Finding Trust (Centre Games) (36 page)

Clearly, someone had done a shithouse job of securing the site. That was a matter for the de-brief. If they lived to see it.

“Now,” he screamed, waving the barrel of the gun menacingly.

Brayden reached to help Jazz to her feet, pushing her behind him.

“Hands up—move over there.” He motioned for them to join Rihanna against the side of the stable block as he drew nearer and nearer.

Brayden could feel the blood in his veins turn cold for the third time today.

The first had been when he’d realised the virus had been released. The second, when he’d rounded the corner and seen Rihanna being dragged away. This was the third. Three times in one day was three too many.

He cautioned a glance around to see what he had in the way of backup and options. All of Charlie team had taken over moving the horses. From what he could sense, they were up near the transport yard. Boss was up there, too, with Rory. Boss had ordered Rory to help them.

He was shit out of luck. Where was Quade? He flung his senses out farther, all the while moving slowly back towards Rihanna. The only reassuring feeling he had at the moment was the weapon at the small of his back. Question was how was he going to use it without risking the girls even more?

The gunman kept approaching, sensibly never taking his eyes from them. He reached the unconscious man on the ground. As Jazz had done, he, too, placed his fingers against the man’s neck, clearly searching for a pulse.

It was about then Quade’s presence clearly hit the radar of his senses. He was approaching fast from the southeast. He could sense Peter as well but he was a lot farther back.

The gunman rose and moved from the unconscious man towards the one covered by the horse blanket, seemingly oblivious of the rain that was still bucketing down. His cold dark eyes never strayed from Brayden or the girls.

“Keep your hands up.”

Brayden and Jazz had reached the wall of the stables, their backs to it. Rihanna was on the ground between them. Quade was close. Very close. In fact, he’d bet he was hidden in the shadows cast by the stables just around the corner from Jazz’s right-hand side.

The gunman had squatted beside the body and peeled away the blanket with his left hand. His eyes remained fixed on them, his right hand closed tightly around the stock and trigger of the gun.

Brayden’s world stood still. He knew what was about to happen before it did.

It was not going to be good, not good at all. When this guy glanced down and realised who was under the blanket, all hell would break loose. How did he know this? Easy, his nose told him they were related—probably brothers.

Subtly, Brayden dropped his right hand a few inches, not enough to be immediately noticeable but enough to reduce the distance it had to travel to remove the gun from the back of his waistband and fire. He chanced a quick glance at both girls. Their eyes were fixed on the gunman. He could tell from the scent they were letting off, both were terrified.

He promised Rihanna and her father that he’d not let anything happen to her. He knew without a doubt that she trusted him to make sure she’d be okay. Letting her down wasn’t an option.

Quade’s scent and tension was easy for him to pick up now. As he guessed, he was not six feet from them, tucked around the corner, crouched and ready to spring, using the shadows to conceal his presence. He was all but certain Quade had the same plan in mind.

They were the same as brothers. They’d been trained the same and when it came to situations like this, they thought the same.

Brayden swayed his weight forward slightly, giving himself room to get his arm behind him and remove the gun. He could do it in less than a heartbeat. And he’d have to.

The gunman held Brayden’s glare for a second, his eyes focusing solely on Brayden’s.

It was on.

The man glanced down to the body he’d exposed. Simultaneously, a roar of the deepest agony ripped from the man and his finger depressed the trigger, firing a hail of bullets in their direction.

Brayden already had his gun levelled and was firing. His bullets paralleled the gunman’s but travelling in the opposite direction. He heard the report from Quade’s weapon as he, too, fired. All three guns released deadly bullets almost simultaneously. To the human ear, it would sound like one noise. To their much more sensitive ears, it was clearly three different weapons.

Diving to his right, he reached to drag Jazz down behind him. He was aiming to get his body in front of Rihanna and as much of Jazz’s as possible.

Would it be enough?

He felt before he saw Quade come crashing in front of him, knocking him even farther back into the girls.

It was all silent for a second and he knew the gunman was dead. He moved slightly, pushing Quade from in front of him, and he heard the groan.

It was then clear to him who had been hit.

Dislodging himself from the pile of bodies, he yelled to Jazz and Rihanna. “Help me. Quade’s been hit.”

Jazz was immediately up and moving to help him roll Quade onto his back. Rihanna struggled to her knees and leant over.

“Grab my bag, Brayden,” Jazz screamed as she pressed her gloved hands over the wounds to his chest. “Rih, put pressure on the wound on his leg.”

Brayden was back with the bag. “Grab me some big sterile pads.”

He immediately opened them and handed them off to her. She pressed them into his chest, the white cotton quickly becoming red with the blood.

“Brayden, get an ambulance. Now.”

“On it,” he replied before he contacted the boss.

He depressed his mic to talk. “Boss, Quade’s hit bad. We need a medical evacuation now.”

“Roger.” The voice came through clear and then was gone.

He worked to remove more sterile pads from their packaging as he spoke to the boss. Jazz nodded her head toward Rihanna, indicating the next lot should go there.

“Brayden, hold this, I’m going to run a line.” Jazz motioned with her head for him to take over keeping the pressure on his chest wounds.

Quade groaned again, clearly wandering in and out of consciousness.

Jazz rifled through the bag and came up with a bag of fluid, the tubing and the necessary cannula to run the fluid.

“What’s in the bag, Jazz?” Brayden’s voice was urgent, worried.

“Saline. Why, is he allergic to something?” She paused, about to insert the cannula into Quade’s left arm.

Shit, how was he going to answer this? Now was not the time to be declaring that they all had altered DNA and that sometimes their bodies responded differently to drugs. Saline was fine, wasn’t it?

