Devil's Gold (51 page)

Blinking and shaking his head, Jake angled away and crawled to a non-smoke-infested area. The sound of heavy footsteps and muttered curses alerted Jake to the fact that he was being followed. He turned, his gun held steady and aimed directly at his pursuer.

A heavyset man with a jagged scar across his face broke free from the black smoke. Jake recognized him immediately. He lifted his arm and pointed the muzzle of his Glock at Nick Fowler's face and fired. The ship lurched to the side and cast his bullet astray.

The man sneered at him and lunged.

Jake made a wide arc and circled around the man. Nick shook his head and pointed at Jake, laughing maniacally. “You didn't really think we'd allow you to take those, did you? So long, mother fucker.”

A gun discharged and Jake felt his shoulder rip open, numbing everything from his upper arm to his hand. He cursed, releasing the suitcase. Jake spun around in the direction of this new shooter and aimed the Glock, ripping rapid fire and slicing through the man until he collapsed in a heap of blood and shattered bone. Jake flattened himself on the ground, reaching for the metal case containing the CPV-19 and antidote.

Nick kicked it away, walked forward, and ground his foot into the open and bleeding wound on Jake's arm. Howling in pain, Jake snapped his legs in a scissor kick, pushed off the deck using his back and leg muscles, and faced Fowler.

Jake attacked the NWP employee, ignoring the blood that coursed down his arm and the numbing pain that made his movements sluggish and off kilter. Nick Fowler played dirty; he didn't want to encourage a brawl but fed off Jake's weakness. He continued to attack Jake's wounded side, taking advantage of the injury.

Jake fell to his knees, heaving in much-needed air. The throbbing in his shoulder made his head dizzy and stomach nauseated. “Cassidy.” His throat burned as he said her name. But it helped, filling him with energy. Jake staggered to his feet. But Fowler was quick and unhindered by a wounded arm. He slammed his fist into Jake's face, then shoved him against the railing. Jake's back bent over the metal pipes; he balanced precariously on the edge of tipping over and dropping to his death.

Another large explosion sent decks tilting and shattered metal flying. Jake steadied himself, gripping the iron railing as his feet slid from under him. Blood poured from his arm, making his hands slick and sticky. He shook his head clear and focused on the NWP man. He'd backed off and was flashing Jake a cocky grin. Waving the briefcase in the air, he turned away, his laughter ringing loud above the chaos of the sinking barge.

Jake tore a strip of cotton from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his gunshot wound. He gathered his strength and centered his mind. In the distance, Nick ran toward a set of stairs leading up a level. The whirring of helicopter blades drew Jake's attention. A helicopter sat on a helipad several stories up.

He swore and raced after Fowler.

Hot wind blasted his face from fires burning in all directions. Acrid smoke blinded him and made breathing difficult. Jake ignored the biting pain of his bullet wound and stumbled up the stairs after Nick Fowler. He crested the top of the platform and burst toward the helicopter, pumping as much energy into his legs as possible.

The blades of the chopper whipped the salty sea air into a frenzy; it burned and stung like a million bees against Jake's exposed skin. He pushed against the wind, raising his arm and shielding his face from the cutting air.

Nick climbed onboard and took the controls, lifting the craft upward. Jake stared in frustration as Robert Cole leaned over the edge, flipping him the finger. Cassidy's life was flying away, and that wasn't in the deck of cards Jake knew belonged to him. He dashed to the center of the helipad and snagged a length of coiled rope, tying one end into a lasso. Twirling it above his head, he snaked the end over a running board and held tight as the helicopter banked to the left and dragged his body above the burning wreckage of the ship.

His shoulder and entire left arm screamed with pain, but sea-green eyes kept Jake focused. Hand over hand, he battled the swaying rope and ascended toward the running board of the helicopter. Bullets flew past his head as Robert Cole stretched beyond the open door, firing line after line of deadly metal in his direction. The movement of the chopper aided Jake by swinging the rope in a pendulum motion, but it made climbing upward feel impossible.

