Darkness at Dawn (37 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Jennings

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: Darkness at Dawn
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He didn’t look afraid, he looked savage. Frightening. Even though he was outnumbered forty to one, she would have put odds on him.
The captain of the Royal Guard stepped forward, doing something unheard of. He put his arm around the princess. In Lucy’s day, when she was a child, it was forbidden to touch an adult member of the Royal Family. Only family members could touch each other.
Right now, the captain was guilty of treason and could be shot. Except for the fact that the princess was looking at him with love.
It was clear to all that soon the captain would be a member of the Royal Family.
“
Royal Guards! Arms down! Eyes to me
!” the captain shouted, and all his men stood to attention, rifles down. Changa’s mercenary army still stood with their weapons pointed at Mike, eyes darting back and forth because their sponsor, General Changa, was a mass of protoplasm on the floor, blood seeping from his head. They had no commander.
“
We are the Royal Guards!”
the captain shouted
. “Our loyalty is to the Royal Family. Show your fealty to your new queen!”
The hardwood floors pounded as all the men dropped to one knee, the singing of steel vibrating in the room as swords were unsheathed. They gave the Nhalan battle cry—
hay-yah!—
and with a loud
thunk!
buried their swords point-first in the floor, and bowed their heads.
The Royal Guards were now officially on the side of the angels.
“Sharmas!”
The captain’s voice rang with command.
“Your sponsor is dead. General Changa is dead. He had a plan that would have shamed Nhala until the end of time. But that plan is no more. Swear fealty to the Royal Family, and your contracts will be renewed and your families will continue to prosper. There will be a bonus for every man who swears loyalty to the princess. Men . . . down arms!”
The slap of hands on rifle butts, the clicking of heels, the Sharmas moving as one.
Nhala was saved.
Lucy’s knees gave out. Mike caught her before she fell to the floor.
“Princess! Captain!” he rapped out. “I need to get Lucy to America as fast as I can.”
“To Atlanta, Mike,” she murmured. She felt weak, dizzy. More a psychological thing than a physical thing. She no longer even felt the injection in her shoulder. It was the knowledge that festering in there, on the other side of acid working its way through a barrier, was a horrific disease for which there was no cure.
She was going to die a horrible, painful death in twenty-four hours if she couldn’t get home in time.
“What?” Mike looked down at her, eyes wild. He had been perfectly calm, even cold, as he faced down forty men with guns aimed at him. Now he looked like a wild man. “Why Atlanta?”
She’d thought it out before pulling the trigger. It hadn’t been an impulsive move to get them out of a dangerous situation. It had been calculated—and necessary.
“We need to study this virus in controlled conditions, and it has to be surgically removed. But not just anywhere. The doctors have to operate in a biolab, otherwise the virus could get out.” She looked up at him, his face inches from hers, and placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. Warm, bristly. The feeling of life itself. A good feeling to have in her hand if she was going to have to die. “Get me to Atlanta fast,” she repeated.
Mike helped her to her feet. She stiffened her knees and shook. There was a core of ice in her, numb and unfeeling.
“You’re in shock,” Mike said. He kept an arm around her and pulled out his cell. No need to keep anything secret now. He punched in a number on speed dial, then waited.
“Yeah,” he said suddenly as the connection was made. “I need an emergency exfil. Man down, repeat man down.” He looked at her, face grim. “Or rather woman down. We need to get to the CDC in Atlanta within twenty-four hours. Operation Stop Cold. Top priority, over.”
He listened, face getting tighter. Lucy’s heart sank. Oh God. There were problems. There always were. What had she done? Seared into her mind was the image of the CIA operative vomiting his life’s blood out in the snow.
Mike looked at the captain of the Royal Guard.
“There’s a C2-A Greyhound taking off now from the USS
George H. W. Bush
in the Indian Ocean. But its range is fifteen hundred miles, after which it needs refueling. They’ve got permission to refuel in Goempa, just across the border. They said to meet the plane there. Captain, do you have a helicopter that can take us to Goempa?”
