Rush (Phoenix Rising) (13 page)

Jessica had known if Quaid had survived his trauma at the warehouse, he would have faced a life of painful surgeries and skin grafts. But that was before they each had developed some level of self-healing. They should all have scarring from the fire, but the only mark left on their physical bodies was their phoenix scars. But even back then, she hadn’t cared if his appearance had changed. Nor did she care now—she loved her husband heart and soul. She just needed to know for sure that this
was
her husband.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. It was damp and hot. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I see it?”

Teague sat back on his heels beside Q. He’d been quietly concentrating on Q’s body, searching for injuries. Now he met Jessica’s eyes with compassion and strength. “The mind plays strange games during trauma. You know that. For months after Suzannah died, I’d find myself starting a conversation with her, only to realize she wasn’t there.”

A fine tremor started in her arms. She swallowed. Her throat burned. “You think it’s Quaid, too?”

Complex emotion stormed in his blue eyes. Finally, he nodded.

“Well?” Kai’s irritable bite raised the hair on Jessica’s neck.

“Would you shove the attitude already, dude?” Luke said to Kai. “This isn’t easy on any of us and you’re making it a whole lot worse.”

Cash looked at Teague, worry clear in his expression. “Is he okay? Or going to be okay?”

“I’ve never . . . felt anything like this before.” Teague’s gaze swept the group. “He has . . . dozens and dozens of old injuries. I can feel the previous breaks in his bones even though they’re healed. It’s like running your fingers over a crack in the sidewalk.” Teague looked back down at Q with anguish in his expression. “He has them . . . everywhere. All over his body.”

“I told you,” Kai started to stand up, realized the space was too confined and sat back on his butt instead. “I told you it was Quaid. Those are from the explosion. Remember, at the hospital, they said he had breaks in almost every bone in his body? That he’d shattered—”

“Kai!” Jessica hadn’t realized the yell was coming until it was too late. Her stomach squeezed, but she looked Kai in the eye. “You can be the biggest asshole on the planet and it still won’t alleviate your guilt. So just
shut up
.”

The truck went quiet.

But, oh, God, she had.

And she’d meant it.

And hated herself for meaning it.

Loathed herself for causing that ripple of grief and pain crossing Kai’s handsome face.

But it was too late. She’d just have to add that outburst to the list of things she shouldn’t have done in her life, the list that gave her those million and one reasons to hate herself.

Kai dropped his head against his arms where they rested on upturned knees. The sight pushed the wetness in her eyes over her lashes and she grabbed hold of herself before the dam broke.

She refocused on Teague. “What else?”

Teague looked at Cash when he spoke this time. “His head . . . his brain . . . is, I don’t know how to describe it other than, a mess.”

“Try,” Jessica said through clenched teeth.

“It’s like . . .” He lifted his hands, and made small circles as if nudging the words free, “I don’t know . . . like scrambled eggs.”

Jessica stopped breathing. Dropped her gaze to the man at her knees, to the road map of scars on his scalp, and released her air on a hissed, “Those goddamned
animals
.”

She wiped at another streak of blood on his temple, uncovering a scar. An inch-long scar. It puckered gently, the skin lighter than the surrounding tissue. Jessica’s stomach caught on fire. She scooted close, cleaned the area again and ran shaking fingers over the scar.

“Oh, God.”

“What?” Cash moved first, leaning over Q, looking for the problem. “What’s wrong?”

Keira peered over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“The scar.” But Jessica wasn’t looking at the scar anymore. She was looking for signs of Quaid in this man’s face again. “Quaid had one just like it—”

“That snowboard stunt,” Keira said. “I remember.”

“You mean the one when he was bored during a slow winter shift,” Luke said, “and got the grand idea to snowboard off the roof of the station, down the stairs and through the parking lot? Damn lunatic.”

There was a smile in Luke’s voice and the sheer absurdity of Quaid’s renegade madness made a laugh jump from Jessica’s throat, only it sounded like a sob. And, honestly, she couldn’t tell the difference.

