Chapter 24
Aden, Yemen
“Can you please just buy me a ticket?” Dillon brandished the cash at the man as an airplane screeched across the tarmac beyond the barrier wall. “I don’t care—”
“No, no!” The man waved frantically. “Go away or I will call the police.”
“Please, I am not a bad person. I just need to get out of the country, and my passport was stolen.” He again wagged the money at the thirtysomething Yemeni, who shoved him then stalked down the street. Straight toward a police car.
Dillon took the hint and hustled around the corner. Negotiated his way to another corner and tried again, this time with an older man. “Excuse me, I am in trouble.”
“Go away, American!” the gray-haired man shuffled off, going so far as to cross the street.
Wandering back toward the front of the airport, Dillon dragged a hand over his mouth, telling himself not to think about Cove or her reaction when she realized he was gone. It had to be done. Hated that things would end this way but—
“You the American looking for a ticket?”
Dillon pivoted and all his Spidey senses went off. Man, he did not need trouble already, though he knew he was practically begging for it. He tucked his hand in his pocket, shedding some of the paper money. “I am, but”—he produced two bills—“I don’t have much. I just—”
With a mutter that sounded a lot like a curse, the hard-edged man turned around and left.
Dillon did the same, heading to the far side. When a car slid around the corner, he felt his breath back into his throat—a police car. Lights wrrp’d.
Shoot.
He launched himself down an alley and was halfway through before he realized it was a dead end.
At least, for a normal person. He tic-tacked up the wall and hiked onto the roof.
Bolted across it to the higher vantage. Scaled a pipe up to that tar-riddled surface.
As he sprinted, he got his bearings. Knew he was on top of the main airport terminal.
Crouch-running, he headed in the direction of the main street.
Took a knee as he scanned the area. Eyed the plane taxiing.
A queue of people climbing stairs into a jet with Arabic script on the side. Then the street again.
Three vehicles wove erratically through traffic, tires screeching in front of the terminal.
Time to move. He pushed to his feet, checking their direction as the people deployed from the trio of vehicles.
One spotted him. Shouted.
He took off running.
Port of Aden, Yemen
Sitting alone in what Omen called the bunkroom, Cove hated Dillon for leaving without a word, but more importantly—without her. In the first few hours after his departure, she had tortured herself, wondering why she had been so easy to abandon.
Did I mean so little to him, that at the first opportunity to bail, he did?
It was not the first opportunity, she argued with herself. Regardless, he had known he was breaking their deal by walking out of this building. She doubted he felt bad about it—he had, after all, done it in secret so she could not stop him.
Santo cielo, she hated that Pike had been so callous about it.
She had completely fallen apart when he gave her the news, and all he had done was step around her, call Dante over, and tell him to get her back to the bunkroom.
Stiff and silent, he then strode toward the bank of computers where several of the team were now busy.
And here she sat, hours later. This team would want her gone, eventually. She supposed they might help her get back home—even if that was not their plan, she would make sure they did. Otherwise, she had no way to get anywhere. But without Papà, what life waited for her back in Italy?
Over the last few days, she had begun to construct a different life, a…full life. With Dillon. Now that she had been abandoned, she realized the futility of that idea. He was American, with a life and home… Where had he said he lived? Virginia.
“Uh-oh,” one of the guys said. “Looks like it’s getting real.”
“Think he’ll be okay?”
The question pulled Cove off the bed and into the room, though she hovered back far enough so as to not draw their attention. But they all stood with their backs to her, huddling around a monitor that hung on a rack.
“Dude’s a freakin’ monkey with those parkour moves.”
Parkour? That…that sounded like they were talking about Dillon.
She drifted closer, catching sight of what they were watching. It took a moment for her mind to figure out what she was seeing. A white oval moved across a light gray…
Wait. Not an oval—a shape. A person—Dillon—running across a…roof? From the high vantage of the camera, she could also see cars swarming the street.
Frowning, she slipped nearer, hugging herself. When she saw Dillon crouch at the corner of the building, she tried to figure out what was going on. “How can we see him, this?”
Heads swiveled toward her, but she kept her gaze trained on the monitor.
Then Dillon straightened, turned toward the swarming cars, pivoted, and bolted toward the end of the building.
“No!” someone shouted.
“No…no…” the burly red-bearded guy muttered as he watched. “Won’t make it.”