The captain was shaking his head slowly, eyes shifting between her and Mike. “I am so sorry, Mr. Harrington.” His arm tightened around Paso. “The situation in the Palace is still uncertain, let alone in the country. The king is dead, General Changa is dead. Our helicopter pilots were under the general’s command, which is now gone. It will take time to find the pilots, time to establish a command structure. But I’ll send two of my men to drive you down to Goempa. It would take less time than finding the helicopter pilots. If you leave now, you can be there in three hours.”
Mike nodded. “Tell your men to wait for us at the Palace entrance, where the welcome ceremony was. We’ll be there as fast as we can make it. We need to get things from our room.”
Lucy looked up at him numbly. What? A detour to their room? What for? It was just time wasted, time they didn’t have. Or rather, time she didn’t have.
Paso broke away from her captain and pulled Lucy into a tight, almost painful hug. She was shaking, too. She rested her face against Lucy’s for an instant, her wet cheeks cool against hers. Lucy didn’t dare shed tears. If she did, she’d never stop.
Mike pulled her away gently, made a fast, sketchy Nhalan bow. “Princess, we must go. Lucy’s life depends on speed, now.”
“Go.” Paso stepped back, wiped at her eyes. “
May the Dragon keep you safe in your journey
,” she said in the Old Language.
Mike tugged Lucy’s hand, ran for the door.
Lucy stumbled; her legs could barely hold her up. Mike simply picked her up in one arm and ran. She didn’t seem to slow him down any.
“Mike.” Oh God, her voice was gone. She licked her lips. “Mike.”
They were halfway there. “Yeah?”
“Put me down. I can get there on my own steam. But why do we have to stop by our room? Shouldn’t we—” Her voice trembled, she couldn’t breathe. “Shouldn’t we hurry?”
Mike stopped, made sure she was steady, then took off again, holding her hand.
“We have to hurry, honey. We’re going to make it. I promise. But I’m not taking you out into a snowstorm dressed like that. It’d be crazy. You need winter gear. It’ll take the captain a little while to muster the driver and the vehicle. I’ll feel better if we’re all geared up.”
They rushed into their room and Mike unerringly pulled out what they needed. He was fast and knew exactly what he was doing. In a few minutes, they were both dressed for the cold, from sturdy boots to warm waterproof headgear. He even put one of his jackets over hers.
But no matter how warmly she was dressed, Lucy was still icy cold inside, where a clock was ticking.
Tick tock. Twenty-three hours forty minutes to go.
Mike’s phone buzzed. A text message. He checked it as they rushed out, leaving their suitcases behind. “Greyhound’s up in the air, they’re going to push it, shave half an hour off their ETA. Oh fuck.” He skidded to a stop, looking up at the sky.
It was snowing heavily.
They were outside the main entrance. The instant they were outside the Palace, the temperature dropped fifty degrees. Snow was falling fast enough to coat the huge square.
Mike grabbed her hand and ran to where the vehicle would be waiting. Lucy slid a little, but there was no way she could fall, not with Mike by her side. He didn’t seem to even contemplate a possible fall, he just ran flat out, pulling her along.
They rounded the corner, Lucy panting, Mike searching the huge square. They’d only been out a minute or two, and the cold had already penetrated even the warm winter clothing she had on.
A dun-colored military vehicle drove up, the driver buzzing down the window. “Mr. Harrington?”
“Yes. Get us to Goempa fast.”
Mike bundled them into the back, and the vehicle took off before he could pull the rear door closed.
Lucy stared out the back window as they pulled away, crossing the huge square, the sight of it already lost in the snow and mist.
Mike was talking into his cell. She didn’t have enough neurons to concentrate on what he was saying, though she had an important stake in whatever was being communicated. As in, life or death.
It all felt so far away and yet so crushingly close.
