Bone Rider (28 page)

The imagery made Mariya pull a face, but she’d heard him order worse. “Good luck getting Misha to attend the party then,” she muttered.

“So we wait until after the party.” Vasiliy’s fingers twitched as though he could already see the butchery he was going to inflict on the interloper.

Mariya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Or we talk to Misha,” she suggested placidly. “He is your son. Give him the choice to stop being an idiot.”

She knew her brother. Misha would know what the alternative was to playing ball and he’d have no trouble figuring out who had persuaded Vasiliy to talk instead of shoot. It would put him in her debt for saving his boy and allow her to keep Riley around for later use, sugar for the deal that would take Misha’s birthright. If she played it right, he’d hand the throne right over and thank her for it.

“We’ll see,” her father grumbled, but the seed was planted. He wanted to believe Misha was going to come to his senses. Just as he wanted to believe Mariya was content to deal with logistics and bear her husband’s babies. As if.

T
HEY
left it all behind, went east in a stolen Ford station wagon with Kolya behind the wheel and Andrej riding shotgun, out into the desert following the sun-bleached line of Route 62. They drove in silence with the windows down because both Riley and Misha reeked of smoke. It helped a bit, but the hot wind did little to alleviate the stifling heat. Misha sat in the back, cradling Riley close, unwilling to let go or even move his face from where he’d buried it against Riley’s neck for the first half hour or so.

Finally, Kolya decided they were far enough from the city to risk stopping at a gas station to top up the tank and regroup. Andrej, who looked the most respectable once he took off his bloodstained suit jacket, ventured into the shop to pay and returned with several bottles of water and something to eat. They parked in the shade around the corner of the building and took a break. Occasionally, a car would go by, but they were tucked away mostly out of sight. Kolya grabbed one of Riley’s shirts out of his duffel bag; then he and Andrej took turns making themselves more presentable in the restroom. The shirt was too big, but it was clean and once Kolya had rolled up the sleeves you could barely tell it didn’t fit. Kolya grabbed a sandwich and a water bottle and made himself comfortable on the hood of the car where he had a good view of the area, munching contentedly while he sat watch.

With their sentry in place, Misha did his best to clean up Riley with water, paper tissues, and a towel he found in the bag. Once Andrej was back from the restroom, he helped Misha strip the unconscious man of his jacket and shirt and stuffed the ruined clothes into a plastic bag to dispose of them later. Misha wiped down Riley’s body, checking for injuries as he went. If the situation had been different, he would’ve insisted they get Riley to a hospital ASAP, but as it was he wasn’t willing to risk it. He hadn’t carried the man out of a burning building to deliver him right back to his would-be killers.

He might’ve changed his mind had he discovered any obviously life-threatening wounds he’d mysteriously missed the first few dozen times he’d checked, but the only thing he found was some mild bruising along Riley’s side and a sizeable goose egg near his temple. The area around it was swollen and hot to the touch. If Misha hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn something was moving beneath the skin, but of course that was ridiculous. He couldn’t tell whether Riley had bled from his ears, but he thought the soot there felt suspiciously crusty.
Concussion
, Misha thought, fighting a fear-induced bout of nausea as he cleaned away the dirt.
Skull fracture. Cerebral hemorrhage.
Coma
.

He stopped himself there, forced himself to breathe carefully, his hand pressed gently against the steady flutter of Riley’s pulse. No. Riley was going to be fine. He’d survived against all odds; he wasn’t going to succumb to a little knock on the noggin.

Andrej grumbled when Misha made him tug off Riley’s boots and socks and then his jeans, but he didn’t comment on the way Misha’s fingers trembled when he ran them over Riley’s hips and down the long legs, making sure there were no broken bones or damaged joints to worry about. Misha paused briefly when he reached Riley’s bum knee, surprised to find the normally slightly off-center bump of his kneecap in the correct position and perfectly stable.

“Where the hell did he hide out?” Andrej muttered when it became clear Riley had come out of that nightmare with little more than a few bruises and a hefty blow to the head.

Misha hadn’t mentioned how he’d found Riley, that Riley had been buried in the worst of the rubble, must’ve gotten caught in the blast. He opened his mouth to tell Andrej, but a sudden wave of protectiveness stole the words and changed them to a noncommittal, “Must’ve had a whole army of guardian angels watching over him.”

