Bone Rider (21 page)

Only it wasn’t.

He hesitated halfway across the parking lot, gut churning in increasing anxiety. In a spur of the moment decision, he turned around, walked back to the truck, and climbed in again to search through his bag and pull out his father’s old H&K pistol. He stared at it for a long moment, unhappily. He wasn’t the type of man who made a habit out of carrying guns. He could handle the weapon and was a decent shot, but it was a skill he kept honed because it reminded him of his dad, not because he was particularly interested in it. The knife throwing was fun, but he’d never developed a taste for shooting.

He weighed the gun in his hand, torn. It wasn’t loaded, but he always kept a box of ammo and a clip in a side pocket of the bag like his father had taught him.

“It’s just breakfast,” he said aloud, unsure whether he was trying to convince himself or his silent but very attentive passenger. “I’m being an idiot.”

Can you get in trouble for carrying it?
McClane asked, his voice reassuringly calm.

“Only if I shoot somebody.” Riley checked the gun automatically, making sure the safety was on and the weapon in full working order even though he knew it was. He’d always taken good care of it. “I’ve got a permit to carry concealed.”

He’d applied for the permit when his father had still been alive and received it about a week after his father’s death. It was still valid, if a little dog-eared. Riley had kept it because he didn’t want to give up the H&K, and keeping the gun in his bag counted as carrying concealed. He didn’t even own a holster anymore, mostly because he wasn’t in the habit of carrying the damn thing on his person.

Then what’s the harm in taking it?
McClane’s tone was completely reasonable, as though it wasn’t moronic to use a gun as a sort of security blanket.

“It makes me feel like an idiot,” Riley repeated, just in case McClane hadn’t gotten it the first time. “The only people who run around with guns outside of the shooting range are cops, assholes, and—”

He stumbled over the last, but McClane caught it anyway.

Criminals
, he finished quietly, so much understanding in his voice that Riley felt something hot and tight close up his throat. He nodded, staring down at the gun in his hand until the lump went away. He wasn’t sure if it was he who made it go or the sensation of McClane wrapping himself around him in silent support.

Take it
, McClane told him finally.
I don’t think anything’s amiss, but I don’t have much experience yet. Not enough to develop intuition. So we’re gonna trust yours
.

“What if I’m wrong?” Riley asked, but his fingers tightened around the ribbed grip of his father’s gun, his body telling him he wasn’t. It was the kind of premonition that made a person take the stairs instead of the elevator some days, or choose to work in the barn instead of riding out on a cantankerous horse. Just in case.

Then we’re gonna be sitting somewhat uncomfortably with that thing tucked into your waistband
, McClane said, and if a voice could’ve shrugged, that’s what his would’ve been doing. Thankfully, he didn’t attempt the actual movement.
You’re safe either way, but I don’t have long-range defenses. So if anything does happen, it’ll be good to have it
.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Riley grumbled. He still dug out one of the magazines and the box of ammo from their respective nooks and loaded the clip slowly, muttering under his breath as he pressed in the rounds against the resistance of the spring. “This is all your fault. You make me jumpy.”

Yeah
, McClane snorted.
This is definitely on me. You totally weren’t hotfooting it out of San Antonio when we met. Don’t forget the permit.

Riley located the CCW
{9}
permit and slipped it into his jacket pocket next to the full clip. He verified that the gun really was unloaded and the safety on before he stuffed it into the back of his pants. The last thing he wanted was to end up shooting himself in the ass by accident. The weapon felt awkward and obvious pressing against the small of his back, but McClane assured Riley that it wasn’t noticeable if you didn’t know what to look for.

“Okay,” Riley sighed. “Let’s go eat.”

