Bone Rider (20 page)

Again Misha’s hand found its way up to where his shoulder holster should’ve been resting and patted the empty space ruefully. Riley probably wouldn’t react well to Misha being armed, but then chances were Riley wouldn’t be all that happy to see him no matter what. Might as well feel comfortable when walking into the fire. “Call him,” he sighed.

Andrej grinned a little as he dug his cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialed one-handed while inching past another dust-covered pickup truck. “You’ll like him,” he promised. “And your cowboy’s going to love him.”

Misha frowned. “No, he fucking won’t.”

“Jealous much?” Andrej smirked, then perked right up as a gruff demand for identification sounded from his cell. “Yo, J.C. It’s Andrej.”

Delighted rumbling. J.C. had a voice like sweet liqueur and ground gravel, resonant as a thunderstorm building in the distance. It was pitched too low for Misha to understand what he was saying, but still managed to leave him with a somewhat disturbing impression of power and sex appeal. In other words, J.C. sounded a bit like Riley, all laid-back southern heat and desert rough, the sort of voice that could make a man shake in his boots or come in his pants depending on the situation. Misha shifted again.

“Nah, man,” Andrej said, his own tone several degrees warmer than it usually was on the phone. If Andrej hadn’t been such a straight boy, Misha would’ve suspected his friend to be head over heels for J.C. “I’m in El Paso, actually.”

Misha tuned out the rest of the conversation, opting to lean his head against the cool glass of the window and look out instead. Beyond the metal tide of cars inching toward the city center, El Paso lay in drab indifference. This was Riley’s world, and Misha drank it in, hungry for it. He didn’t give a damn that he didn’t fit in here, or that the big sky and seemingly endless expanse of land made him feel a bit like he was visiting another planet. It was this vastness, this hard, sparsely beautiful country that had forged Riley into the man he was. Driving through it, seeing it with his own eyes for the first time, all he could think was that this was it. This was where he was going to find Riley. The trick was going to be to keep him.

T
HE
good news was that apparently even aliens needed to sleep. Or let their host sleep. The bad news was that the crafty fucker had decided to take its break in a populated area instead of pulling over and napping at the side of the road. Not that Young could blame it. Motel beds were definitely more comfortable than bench seats. The location at the edge of the urban sprawl allowed for several escape routes, both into the surrounding countryside and into the city center. The people around provided cover, potential hostages, and a multitude of host bodies to choose from should things go south. Whatever else that critter was, it wasn’t stupid.

Also bad news was that Nick Young’s quiet professionals were stuck in Nowheresville, Mississippi. Apparently, their plane had died mid-flight and they’d gone down in the boonies. It was the kind of shit that happened occasionally, simply because shit happens. There hadn’t been any casualties, which was something, but one man had broken his leg and another had a concussion, and now they were waiting for pickup. Someone was going to get their ass handed to them for this, but that didn’t change the fact that there was a delay. The replacement detachments were on their way, but given the nature of this mission, Young simply couldn’t wait for them. So he was doing this with the Rangers instead.

They were en route to El Paso now, three Black Hawk helicopters zooming along in close formation, each carrying a squad of the Basement’s best. The men hadn’t been told what exactly they were up against. Operation Ripley was so classified even Young’s trusted aides were kept in the dark, but he wouldn’t have told the men the details even if this hadn’t been such a highly sensitive op. It simply wasn’t required. Young had no intention to endanger his troops unnecessarily; he wasn’t even going to let the alien get within striking distance. There was a plan. It wasn’t an excellent plan, but it was the best they’d been able to come up with on such short notice with the information they had. Both Butler and Young thought it could work. Butler liked it because it shouldn’t damage the alien too badly and Young liked it because it kept everybody nicely out of reach of what he privately considered a goddamn extraterrestrial parasite. The PR department was going to hate it, because it wasn’t subtle and it was going to be hell to cover up, but, luckily, that wasn’t Young’s problem.