“Amen to that,” Andrej agreed.

Misha nodded his assent, but couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. Not all of his protectiveness was aimed at Riley. It was getting harder to ignore that something was off about this whole situation. Riley Cooper was special to Misha, but his world was pretty ordinary. To see him hunted by the military, carrying a gun, and surviving multiple, close-quarters grenade explosions almost unscathed… it made Misha wonder if maybe, somewhere between New Orleans and Texas, they’d slipped down a rabbit hole into some kind of violent alternate reality. He was going to be damned if he dragged his best friend in deeper before he knew what was what. Misha was already gone, committed to hanging on no matter what, but he wanted to keep an out for Andrej. Just in case.

He didn’t worry about Kolya. Kolya made his own outs.

They maneuvered Riley into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt; then Andrej watched over him while Misha shook out his own clothes and used the towel to wipe off most of the dirt, blood, and sweat behind the gas station building. He could’ve done a better job in the restroom, but he couldn’t bear to leave his banged-up cowboy out of his sight, so he made do and didn’t complain. Kolya had bought a bottle of whiskey and Misha used the alcohol to rinse his hands and clean the deep cuts and scrapes he’d suffered. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.

When Misha was done, Andrej helped him settle Riley on the seat so he was lying down curled up on his good side with his head in Misha’s lap, face pressed against Misha’s belly and his bare feet resting against the carefully closed door. The warm weight reassured Misha and kept him from freaking out over the fact that Riley should’ve woken up already.

Riley was going to be fine. End of discussion.

A
FTER
they’d gulped down a bottle of water and a sandwich or two each, they were back on the road, looking much less conspicuous and smelling a lot better. They had to pass a border patrol booth as they crossed into New Mexico, a fragile and temporary-looking structure standing somewhat forlornly in the early afternoon heat in the middle of nowhere, two sweaty, siesta-sleepy officers manning their post with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

The hit men approached the booth with matching bored looks on their faces and their guns within easy reach. They’d switched their stolen car’s license plates for Riley’s at the gas station and driven down an unpaved service road for a mile or so to camouflage the car’s color some with a thin layer of dirt, but if there was an APB out on them it wasn’t going to be enough. Thankfully, the border patrol officers didn’t appear particularly interested in them. They looked into the back of the car, but there was nothing there but Riley’s duffel bag, which wasn’t big enough to hide illegal immigrants. The officer glanced at it once and away again, more out of habit than suspicion.

“How’re ya doin’?” Kolya said, not a trace of either Russia or New York in his voice as he scrolled down the window and eased an elbow out into the sun. He looked disturbingly harmless with his tats covered by Riley’s shirt and a cheerful smile on his face.

“Hot,” the immigration officer sighed. “You headed for Carlsbad?”

“Roswell, actually,” Kolya corrected smoothly. “Drove down for a wedding, which was awful, so we deserve some fun now.” He chuckled good-naturedly and it didn’t sound any like his normal laugh; too high-pitched, too smooth, no bite to it at all. “Tony back there’s never been to the UFO museum. Dude’s a regular Scully.”

“Fuck you,” Misha threw in from the backseat, making sure to sound as drowsy as possible. The pressing heat helped. “No such thing as aliens.”

The officer chortled at that and didn’t give their rumpled suits a second look. Riley looked as if he were sleeping, his head still resting on Misha’s lap, fingers curled into Misha’s sweat-stained shirt. The steady, warm puffs of his soft breaths against Misha’s already nearly overheated skin should’ve been irritating, but Misha’s sanity kind of depended on these fragile signs of life. Andrej radiated grouchy boredom and Kolya was the epitome of the designated driver enjoying his lack of a hangover. Still. Four men in a car, somewhat worse for wear, and no alarms going off… apparently, communication between the authorities was still spotty.

“Have a safe trip,” the officer told them, straightening back up and waving them through, eager to get out of the sun.

Kolya nodded and sketched a brief salute, attention already on the road ahead, one hand reaching for the radio knob. “Yeah, thanks. You take care.”

