every direction. He rolled with the impact, pistol aimed her way as he scrambled upright, pulled the trigger.
The shot went wide as Bodie barreled into him, tumbling them both against the wall, Bodie’s rifle pinned across Graves’ chest. They grappled for balance, knocking over tables and chairs as the fight sprawled into the next room.
Rowan scrambled to get a clear shot, but they kept changing places, the fight a blur of arms and legs.
A blade glinted in the dim light as it sliced through the air, clattering to the ground along with Bodie’s rifle when he blocked the strike with a cross of his arms, used his weapon to tear the knife away.
Graves grunted, taking several hard hits as if he didn’t even feel it, landing two to Bodie’s ribs in quick succession. Bodie’s breath wheezed out in a strangled cough, but he caught the other man’s leg when he tried a close-quarter kick — tossed him back against the wall.
Rowan jockeyed left, got a clear sightline when the floor creaked behind her. She turned as Walsh stepped across the threshold, pistol aimed her way.
Too close.
Even with her Sig pointed his way, she’d miss wide or maybe hit his vest. Not enough to drop him — stop him from getting off a shot.
She tried anyway. Pulled the trigger as her barrel swept across his path, his gun flashing a moment sooner. She braced for impact, prayed it caught her in the vest when Bodie stepped in front — took the hit.
He jerked backwards, tumbled over a couch and out of sight, as her shot caught Walsh in the arm, twisted him back out the door. Footsteps stomped across the porch, slowly fading into the distance.
Rowan swept the room, clocked Graves over on the floor, blood blossomed on his upper shoulder, more on his thigh. What might have been Walsh’s shot as it punched through Bodie, then carried on — hit Graves in the leg.
She darted over to him, kicked his weapons away, then dropped down beside Bodie. Blood ate up a circle of his sweater just beneath his vest, more dripping onto the floor.
He cursed, pushed onto one elbow. “It’s not that bad. We can’t lose Walsh.”
Rowan stopped him from standing. “Screw, Walsh. You’re hit.”
“Still breathing. And I still have a promise to keep.”
“You can’t get justice if you’re dead.”
“Then, let’s go before that changes.”
“Bodie… Shit.”
Bodie accepted her hand as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, heaved him to his feet. He teetered for a moment, the floor not quite stable beneath his boots until the world stopped spinning — settled slightly off-kilter.
Nothing he couldn’t work with.
He looked over at Graves. He’d managed to deflect the guy’s last strike, drive the Ka-bar into Graves’ shoulder when Walsh had stepped into the room, Beretta trained on Rowan. Bodie hadn’t even finished processing the scene, he’d just reacted on instinct — stepped in front.
Just dumb luck the round had punched through him and into Walsh, dropping the man before he’d had a chance to launch another counterattack.
Rowan called for backup across the comms — someone to cuff Graves — as she tied her jacket around Bodie’s wounds, then followed him out of the lodge and down the stairs. Bodie scanned each direction, but everything blurred into black.
Dalton answered Rowan’s plea. “Caught a glimpse of Walsh heading for the pool house. I can’t get a clean sightline.”
Bodie took off, tripped his way across the clearing, then down a slight hill.
A single silhouette appeared in front, too far for an easy takedown.
Rowan kept pace, watching for stragglers as they followed after Walsh, tried to close the gap.
They hit the enclosed section turned right, then cut across the empty pool when they spotted him climbing up a utility shed.
Walsh stood, got ready to jump, when Rowan steadied her hand, fired a single round still running — punched a hole in the roof next to Walsh’s feet. “I wouldn’t, Dr. Walsh.”
He froze, Pelican case grasped in one hand. He turned, looked as if he might fire, when his gaze locked on Bodie’s as he and Rowan stopped several meters away.
Bodie eased forward, gun aimed at the center of his head. “I’ve already got a reason to kill you, and Rowan’s got even more. Your choice.”
Walsh glared at them. “You have no idea what you’re doing. The connections I have.”
Bodie took a step. “Pretty sure, those connections are going to disappear. Isn’t that right, Nick?”
Nick moved in from the right, Avery at his side. “Knowing how the CIA works, I’m betting he’s already burned.”
Walsh stared at them, then shrugged. He jumped down, laughed when Avery slapped some cuffs on him. “We’ll see.”
Avery shoved him ahead of her, started back toward the main gate as sirens wailed in the background, Greer’s forces closing in for the cleanup.
Bodie looked over at Rowan, blinked, her features fading in and out of focus. He took a step, tripped, Nick bridging his weight when everything shifted.
“Shit, Page, when the hell did you get hit?”
Nick’s voice washed over Bodie, strangely distant, with an odd echo that roiled Bodie’s stomach. He waved the man away, tried to walk on his own, only to resurface staring up at Rowan as she pressed down on his side, hands soaked with blood.
Blue lights strobed overhead, another female voice chattering close by.
Greer.
He recognized the voice, now, even if he couldn’t quite make out the words.
Rowan tsked, shoved a needle in his arm. “I swear, Bodie, if you fucking die on me…”
He smiled, managed to lift his hand enough to brush his thumb across her jaw. “God, you’re beautiful.”
She huffed, tugged on his side, more pressure than pain, which he knew spelled trouble. “I’m not falling for that line, anymore.”
“But I’ve fallen for you.”
She paused with some kind of instrument in her hand before she continued working. “If that’s true, you’ll hold on. Give me a chance to make a fool out of myself and tell you I love you once you’re fully coherent.”
“I’m coherent, now.”
“With the amount of blood you’ve lost, you won’t remember a second of this.” She leaned down, eyes glassy, her chin quivering. “Greer’s breaking the damn sound barrier getting us to Providence, so don’t disappoint her, okay?”
“I couldn’t let him shoot…”
The words faded, his tongue too thick to get them out. Instead, he gazed up at Rowan, blue eyes staring down at him.
“I know.” She sighed. “Fine, I’m crazy in love with you. And I know it’s quick. People will talk — judge — but the reality is… I just don’t care. Because when you know it’s right, you know.”
He nodded. Not much, but he hoped she noticed as the interior of Greer’s Bronco faded, Rowan’s face washing to black. He roused to bright lights and bleach, some kind of annoying machine beeping in the background.
Rowan jogged beside him, alternating her gaze between him and somewhere up ahead. She seemed duller, smaller, as if she’d shifted away. Voices shouted around him, everything finally grinding to a halt.
Rowan leaned down, cheeks damp. “They’re taking you to surgery. You’d better damn well come back out, or I swear I’ll shoot you, myself.”
Another nod.
Even less movement than before.
Her words from earlier following him into the darkness.