Beyond the desire to pummel the NWP men into smithereens, the life of his woman spurred Jake to push past his body's limitations. His palms were slick with sweat and blood, and he cursed as his hands slipped and he lost a precious few feet. Wrapping his legs tighter around the rope, Jake once more gripped the bristled, twisted hemp and pulled himself upward.

Hand over hand.

His vision blurred as salty wind whipped against his face. Taking advantage of Nick's attempt to shake him by sending the chopper into zigzagged turns, he forced the rope into a wide arc. Lifting his legs before him, Jake swung onto the foot of the helicopter, temporarily blocked from Robert's bullets. He shimmied beneath the open doorway, where Nick Fowler sat behind the controls of the helicopter.

Jake inhaled deeply, focused his mind, and rolled himself around, pulling up and planting his feet firmly on the thin running board. His stomach was a knot of pain, but he fought past it and concentrated on the metal case and its contents. He winked when Nick glanced over at him, shock blanching his enemy's cheeks stark white. Jake didn't hesitate; he hammered his fist into the asshole's face, sending him into oblivion. He followed with a swift jab to Fowler's neck to ensure the man's incapacity and then reached and yanked his seat belt loose.

He bit back the burning pain of his shoulder and used his left arm to steady himself as the helicopter dove toward the black water. Jake focused on the controls and tugged on Fowler's arm, dragging him halfway out of his seat. Swearing beneath his breath, he inhaled and anchored himself more strongly with his wounded arm.

Jake gripped Fowler's shirt and yanked him fully out of his seat. The man's unconscious body was deadweight, but Robert's screams and movement in the back of the chopper sent a rush of adrenaline and Jake pulled with every ounce of his energy. Nick Fowler sprang from the cockpit and flew into the air, falling gracefully through the night sky and landing with a resounding thud on one of the oil barges below. The reverberation on the metal deck ricocheted upward, and Jake smiled with satisfaction.

“One down. One to go.” Jake's nostrils flared wide as he inhaled much-needed oxygen. “Hold on, Sunshine, I'm almost there.”

Jake dove behind the controls of the helicopter, pulling back on the stick and bringing them upward. Feeling the weight of Robert's hand on his neck, he ducked, jabbing his elbow back and connecting with the man's stomach. Robert struggled forward, but Jake had already had enough. He lodged his knee to hold the rudder steady and turned to face his enemy.

“You son of a bitch.” Jake lifted his chin and challenged Robert. “Come here.” He motioned his enemy forward with his hand. A wide gash split the corner of the man's temple and blood pumped down his face in a swath of red. “Did you hurt yourself, old man?”

“Fuck you.” Robert wiped the back of his hand against the crimson river trickling into his eyes. “You'll never win.”

Jake narrowed his eyes, centered his line of sight, and smashed his fist into the bridge of Robert's nose, breaking it instantly. The man's head snapped back; then he fell forward against Jake, his hands scrambling to reach the helicopter controls. Jake shoved him back, but the loss of blood to his left arm made it a halfhearted attempt.

He shifted his stance, transferring his weight to the right, and swung his fist upward toward Robert's chin. The man chopped at his wounded shoulder, sending fireworks across Jake's line of vision. The NWP president ducked and smacked his elbow against the rudder. “Son of a bitch,” Jake swore, shoving Robert backwards, battling now not only the man but also gravity as the helicopter went into a tailspin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw the silver briefcase slip toward the door. He lunged over the seat and rolled to his feet, grabbing its handle and bringing it up with a hard left swing, clipping Robert in the side of the head.

“Get …” Jake rushed forward. “The fuck …” He head butted Robert. “Out of …” His fist shot upward and dove into the tender skin beneath the man's chin. “My chopper.” Jake charged forward shoulder first, sending the NWP president sailing out of the helicopter, arms flailing and screams dying as he fell.