“You sure you know where we’re going?” Misha asked from the backseat, once they had left the checkpoint far behind. He wasn’t fully convinced by their plan and growing more apprehensive the longer they were moving along the open highway. There was nothing around but miles and miles of mostly flat land, no cover, no sign of civilization beyond the endless road ahead and behind. He felt exposed, like a bug crawling across an empty serving platter, painfully aware of how hopelessly they were outgunned if they had to go up against the military and getting more and more antsy with every minute that passed with Riley stubbornly unconscious. “You ever actually been there?”

“No,” Andrej admitted. “J.C.’s good at giving directions, though. We’ll find it.”

“You trust him?”

Kolya’s tone was neutral, implying nothing, but Andrej bristled anyway.

“I wouldn’t take Misha there if I didn’t,” he snapped.

Kolya, always good for any kind of wordless provocation, merely snorted a little and didn’t dignify the heated declaration with a reply. His fingers were relaxed on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road, checking the mirrors occasionally. He didn’t appear worried by either the possibility of the military descending on them or Andrej’s temper. Knowing Andrej as he did, Misha realized he better step in before his right hand man slugged his left hand man out of sheer frustration. Andrej didn’t do well when he was cooped up in a car for too long, especially not when he wasn’t the one doing the driving. For once, Misha felt every bit as edgy. His mind kept inching around those nasty little words.

Skull fracture. Coma. Brain damage
.

He was sick to his stomach with dread.

“Think there’s a doctor close by?” he asked, one hand cradling Riley’s head protectively, smoothing gently over short hair still gritty with dirt and crusted blood, the other holding on to one broad shoulder, clinging to the reassuring strength of solid muscle and bone that was miraculously still whole and undamaged.

Andrej immediately stopped glaring at Kolya and twisted around in his seat. “I know it. Don’t worry, your boy will be up and cussing in no time.”

Misha nodded, but didn’t trust his voice to answer. He stared down at Riley instead and tried to find comfort in the rise and fall of his chest.
Just keep breathing
, he thought, fingers tightening around the curve of Riley’s shoulder.
We’re not through, you and I.

T
HEY
nearly missed the turnoff despite Andrej’s confidence; it wasn’t much more than an unmarked dirt track. Their stolen Ford had a hard time of it, bouncing and whining its way over cattle grills and around potholes into the arid desert country. Once or twice it seemed that the road was going to dead end and they’d be left communing with scraggly bushes and the odd Joshua tree, but Andrej insisted they push on.

J.C. King’s survivalist camp, when they found it, turned out to be a lot bigger than Misha had anticipated. The compound was the size of a small village and consisted of a smattering of squat, pueblo-style buildings snuggled against the walls of a craggy, winding canyon several miles off the highway. Had Misha not been so busy trying not to succumb to the clawing fear tearing him up from the inside, he might’ve been impressed by the site. Rock overhangs and smooth camouflage made the buildings almost invisible even from the ground. It had to be damn near impossible to spot the place from the air.

On their way in they passed a corral and a few scruffy horses that blended into the landscape as if they’d been shaped by the dry ground: bones of stone, skin of earth. Misha glanced out of the window a few times, and every time his trained eye caught on something up along the canyon walls and in the nooks and crannies in the rocks—movement, the dull glint of sunlight on matted metal, an indistinct shape that didn’t quite fit. The area was crawling with guards. It would’ve made him nervous had there been any room left for concern beyond the increasing terror that Riley might be dying, might slip away if Misha’s focus wavered.

By the time the car stopped in front of a two-story building that filled a wide gap in the canyon walls, might’ve been actually dug into the rock, Misha’s heart was hammering painfully against his ribs and he would’ve given his right arm to see Riley open his eyes. He heard the car doors open, Andrej’s voice and the low rumble of J.C.’s, but he couldn’t be bothered to look. Riley wasn’t sweating, which meant he was dehydrated on top of everything else. Great. Wasn’t it enough to be blown up and nearly burned alive? They should’ve stopped the car and executed that officer for what he’d done to Riley. Scratch that. They should’ve taken the bastard with so Misha could filet him slowly, a sacrifice to whatever higher power was on duty so they’d take his life instead of Riley’s.