B
Y
THE
time Riley pushed open the door to the diner, the cool metal had warmed up against his skin and he’d adjusted to the bulky shape pressing into his back. Nobody looked at him strangely, either, so he guessed McClane had been right about the jacket hiding the weapon. He still felt like a villain in a bad movie. It made him wonder if you ever got used to this kind of shit. Had Misha carried a gun whenever he hadn’t been with Riley? It would’ve explained his nervous habit of touching a hand to his side, to the place where a shoulder holster would’ve rested had he worn one. Could you get so accustomed to being armed you felt uncomfortable when you weren’t? Riley wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and afraid he already did. Just one of the many things he’d preferred not to think about, because it would’ve meant questioning Misha and likely losing him. He’d been a fool. Still was, apparently, because it hurt to remember the look in Misha’s eyes just before Riley had slammed the door shut. He felt it bubble up again, self-recrimination and shame and longing, black and searing as hot tar, knew he couldn’t deal with it—too raw yet, too recent—so he swallowed it back down like bile, refused to acknowledge it.

McClane must’ve picked up on his mood because he stayed still and quiet in Riley’s mind while Riley chose a corner booth and settled with his back to the wall. Riley took off his hat, laid it on the bench seat beside him, and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. He should’ve known the day was going to suck when he’d woken from that nightmare. Dreaming of Misha and blood was never a good sign. It meant thoughts of what he’d lost would pop up at the most inconvenient moments, Misha’s ghost walking beside him until he managed to distract himself.

Perversely, even though Misha and his men were the ones responsible for Riley’s uncharacteristic twitchiness, Riley would’ve given his right arm to have Misha with him now. It wasn’t that he missed the man, he told himself. Even if there had been something of a hole at his center since he’d taken off, one not even McClane’s presence could fill up completely. It was simply that he was feeling skittish as hell, and for all that Misha had had a rare talent for irritating the shit out of Riley with his slick moves and arrogant attitude, he had been solid at the core, unshakable and scarily competent. In retrospect, it made sense. There couldn’t be a big market for inept or meek hit men. Much as Riley hated to admit it to himself and McClane, he would’ve felt safer with Misha there to watch his back.

You have me now
, McClane whispered, and caressed Riley’s cheek with a feathery touch just under the skin.
I’ll guard all of you, not only your back
.

“Yeah,” Riley sighed. He picked up the menu and looked at it without seeing it. He had McClane. At least until a better host came along.

The little girl who’d stared at him through the window turned in her seat and waved at him again. Her mother was less indulgent this time; she told her to stop stalling and finish her pancakes. The kid slid down out of sight with a grouchy whine. Well, at least Riley wasn’t the only one who was having a bitch of a morning.

The waitress was a pretty, plump woman in a uniform as faded as the rest of the diner. She kind of looked like a Dotty, but her nametag read Maureen. She was probably resigned to the inevitable jokes. Maureen poured him a cup of coffee with a smile and didn’t bother to write down Riley’s order. It wasn’t that original. Bacon and eggs, short stack, side of hash browns. “Ten minutes, hon,” she said. “Anything else I can bring you?”

Riley shook his head. “Nah, thank you.”

He sat staring out into the parking lot for a minute, shifting slightly until the butt of the gun stopped digging into his spine. His gaze traveled over the cars parked across the street, looking for he didn’t know what. Recognition, maybe. Some car he’d noticed before. A black limousine with a license plate that read NY MAFIA. Misha’s lime-green Viper. Anything. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t notice shit. Nothing but the usual uninspiring assembly of SUVs, bland compacts, dust-covered pickups, and a banged-up little Toyota that stuck out like a sore thumb. It had a bobble head stuck to the dashboard. He thought he would’ve remembered that at least if it had followed him from the motel.

Playing “spot the hit man” got boring pretty soon, so Riley turned his attention to the other customers to engage in some good, old-fashioned people watching. Not that there was a lot to watch. It was too late for a big breakfast crowd, but there were enough stragglers to make Riley think the place either served decent food or excellent coffee. He lifted his cup with rising hope and took a sip. The brew was strong and bitter with a pervasive aroma of burnt coffee beans. The food had better be amazing.

He spent a minute or so watching the family two booths over. Daddy was stuffing his face as though he hadn’t eaten in years, Baby was sleeping and drooling all over the place, and Mama was trying to wrestle the syrup bottle from the little girl who’d been so fascinated with Riley. Mama was losing. This was going to be fun once the sugar kicked in. Well, she’d wanted the kid to finish her pancakes.
Be careful what you wish for
, Riley thought.

