Bone Rider (13 page)

It was a delusion, of course. McClane would turn out to be a monster after all or leave like everybody else the moment he found someone more suitable to inhabit. Riley just had to keep in mind that was a good thing and not get too attached. Heh. Attached. Didn’t get much more attached than this, did it? Flesh and bone and mind, close as two beings could be. Separation was going to be a bitch. All those little hooks and fibers sunk into his body and brain… he wondered if McClane would maybe simply tear him apart when he broke free.

I’ll be gentle
, McClane said immediately, and Riley almost choked on his beer at that, because really, how empty a promise was that?

“Yeah,” he murmured, “sure you will.”

Lord, save him from those with good intentions, for they tended to leave the worst damage. The booth felt too small suddenly, cramped and dark. He needed a distraction; he was well on the way to getting maudlin.

“You ever play darts?” he asked, sliding across the bench and out into the open.

McClane huffed, sounding grateful for the change of topic.
Is that a trick question?

“You’ll like it,” Riley assured him, words lost in the general din. He made his way to the bar, mostly steady on his feet, and asked for the darts and a shot of tequila, because he seriously needed to get hammered after that morbid bit of introspection. The bartender, pock-scarred and whiskered like an old dog, grunted and handed over a glass and a scuffed and blunted set of darts. At Riley’s doubtful look, he shrugged a bony shoulder.

“Got knives, if you can handle them.”

Riley smirked. “I can handle them.”

He downed the shot, shoved the useless darts back at the man, and stretched a bit. Moving around had done the trick and shaken him out of his dark musings, and thanks to McClane’s internal massage, his muscles felt nice and limber.

“Yeah,” the bartender grinned, “that’s what they all say,” but he leaned down and rummaged around under the bar only to resurface with a set of throwing knives he unwrapped carefully from the folds of a soft cloth. He didn’t hand them over but led the way over to the dartboard where he curled his hand at Riley. “That’ll be ten bucks.”

Just for trying?
McClane complained, which made Riley grin. Stingy alien. He could feel eyes on him, some of the other patrons taking an interest. Didn’t feel hostile, mostly curious, and he didn’t mind the audience. McClane grumbled when Riley forked over the money, then shut up expectantly when Riley took one of the knives. Riley hefted the weapon for a moment, finding it well balanced, noting the etchings along the blade. Custom-made. Sweet.

This was going to be fun.

He hit the board on his first throw, not a bull’s eye, but more than enough to show he wasn’t going to injure himself or others. He wouldn’t have even with worse equipment. His father had taught him to throw knives when he’d been a boy and he’d kept up the practice over the years. It was fun and easy, and a lot cheaper than shooting guns.

The bartender grunted and handed over two more knives with identical markings. “You hit the wall, that’s a buck per hole.”

“Yes, sir,” Riley nodded, tipping his hat in acknowledgement.

There was no charge for the knives. Riley was supposed to return them in mint condition before he left, or half the men present would kick his ass for trying to take off with their toys. You didn’t steal no pool balls, you didn’t steal no darts or knives. Bad manners.

He explained as much to McClane, who judged this kind of entertainment code a cool thing and promptly wanted to play, too. A dozen bull’s eyes later, Riley told him to quit showing off and took back control over the game. They switched back and forth after that, peppering the dartboard with narrow grooves. Riley bitched at McClane for using alien mind powers to cheat; McClane accused Riley of distracting him with random images of food. They made a pact to cut it out for at least one round, realized that was boring, and took up cheating again.

Hey
, McClane piped up after a particularly nice shot,
close your eyes. I wanna try blind
.

Riley snuffed that idea in the bud. “No knife-throwing with eyes closed in a crowded place.”

He was starting to really feel the alcohol. Shouldn’t have switched to tequila. He knew he was in no condition to do trick shots and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let a temporarily though enthusiastically sloshed alien take over the wheel and try. His daddy would’ve tanned his hide for a stunt like that.

“You from a show or something?” someone asked from behind before McClane could start wheedling.