The general had also arranged a temporary relocation of a small specialist unit to Fort Bliss. The accommodations weren’t quite as secure as the Basement, but they were a whole lot closer. Since the alien had already proved its resilience and its propensity for creative escapes, Young had decided to cut transpo time short. He had placed the specialist unit under Butler’s command. This didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed as hell with her, especially since he hadn’t yet had the time to properly confront her about her disloyalty, but Young wasn’t one to let personal animosity blind him to facts. This operation took precedence over internal power plays, and Butler was without doubt the best choice for the job. They were dealing with something completely alien. Young needed someone flexible, willing to make up their own protocol when faced with the unknown and badass enough not to be intimidated by the nature of this project. Paradoxically, Butler’s decision to go over his head despite the possible consequences for her career was a point in her favor. She’d had the guts to do what she’d thought she had to in order to get the job done, and even though he didn’t approve of her method, he had to admit she’d gotten results. He was probably still going to rip her a new one, but for now he wanted the woman on his side.

“Sir, I got a call for you from Roost,” the co-pilot reported, his voice tinny and bland through the headset. That would be Chief Cabrera, hopefully with good news.

“Patch her through.” Young waited until he heard the hiss-click that indicated a switch of radio frequency, then got right to the point. “Roost, this is Hound Dog actual. Do you have a visual? Over.”

“This is Roost. Be advised, Visitor has relocated,” Cabrera informed him. She sounded a bit hyper, though it was hard to tell whether she was excited about her part in this once-in-a-lifetime operation or merely suffering the effects of too many energy drinks and too much coffee. “Sending updated coordinates. Over.”

“Copy, Roost. Do you have a description yet? Over.”

Young was hoping for something, anything, that’d make it easier for them to spot the host in a crowd. They couldn’t very well bag everyone wearing a cowboy hat. This was Texas, which meant there’d be plenty of hats, and besides, there was such a thing as civil rights… and, worse, civilians with camera phones. They’d be drawing too much attention as it was. The El Paso Chief of Police had gone ballistic when he’d been informed to expect a military strike force in his jurisdiction and to stay out of their way. He’d been told it was a matter of national security, but, frankly, the phrase had been overused so much in recent history it didn’t quite carry the weight it should have.

“Hound, Roost. Visitor’s still wearing a dark cowboy hat,” Cabrera reported unhappily. “Looks like a dark leather jacket. Blue pants, probably jeans. I’ve initiated hookup. Over.”

Which meant Cabrera was patching into the local CCTV network to see if she could get a better view of the host through the local security cameras. Probably not, the way their luck was going, but it was worth a try.

“Roost. Roger that. I copy black hat, dark jacket, jeans.” Young glanced at his watch and wished they could go faster. “Keep watching. Over.”

“Hound. Good copy. Wilco. Out.”

Sorry, cowboy
, Young thought, staring out at the desert rushing by.
One way or another, you’re going down
.

He hoped the poor possessed bastard wasn’t aware of what was going on, had been pushed into some sort of coma instead of being forced to endure the alien handling his body like a puppet, but he suspected it was a vain hope. Young couldn’t forget the grainy image of the creature forcing itself into the man’s body, crawling in against his will while he fought and struggled. It haunted him. Watching the tape had been like witnessing a rape, violent and viciously intimate. It was one of the reasons why Young was so strongly opposed to the notion of capturing the thing. Capture meant imprisonment and experimentation. The autopsy reports implied there was no way to extricate the creature without killing the host, so the cowboy—aware or not—would be forced to suffer through everything they did to the alien.

Killing them both would’ve been a mercy.

T
HE
Riley who checked out of the motel on Thursday was a lot more relaxed than the Riley who’d checked in the day before. It helped that he knew about McClane now. It helped even more that McClane had given them another mind-blowing orgasm before they’d left. The little fucker was getting good at the sex thing. Of course, the fact that he seemed to experience Riley’s pleasure like it was his own was an excellent incentive. Having sex with McClane wasn’t quite the same as skin-to-skin contact, but it was way better than making do with one’s own hand.