In the corner booth across the room, an older woman was slowly and very methodically emptying a bowl of grits and a plate of bacon and eggs. Spoonful of grits. Swallow. Forkful of egg. Swallow. Bite of bacon, spoonful of grits. Chew. Swallow. Forkful of egg. Repeat. It was kind of mesmerizing, but it got old fast. Two Hispanic men in coveralls were sharing the table next to hers, pouring over the classifieds while two cups of coffee were getting cold next to their empty plates. At least five more people were lined up at the bar, parked on the cheap pleather seats with their backs to Riley. Most of them looked tired and grumpy; road-worn.

Maureen the waitress didn’t seem daunted by the overall lack of cheer. She had shouted Riley’s order through the serving hatch at a sleepy-eyed Hispanic cook and was currently leaning against the bar chatting with a good-looking guy in a rumpled business suit. Business Suit was slurping coffee as if his life depended on it and complaining loudly about some sort of hold-up on the I-10 in between gulps and not-so-discreet glances down Maureen’s cleavage. Riley listened without much interest, mostly because the man’s voice carried across the room with a certain salesman quality that was hard to ignore.

“Ruptured pipeline, my ass,” Business Suit bitched, tapping his toes against the metal rungs of the bar stool like a tired preschooler. The arrhythmic
clunk clunk clunk
grated on Riley’s nerves. “My ex lives in Junction, and she never heard a thing. I’m telling you, this was some kind of military exercise or shit.”

“What,” Maureen said, apparently torn between irritation and the desire to flirt with a pretty man even if he was kind of tiresome, “you think it’s a cover up? Like, a weapons test or something?”

“I’m thinking they’re wasting tax dollars, is what I’m thinking.” Business Suit stopped twitching his feet, much to Riley’s relief. It was a brief break, though; he started up again almost immediately. “I never see a guy in uniform again, I’ll die happy.”

He keeps up that fucking tapping, he’ll die sooner than he thinks
, McClane declared darkly.

Riley hid his smirk behind his coffee cup and lowered his gaze to the dark liquid within. He did feel somewhat sorry for the guy; sounded like the blockade had gone up soon after Riley had passed through the same area. An hour later, and that might’ve been him slumped on that stool, strung out and overtired. Minus the waitress-ogling, naturally. He idly wondered why the military had blocked the highway. Wasn’t much out there that might be of interest.

They were probably looking for me
, McClane said, so casually it didn’t sink in at first. Riley merely nodded, busy giving the polished black shoes the evil eye as they started up their little jig again. Then the words penetrated and Riley dropped his coffee cup. Or would have. His passenger picked up the slack and caught it before it could actually slip from their grasp.

What?
McClane asked, going from laid-back to fully alert in an instant when he sensed Riley’s alarm. They put the cup on the table carefully, Riley too freaked to care about McClane blatantly manipulating his body, McClane not even aware he was doing it in his sudden anxiety.
Riley, what’s wrong?

They were looking for McClane. People other than Riley were aware of McClane’s existence. Military people. With guns. Hunting the stupidly oblivious alien presently riding Riley’s bones. This was bad.

“ETA?”

Young knew it was the military equivalent to whining “Are we there yet?” but didn’t give a damn under the circumstances.

“Ten minutes,” the pilot informed him calmly.

Young confirmed and surveyed his troops again. He had three fire teams in each of the accompanying helicopters, two with him. Forty men total. It was probably overkill; this was a fight that wouldn’t be decided by numbers but by armament. Each squad was equipped with both stun and concussion grenades. A sniper was coolly checking his rifle as Young watched. The snipers had instructions to disable, not kill, and unofficial permission to do whatever the situation required. Young didn’t think they’d be able to take out the alien with a head shot, not when it was in full combat mode, but who knew? They might get lucky. Their main purpose, though, was to herd the thing to where they wanted it: away from any civilians in its proximity and into a corner somewhere.

Young would’ve felt better if the teams had had a Spitfire each as well, but the AT-742 was still an experimental weapon and not readily available. Young had brought two missiles with him when he’d flown out to New Mexico and another was waiting for them at Fort Bliss. He hoped it’d be enough in case his Plan A failed.