Without a second to collect his breath, Jake jumped behind the helicopter controls, righting the chopper an instant before it smashed into the watery depths of the gulf. He pulled it back into the air and banked to the left. His entire body shook, and he had to bite his lip to concentrate on holding the rudder steady. Turning the craft toward the jungle, he glanced down.

Robert Cole's landing hadn't been pretty. His body hung suspended over the Gulf of Guinea, impaled by one of his own gas pipes. Jake shook his head as a gas flare shot into the night, incinerating the head of New World Petroleum. “Youch. But I can't say you didn't deserve that.”

Navigating over the jungle, Jake said a silent prayer. How much time had he wasted? Would she be okay? How fast did the disease progress? “Shit,” he swore again and again, combating the wave of blackness that kept wrenching him toward unconsciousness.

Jake flew low over the treetops, concentrating on the bends of the Niger River. He recognized the fork that was flanked with a steep cliff and glanced beyond it to the lazy half-moon curve. Hovering briefly, Jake absorbed the terrain below. A fire reached its blazing fingers toward the night, and he grinned. “Almost there.”

Spinning the helicopter in the pyre's direction, Jake sped forward counting the seconds until he began his descent into the clearing where the night had begun. Turning the ignition off, he waited a beat before falling out of the cockpit. Anna ran forward, kneeling at his side. He shoved the case at her. “Go.”

“You're hurt.”

Jake glared at her and grabbed her arm with such force she winced. “Go, dammit. I'll be fine.” Anna's eyes widened and she nodded, seizing the case and racing like the wind to the building where Cassidy slept.

An Ijwo rebel stepped forward, his face sporting its own bruises and deep gashes. Jake grinned when he recognized Sunday. “You have fun tonight, my friend?” Jake asked, then bent forward choking on a wad of bloody mucus.

“I see not as much as you.” The black man knelt beside Jake. “Your wounds are bad.”

“I'm fine. My woman?”

Sunday glanced to the ground, then back up toward the stars. “Bad mojo.”

Jake's heart clenched, and he struggled to stand. Sunday helped him, and the two limped toward the concrete building. Jake's eyes filled with tears and he shook his head, trying to settle the pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his wounds.

Before he stepped into the building, Sunday stopped him. He reached out and produced a wet cloth from somewhere Jake couldn't see. “You don't want to frighten her into leaving this world.”

Jake snorted and choked once more. He wiped his face and allowed Sunday to wrap his shoulder and staunch the flow of blood. Jake smiled and lifted a brow. “Did I break any teeth?”

Sunday laughed out loud, the warmth and camaraderie helping to heal Jake's battered soul. “No, mon, you's still ugly white man.”

Jake tipped his head back and laughed, then turned and strode into the building ready to face whatever lay within. Anna sat at the edge of the bed, her head down and hand gently wrapped around Cassidy's. She wouldn't be close if the antidote hadn't begun to work, right?

Approaching softly, Jake's heart twisted at Cassidy's pale and seemingly lifeless face. Blood dripped from the corner of her ear, and another red streak stained the edge of her pillow. He paused and gazed heavenward, adding another prayer to the multitude of ones he'd been chanting all night.

A needle prick burned on his arm and he flinched, turning to fight. The witch doctor who'd been overseeing Cassidy's care held a hand up. “If you're in here, then you need the antidote.” The man offered a gap-toothed grin. “Better safe than sorry.”

Jake reached a hand out and touched Anna's shoulder. Anna glanced at him and offered a small shrug. “I don't know” is all she said. But it sounded like heaven to Jake. It wasn't a “she's gone,” or “there was nothing we could do.”

He dropped to his knees and pulled Cassidy into his arms. She moaned. It was music to his ears. “Come on, Sunshine. No woman of mine quits this easily.” Jake felt her hand against his wrist; it burned with fever but caressed him with love.

“Yours?” she whispered, her eyes remained closed.

Jake dropped a line of kisses against her forehead. He ignored the heat that burned his lips and concentrated on the fact that she was alive. “Did you have any doubt, Cassidy?”