“It’s Achilles,” Dante countered. “Twenty says he’ll make it.”
Cove drew in a breath as Dillon went airborne. She covered her mouth with both hands, terrified he would fall and kill himself. But just as his Scion friend said, he caught the light post and slung around it.
“You owe me twenty,” Dante said with a smirk.
“I wasn’t dumb enough to take that bet,” the burly guy said.
Mortified that these men were betting on Dillon’s life, Cove shifted to rail at them, her heart racing. “How—”
“Wait…wait…”
“Here we go.” Pike nodded, hands on his belt as he stared at the screen.
His words had the effect of clapping silence through the room. Tension tightened. Drove Cove’s gaze back to the feed. Her breathing slowed to a painful rhythm as she watched a pursuer gain on Dillon. No. No no no…
They caught him. Jerked him backward. Pounced on him.
Groans echoed in the room.
“How can you just watch this? Why are you not doing something? They will kill him!”
Pike met her gaze. “He made a choice.”
At first, her mind would not quite comprehend what he had just said. But when it finally hit, she threw herself at him. “Mostro! You beast!”
To intercept her, Dante caught her around the waist. “Wait, no—”
Pain exploded through her midsection. She screamed, even as her vision ghosted and the world fell away.
Undisclosed Location
Hood over his head, hands bound behind his back, Dillon struggled to remain calm. This wasn’t unlike being in the tunnels, having his sight blocked and the air still. Only difference was that here, he didn’t have Cove to talk him through it.
Hands clamped his arms and he was yanked out of the vehicle, the diesel engine rattling.
Unable to see and guide his foot placement, he missed a step.
Crashed down, scoring his shin. He grunted the pain away, trying to maintain focus on location and direction.
But he was at a disadvantage, since he’d been in a vehicle.
Before that…he had no idea because—if the sluggishness in his head was any indication—he’d been drugged.
The men around him cursed in Arabic and dragged him on.
Unwilling to have his knees shredded, he struggled back to his feet. Let them pull him, but he would do this under his own strength.
A distant adhan sang through the air, haunting as it called people to prayer. Paired with the Arabic epithets…and the unique, woody, spicy smell mingled with the reek of waste and garbage, he was somewhere with a Muslim population.
They negotiated stairs—that was fun, since he was all but blind. He earned a few more bruises and cuts on his shins when he wasn’t able to predict the turns and varying heights. Soon, stone gave way to uneven terrain. Hardpacked earth, he’d guess.
Wood creaked.
“Get back!”
Me? How was he suppo—
“On your knees, face down in the dirt.”
Guessing they were shouting at someone else, Dillon waited, noting the rattle of a vehicle passing on the left. So a street was nearby…?
A definitive shink sounded, then wood creaked, groaned. Someone grabbed at the hood over Dillon’s head. Anticipating they were about to remove it, he braced. Closed his eyes, readying himself to take in his surroundings as quickly as possible. Doubted they would give him much time.
The hood ripped free. He blinked rapidly. Saw a building to his left and straight ahead. Felt the metal cuffs fall free just as he registered the gaping void at his feet. Which a violent shove sent him spiraling into.
Instinct made him tuck his head to roll, but the ground was closer than he’d anticipated.
His shoulder cracked into the ground. Pain ricocheted down his neck and arm.
“Augh!” Arching his spine against the pain, he caught his arm to keep it immobilized even as he saw a wood pallet drop.
He flinched, expecting it to land on him, but when it didn’t, he understood it was a door.
The shink sounded again, locking him in.
That’s when the rancid smell overpowered him.
“What is that smell?” he groaned, squinting into the smothering darkness, stretching his shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the fall. Not dislocated but it hurt like crazy.
“Me,” rasped a hollow voice.
He froze, shifting aside. Even with the hollowness, the emptiness in that lone word, it sounded a lot like—
“Dillon?”
Pain could not hold him down. He shot upward, grimacing. Angled toward the voice. “Dad?” He groped in the darkness, searching. Desperate for the unmistakable voice to take form. Solidify. “Dad!” His fingers found a cold bony hand.
“Here,” came a choked-out word along with a sharp cough.
“Dad,” he whispered, stunned by the miracle of this moment.
“He heard me,” Dad sobbed, a wracking cough painful to hear. “He…heard…me. God heard me.”
Not letting go, and ignoring the fire in his shoulder, Dillon scrambled toward his dad. “I’m here.”