Riley turned around and belatedly realized his and McClane’s antics had drawn quite an audience. The speaker was a short, whipcord-thin guy in biker leathers. Dirty blond hair, studded gloves peeking from a pocket. His insignia were from a Louisiana club though and Riley didn’t see any of his brothers around. He was twirling a knife of his own between his fingers as he stared at Riley with a speculative gleam in his eyes. Someone wanted to play, and Riley was happy to oblige. He was feeling nice and mellow, comfortable in his skin again now that he’d gotten used to the company. Willie Nelson’s “Good Ol’ Boys” was playing on the jukebox, teasing out memories of good times in other bars, the smooth metal of the knife was a familiar weight in his hand, and McClane was shifting expectantly under his skin. Riley was starting to suspect his passenger might have a competitive streak.

“Nah,” he told the other man, “ain’t no professional. Just good hand-eye coordination.”

“Is that so.” The biker ambled closer, nodded at the board behind Riley. “Saw you put ten in succession dead center.”

McClane preened, which was a sensation not unlike touching a fluffed-up rooster. With your insides. Riley shuddered a little and thought very hard at McClane that he was to never ever do that again.

“Never said I wasn’t good,” Riley said mildly, flipping the knife in his fingers just to show off. The effect was spoiled a little when he tried to lean back against the wall and misjudged the distance. Maybe he should’ve passed on that last shot. Tequila tended to creep up on him and he’d chosen the good stuff tonight, because he didn’t drink cheap booze when he had company. Even if the company had invited itself.

I’m not apologizing again
, the company in question grumbled and wriggled a little around the base of his spine.
Huh. I think we’re drunk
.

“Think you can repeat that?” the biker asked, raising a brow at Riley’s undignified stumble. He nodded at the dartboard.

Riley’s smile widened despite his embarrassed flush. Tequila also tended to make him cocky… and the wriggling tickled. “Question is, can you?”

“Twenty says I can.”

Riley should’ve known where that was going, but, well. He’d had a stressful couple of days. Also, tequila. And an alien in his head. It was a lost cause. So of course he took the challenge. Unsurprisingly, his opponent rightly assumed Riley was shitfaced and then jumped to the erroneous conclusion that a plastered Riley was easy pickings. This led to bad blood when he found out Riley could still hit what he aimed for even when three sheets to the wind. Also, maybe Riley shouldn’t have called him “Blondie” when he collected his winnings. It had been a slip of the tongue, but it wasn’t received well. He ducked the punch meant for his face and stuck out a leg, which made the sore loser crash into a table, which got a few none-too-sober bystanders involved, which led to accusations of cheating from Blondie and one or two choice replies from Riley, and before Riley knew what hit him, his relaxing evening had turned into a bar brawl.

“Stay out of this,” he ordered McClane, because he had no idea what exactly an alien armor system might do in a fight, but he suspected it wouldn’t help de-escalate the situation. McClane didn’t say anything back except for,
Duck!,
and Riley—once he’d dodged the bottle flying his way—assumed that was that.

Had he been a little less intoxicated, he might’ve noticed that getting a chair smashed over one’s back usually hurt more and left more damage, because reality isn’t the movies—real chairs aren’t usually prepped for breaking, real backs aren’t usually padded for safety. As it was, he felt a push that drove him two staggering steps forward, glanced over his shoulder, saw a guy stare drunkenly at the remains of a broken chair, and moved on with a mental shrug.

He did notice when Blondie popped up before him when he was halfway to the door, and he did recognize the flash of silver in the man’s hand for what it was, but he still would’ve gotten his arm sliced open deflecting the knife had it not been for the sudden sheen of metal that covered his forearm. It was there and gone, like the flexing of a muscle, leaving his skin untouched when the blade had passed.

Riley blinked, then twitched back when Blondie went for him again. His hip collided with a table, knocking it over. He didn’t feel it, didn’t know whether that was because he was distracted and drunk or because McClane was doing something. The knife came at him in a low arc and Riley moved before he could think, stepped into the swing, smacked Blondie’s wrist hard. It sent the blade out of his immediate vicinity, but the man didn’t drop it. Can’t take out the weapon, take out the man. So Riley let fly with a rabbit punch to that pointy nose, intent on breaking it. Broken cartilage tended to focus people on their own selves pretty fast.

There was a blade in Riley’s hand. On the back of his hand.

There was a fucking
blade
.

On
Riley’s hand
.

A blade he definitely hadn’t put there. Might not even have realized it
was
there until it was too late, except he’d felt a tickle all over the back of his hand when he clenched his fist and the light caught on a razor-sharp edge as it shot toward Blondie’s face.

Holy shit.