Teague chuckled, too. “And rammed that snowboard right into his forehead. Dumb shit.”

“Thirty stitches.” Kai’s voice had leveled. “I had to cancel the hottest date of my life to sit in the ER with him. Pissant.”

Another sob caught in Jessica’s throat. This one more pain than laughter.

“Didn’t he . . .” Keira reached around Jessica and tugged at the right side of Q’s waistband. His jeans were loose and lowered easily to reveal a diagonal scar near his hipbone. “Have his appendix out?”

Jessica’s lungs tightened and she struggled to pull in air. She thought back, fighting to remember Quaid’s other scars.

“Remember when we were at the Painted Cave fire?” Luke said. “And he went all soft for those horses—”

“Penned up at that ranch.” Keira took over the tale from Luke, reaching for Q’s arm. “We told him to wait for Animal Control, but they were in the path of the fire and he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving them, so he opened the gate—”

She lifted his right arm, exposing another long, thin scar down the inside of his forearm. Everyone went silent.

Jessica’s fingers traced the line. “One huge black mare spooked,” she finished the story, “and slammed him against the gate.”

“He got blood all over the front seat of my vehicle,” Kai said, his voice melancholy now. “Another damn trip to the ER and a reaming by my battalion chief. He and the ER docs were on a—”

“First name basis,” Jessica finished.

Silence again. Thicker. Heavier.

The pressure of an impending emotional tsunami crushed Jessica’s chest, and she didn’t know what to do.

Keira’s hand rested on her shoulder and she murmured, “Remember that thing with his hand, Jess? His left hand?”

Jessica’s gaze tore from Q’s right arm and held on his left hand, laid out by his side. Her fingers found the locket beneath her cotton turtleneck. More tears spilled down her cheeks. Her throat closed. Her chest constricted. The most bizarre blend of fear and hope twisted her inside out.

“What happened to his hand?” Cash asked.

“We were at a vehicle accident,” Keira said. “A car had been hit and crushed by a gasoline truck and we’d gone as a team. It was just a few months before the warehouse fire. We’d used the JAWS to open the roof of the car to get the driver out. Quaid was keeping track of her vitals and they started to dip. The tool caught up on something, I can’t remember what, but Quaid, in his typical zeal to get the woman out before she died, used his hand to free up the metal jamming the JAWS. The cut edge of the metal sliced into his glove and caught on his wedding ring—”

“He shouldn’t have been wearing it at work,” Jessica said, her voice rough with emotion. “But we were out to dinner, celebrating our six month anniversary. Got called in. And . . .” She laughed through the tears. “When I reminded him about it, he got all pissy. Hated taking it off anyway and said he wasn’t taking it off on our annivers—”

She choked and couldn’t continue.

“He’s lucky he didn’t lose his finger,” Keira said. “He never argued again.”

There wasn’t much time after that for him to argue again.

She was suddenly terrified the scar wouldn’t be there. It was so specific. So unique. And if it wasn’t there . . . God, if it wasn’t there . . .

“We’re here, Jess.” Keira wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Pressed her forehead to Jess’s temple. “We won’t lock you out this time. We won’t leave you alone. That was wrong of all of us. It won’t happen again.”

A hand closed around the back of her neck, sturdy and reassuring. Kai. She knew that gesture. Knew that touch. “That goes for me, too, Jess.”

She shivered. The support she’d needed, craved, ached for surrounded her. The man that made her whole was possibly lying before her. And she was frozen with fear.

Cash reached across Q and covered her hand where it lay on his arm. “It will be there.”

The surety in his voice gave Jessica the strength to reach for Q’s hand. She held her breath, turned it over, pulled open his ring finger and middle finger.

The air left her lungs as she squinted and rubbed her thumb at the grime. Blood and dirt and . . . “Keira, give me your water.”