His mind felt like cotton wool right about now. He was desperately trying to remember what drugs were and weren’t okay with their metabolisms.

Jazz’s face was fierce; she was in total emergency doctor mode. “Tell me now, Brayden. Is he allergic to something?”

Oh fuck, he had to answer her. He could sense the approach of more people. It was Rory and the boss, but there was more he didn’t know with them. He had to assume they were friendlies.

Throughout all of this, Rihanna had remained quiet, stoically keeping the pressure on the wound to Quade’s leg. Clearly in pain and far from functioning, but her head turned to him now, curious as to why he procrastinated over answering.

Time was up—he had to answer.

“Just give him the saline and nothing else.”

Jazz immediately continued with inserting the cannula, smoothly getting the fluids running.

“Here, hold this.” She passed the bag of saline to him, indicating he needed to keep it elevated. Jazz turned back to her bag and was searching for something.

“I want to start some meds for pain and shock.” Locating what she wanted, Jazz moved to administer further drugs in the line.

“Don’t.”

Jazz’s answer was immediate. “Don’t doesn’t cut it, Brayden. If you can’t tell me why or what he’s allergic to, I’m going with what I know. Saving Quade’s life is my number-one priority, not playing guessing games with you.” The syringe was loaded and she was about to depress the plunger.

Fuck, fuck, ten thousand fucks. This day was just out of control.

He had to tell her something of the truth. From what he knew of Jazz already, there was no way she would stop on her course unless he gave her a really good reason. Having this conversation about their true nature like this was not what he wanted to do.

God, how could it have come to this?

The world seemed to stand still for a second, freezing time. His mind descended to what seemed like tunnel vision. He could clearly see Rory and the boss about five paces away, their bodies frozen midstride. There was no choice. He couldn’t risk Quade’s life for a secret that Jazz would most likely find out anyway. He had to expose the Centre’s secret. Oh shit, he felt as if he were about to dive headfirst into a swirling vortex. He hoped they’d forgive him. There was no other way. Time moved on again.

“We have altered DNA. Routine or normal drugs often have strange effects on us,” he blurted.

Jazz had been squatting on the balls of her feet beside Quade. At Brayden’s words, she rocked back onto her heels and landed on her butt. Her mouth opened and closed but not a word passed her lips. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers.

He chanced a glance at Rihanna and she said nothing. Her expression said it all. She was trying to figure out whether what she’d just heard was the truth or part of the foggy haze that’d invaded her normally logical mind.

Finally, Jazz regained her composure.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Our DNA was altered; we’re human with a healthy dose of animal genes.” His eyes never left Jazz’s. He watched her process that information. He wanted to turn to Rihanna but he didn’t know whether he could bear the accusations that he felt certain would come.

Just as she was about to speak, the boss closed in and waved to the group he’d sensed. Turning his head over his shoulder, the boss called back to them, “Over here.”

“Is he ready for transport, Jazz?” the boss barked out.

Four soldiers in full kit bent beside them and made preparations to move Quade onto a stretcher, their hulking shoulders stretching their fatigues as they lifted the considerable stature of Quade onto the stretcher. As if in a daze, Jazz remained planted on her butt in the middle of the wet tarmac laneway.

Finally realising that the men intended to move Quade, Jazz leapt to her feet. A fifth man, obviously a military medic, started checking Quade’s vitals as the four lifted the stretcher from the ground and were looking to head back out from the stables.

“As ready as I can make him, given I can’t follow normal drug protocol.” She looked at the boss, pinning him with an accusing glare that would make most men crumble at the knees.

“You’ll be briefed in good time, Miss Carter. We’ve got a chopper and a theatre waiting.” The boss turned and was quickly following the retreating soldiers. Jazz scooped up her duffle and jogged to keep up.

“I’m going with him,” Brayden heard her call.

“No, you’re not,” the boss spat back at her.

“Is that army guy a doctor?” Jazz screamed at him.

The boss said nothing, his silence confirming her suspicions.

“Well, then I’m fucking going. He saved my life. The least I can do is try to save his.”

“Very well then,” the boss relinquished. Maybe the boss had met his match. Twice now Jazz had ridden straight over the top of him. Two for two. Go, Jazz, he silently cheered.

And that brought him right back to the beautiful woman at his feet—his heart, his everything. Rihanna’s injuries had been forgotten in the haste to get Quade to the classified private hospital that was used by the military and the Centre.

He bent down and easily picked her up in his arms. Rory was beside the golf carts, talking into his comms unit. He immediately turned when Brayden approached with Rihanna.

“Give us a ride back to the entrance?” Brayden asked Rory, climbing in with Rihanna in his arms.

“Sure.” Rory immediately took off and the cart lurched forward. Rihanna let out a low groan, clearly in a lot of pain. “She okay?”

“Not really, probably some cracked ribs and who knows what other injuries.”

“Okay, boss’s organised a couple of army choppers to do the medical evac. Get her on one of them.” Rory drove on, pushing the cart to its top speed.

He didn’t need to answer. He was getting Rihanna out of here, asap.

“What’s happening with the horses?”

“Last count, there was about thirty left to transport out. Peter’s been organising it with the couple of guys we could brief.”

“Shit, I need to let Peter know she’s been hurt. He’ll skin me alive if I don’t.”

“It’s covered, mate. He heard over the comms, and he’s right there by the chopper.” Rory lifted his hand from the wheel and motioned towards the waiting chopper.

Brayden had been looking at Rihanna, making sure she was still okay. Her eyes were closed and her face tense with pain. She was conscious but trying to make it through the pain.