Riley managed to pull his punch at the last second by forcing his entire body into a sort of emergency lockdown. It saved Blondie’s life, or at least his looks, but it would’ve cost Riley dearly as the butterfly knife came whooshing back and sliced across his stomach. The shirt tore, but the blade skimmed uselessly across the metal coating over Riley’s abs, and before Blondie could regain his balance, Riley jerked from his freeze with a knee to Blondie’s groin. Blondie folded like a wet blanket and Riley scrambled over him, away from the man he’d almost killed. He pushed through the yelling, agitated mob of people, distantly grateful that by this point nobody really gave a flying fuck about him anymore. Something hit him from the side, but it barely registered and he didn’t have to look to know McClane had shielded him once more.

Out, into the parking lot, the sound of sirens in the distance, and Riley plunked his hat back on his head and took off walking. His hands shook. He shoved them into the pockets of his jeans, hurried on, and didn’t think. Didn’t think at all.

E
CONOMY
class was hell. One of the subtle versions. Misha fidgeted in his seat again, trying to find a more comfortable position and failing. His knees bumped against the seat in front of him, causing the inflight magazine to tumble to the grimy carpeting. Misha cursed, shifted some more, knocked elbows with Andrej. He didn’t bend to pick up the magazine. Let it rot down there. Maybe the sour-faced flight attendant would slip on it and break his scrawny neck. It’d serve him right for neglecting to bring Misha his water. Fuck, he was thirsty. His throat felt parched. Ten more minutes and he was going to slit someone’s jugular and drink their blood.

“Man, will you settle down?” Andrej hissed, slamming his arm into Misha’s and shoving his elbow right off the armrest. One armrest for two passengers. Someone should sue the fucking airline.

“I’m not doing anything,” Misha growled back, scowling. His back twinged, offended by the torture device they called a seat. Who designed these things? He’d have to find out and pay them a visit once he was back on solid ground. See how they liked having their spine put out of alignment. A firm application of boot to mid-spine should about mirror what the seat was doing to him. He tried to stretch a little and managed to coax out a weak pop between his shoulder blades before his shoulder bumped against Andrej’s, which bought him an exasperated smack against his thigh.

“Jesus Christ, it’s like traveling with a toddler,” Andrej bitched. He’d been reading one of the cheap, used paperback novels Riley had bought by the dozen and left behind, but he put it down and turned toward Misha now, aggravated. “We’ve been in the air for a whopping half hour and you’re driving me insane. Sit still. Read something. Listen to some fucking music, I don’t care. Just stop squirming.”

Misha glared at him, feeling the injustice. He was
suffering
. Just because Andrej was a midget with a rubber spine didn’t give him the right to be all superior.

“I hate flying.”

“No, you’re used to your daddy’s private jet.” Andrej smirked. “You’re spoiled is what you are.”

“I’m taller than you,” Misha defended himself. “You’re
tiny
. This plane is made for tiny people. I feel like a fucking pretzel.” He caught movement from the corner of his eye, twisted around, and snaked out a hand to snag a pressed uniform sleeve. “Where the hell is my water?”

The steward pulled a face and opened his mouth, probably to say something condescending, but closed it quickly when he met Misha’s gaze. “I’ll be right back with it, sir,” he promised instead.

“You have two minutes,” Misha told him grimly, and let go of the man’s sleeve with a parting tug. “Then I’m coming after you.”

“You really are four,” Andrej sighed once the steward had hurried off, hopefully to fetch Misha’s water. “Way to keep a low profile. Real smooth.”

The bitch of it was, he was right. As usual. Misha was being stupid and he knew it. Truth was, he was nervous as hell, twitchy and excited like he never ever was on a job. He’d been trained to be unflappable, cool under pressure, calmly detached no matter what. Sure, this had been a long chase, but he’d spent months stalking his marks before, waiting for the right opportunity, for a two-second window to make the perfect shot or get close enough to deliver his message up close and personal. Afterward, he’d cut loose, let out some of the tension until he was back in the green. This premature agitation wasn’t like him. Spending some time in an uncomfortable plane seat hardly compared to lying in wait in a sniper’s nest for hours or spending days or weeks in surveillance mode. It shouldn’t get to him so much. Drawing attention to himself by intimidating random idiots was moronic; the kind of mistake that would’ve made him sneer had someone else made it. He was behaving like a fucking amateur… and all because he was goddamn terrified of facing Riley.