“Pretty good?”
McClane grumbled as they walked across the lot to Riley’s truck. “
Better than making do with your own hand?” We got off until you passed out, you ingrate
.

Riley had been scanning their surroundings with a frown, his neck prickling with a diffuse feeling of being watched, but McClane’s disgruntled tone distracted him and made him chuckle.

“Sorry. You’re awesome. The earth moved.”

It’s a fucking planet
, McClane observed dryly.
Of course it moves
. He paused and suddenly a trickle of warmth ran down Riley’s spine.
Oh
, McClane muttered, apparently having picked the meaning of the phrase from the depths of Riley’s brain.
Got it. Now say it again without the sarcasm, okay?

“Yeah,” Riley scoffed, and slipped behind the wheel. He slammed the door shut and smirked at the rearview mirror. “’Cause that’s gonna happen.”

If you’re not gonna pay me compliments, I want compensation
, McClane demanded.
You promised me mancakes
.

Riley did a mental double take. “
Pan
cakes,” he corrected, laughter bubbling up from his belly at his passenger’s slip. “I promised you—Let’s go get breakfast.”

Luckily, they didn’t have to go far to find a diner on Mesa Street because McClane spent the entire drive trying to convince Riley he’d misheard. Of course McClane had said “pancakes.” He was an extremely highly developed artificial intelligence. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t have a subconscious to fuck with his pronunciation, either, thank you very much, and who the hell was “Freud”?

He was still muttering darkly when Riley pulled to a stop in the crowded parking lot in front of a small business court and got out of the truck. Riley kept his mouth shut, partly because it was more fun to let McClane stew, partly because that damn tingly feeling was back. He could’ve sworn he’d sensed eyes on him ever since he’d left the motel, and it got stronger now that they weren’t moving anymore.

“Can you tell?” he whispered, head down so people wouldn’t realize he was talking to himself. He knew that he could think at McClane and McClane would get it, but it still felt weird to have an entire conversation with the voice in his head. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it; it was too much like going crazy. If at least one of them spoke out loud, he could pretend he was on the phone and that his reality didn’t include aliens now. He jiggled the car keys in his hand, ready to get back in and drive should McClane confirm his suspicion. “Are we being watched?”

How the hell should I know?
McClane asked, somewhere between irritated and embarrassed—probably by his lack of omniscience, Riley supposed. He glanced around casually, scanning the road, the sidewalk, the parking lot on the other side of the street, hoping his passenger might pick up something.

Straight ahead. Diner
, McClane offered finally.

Confused, Riley looked up and saw a little girl with her nose pressed against the dirty glass front of the diner he’d chosen. Her mouth was smeared with syrup and her eyes observing him with rapt attention. Their gazes locked for a moment and she grinned at him cheekily and waved. Riley smiled back instinctively and tipped his hat, which made her giggle and squirm in her seat until her mother noticed and redirected her attention to her half-eaten breakfast with a small smile of her own in Riley’s direction.

“I think I’m getting paranoid,” Riley sighed and locked the car.

The diner was one of several narrow businesses lined up like oversized shoeboxes in a squat, C-shaped building. It was flanked by a comic book store on the one side and a busy hair and nail studio on the other. Someone had had high hopes for the place at some point and decorated it lovingly, but the colors had long since faded in the cruel desert sun and the lettering on the window that proudly declared that this was “Dotty’s Diner” had seen better days.

Charming place
, McClane commented, somewhat skeptical.
I can see the grease on the counter from here. I hope Dotty can at least cook
.

Riley didn’t have the heart to point out that Dotty had probably either moved on or was suffering from severe disillusionment. He didn’t want to discuss his choice of eating establishment because then he’d have to admit to McClane and himself that the primary reason why he’d picked the place was that it was so close to the I-10. He just wanted to eat and get back on the road. He could feel the uneasiness creep up on him again, fueled by the persistent itch between his shoulder blades. He told himself it was probably nothing. A bad taste left in his mouth because of what had happened at the roadhouse. A lingering chill caused by his nightmare about Misha.