She might not live out the next day. All the emotions thumping around inside her were too strong and sharp to get a handle on. She had to hug herself around the middle so all the sharp feelings wouldn’t burst out of her like . . .
Oh God. A keening sound was in the vehicle, louder than the engine. It took her a moment to realize it was her, some kind of noise she was making in her vibrating throat.
She touched her throat to make it stop, but all she felt was her shaking fingertips drumming against her skin.
Mike snapped his cell closed and looked at her closely. Was that—Oh God, was that pity in his eyes?
Lucy was allergic to pity. It had surrounded her like a miasma her first year back in the States, in that horrible boarding school. There’d been nasty little shits and übernice kids.
The nasty ones tittered behind her back because her clothes were funny, she talked funny, she’d lived in odd places and didn’t know any boy bands.
They had been bearable.
What had been awful was the nice kids, the ones whose voices died down when she walked by, the ones who suddenly flashed an insincere smile, all huge white American teeth like Chiclets, so unnatural-looking it was frightening. Inviting her home on holidays because everyone knew she didn’t have a family, invitations she’d never accepted because it was easier just to stay in the dorm than to try to fit in with people she barely knew.
And now Mike. If he pitied her, she was done for. If she let even a drop of her fear and panic out, everything would come spilling out and she’d start screaming and crying. She couldn’t bear it.
Don’t touch me
. She sent out the vibes, huddling in the corner of the uncomfortable backseat of the military vehicle.
Don’t touch me because I will break if you do.
He didn’t. He simply looked out the window at the swirling snowstorm and gave her information quietly. “We’re going to have snow all the way, but I’m told the airfield is clear in Goempa. We’re making good time. We’ll be there early, and I’m told the Greyhound has good headwinds and will be there on time, maybe even early. They’re scrambling a Learjet from Dubai, which will meet us in Mumbai, touching down more or less when we do. Fastest plane they’ve got. From Delhi it’s a straight shot to Atlanta, with a fast refueling in the Azores.”
“What—” Her voice came out high and trembling. She waited a second. Swallowed. “What’s the timeline? And don’t lie to me.”
“I won’t.” Mike met her eyes. “I won’t lie to you. Ever. You don’t deserve that. Here to Goempa four hours. We’ll get there an hour early, and they’ll aim to get there as fast as they can, shave as much time off the ETA as possible. Goempa to Mumbai four hours. Delhi to Atlanta fifteen hours, including refueling.”
Lucy had always been good at math. “Twenty-three hours,” she whispered.
“Tight,” Mike agreed. “The pilots say they’ll try to gain half an hour over the Atlantic. Everything will be ready for you. Ambulance at the foot of the plane in Atlanta; they’ll clear traffic for you all the way to CDC.” He watched her eyes, reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth. “Just like a rock star.”
“Or the President.” Her voice shook. She tried to smile, but it didn’t work.
“Yeah. Or the pope. Listen, I’m going to put my arm around you now, Lucy, because frankly, if I don’t, I’m going to fall apart.”
Startled, she looked at him, really looked. It was a real effort to wrench her senses away from the roiling slithering sickening fear knotting inside her, but when she did, she could see he was telling the truth. Cool, brave Mike Shafer was scared.
He was wound as tight as a drum, muscles tense, tendons standing out in his neck, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. She could actually hear him grind his teeth.
Lucy had tucked her hands under her arms, trying to comfort herself. Her hand moved across the dark space separating them as if moving through something thicker than air, slowly, pushing against her fears and his. He caught her hand and pulled her gently against him until they were seated hip to hip, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her.
Mike grunted, a sound of relief. As if he’d been in pain and now the pain had stopped. Resting against him, she found it was easier to deal with the uneven ride. The driver was good and had clearly been told to push the vehicle. But snow was piling up, and there were icy patches that had to be negotiated. The vehicle swayed, but Lucy didn’t sway with it, because she was anchored to Mike, who was a rock.

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