Keira uncapped a bottle and poured water over Q’s hand. Jessica scrubbed with both thumbs. Her heart pounded. Her lungs throbbed. Her eyes scoured his finger for that telltale scraggly white line against his tanned—

And it appeared. As if she’d rubbed it into existence, the irregular line created by Quaid’s dedication to their marriage, his all-consuming love for her, glowed up at Jessica.

Her head went light. A sob escaped her throat. She sat there frozen, for how long she didn’t know—three heartbeats, ten, a hundred—while the emotions swept in and overwhelmed her.

Joy, relief, gratitude, love, excitement . . . they rushed in, slamming against her heart.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t talk. She could only touch him, and kiss him and sob against his chest, welcoming every last detail—shaved head, scars, unfamiliar face, changed body.

This
was
her husband.

O
wen had to take a piss, but he didn’t have the energy to unsink himself from the corner of his office sofa where he’d planted his ass—he looked at his watch and grimaced—ten hours ago?

He pulled his aching legs from the coffee table and sat forward, tossing down the file he’d been reading. His eyes had long since blurred over the type anyway and ached for sleep. But he knew that even if he allowed himself to lie down, his mind would never stop spinning.

He glanced over the piles again—spread out on the sofa, the coffee table, the floor. The deeper he’d delved into the information, the more careless he’d become, scattering files everywhere. The depth of deception astounded him, which took a lot. Owen was no stranger to the dark ways of the government. He was also a firm believer that fighting wasn’t prevented, suffering didn’t end, and lives weren’t saved by following a shitload of rules. Weapons weren’t seized, murderers weren’t eliminated, dictators weren’t overthrown by coloring inside the lines.

Maybe that’s why Schaeffer hadn’t been afraid to give him all this information. Owen wasn’t sure yet if Schaeffer believed everyone would immediately bend to his corrupt will or if the fucker knew Owen would be smart enough to see the house of cards constructed over his own damn head, ready to tumble and bury him with one wrong breath.

He stared blankly at the paper, still dazed by the realization of just how thoroughly Jocelyn had set him up. And his own screwups left him with no one to confide in. No one to seek out for help. Or even guidance. At least not without putting himself at risk.

If it was just him, it would be an easier decision. But it wasn’t. If Owen lost his job, if this went wrong and he was court-martialed—he’d seen it happen far too often to better men—he’d lose his income. His pension. And his kids would lose their financial support.

He and Libby had always had big hopes and dreams for them. That was one goal they still shared, despite the divorce. A goal they’d instilled in the kids. He’d already done a bang-up job of fucking up their emotional support system with the divorce. He hoped someday, maybe when they were older, they could understand, forgive. If he screwed them over financially, too? Not only would he not be able to live with himself, but he’d be dead to his kids. They’d loathe him.

His gaze drifted to the painting framed on a wall to his left. One Jenny had given him maybe five years ago now. One of those typical sunshine and rainbow watercolors with stick figures dancing on a bed of green grass. All innocence and joy.

To put his problems into perspective, he opened Cash O’Shay’s file. O’Shay had lost three years of his life. Three years of his son’s life. O’Shay had lost his wife.

And Quaid Legend. Turned into a warrior of the future and used against his will to further the American military’s political agendas through warfare. The ops also hinted toward technical developments Owen would bet his precious pension coincided with Schaeffer’s manufacturing corporation, Millineum’s discoveries and their accompanying military contracts. Legend had also lost his wife. And his freedom. And his memories.

Then there was Teague Creek, who’d been framed for the murder of his girlfriend, then an assistant district attorney. Framed and sent to prison for the rest of his natural life so all his questions into the cause of the warehouse fire and the chemicals involved would go into the hole with him.

Owen’s building anger exploded and he pushed up from the sofa and dug both hands into his hair. He’d believed Creek guilty of the murder, just as he’d believed O’Shay guilty of treason. Jocelyn had made sure of that. She’d known he would never have stayed quiet while men rotted their lives away unjustly. He’d kept information secret that could have freed both men. He’d done favors for Jocelyn that had drawn complete innocents into this vortex—Alyssa Foster for one. Kat Creek for another.

And Mitch Foster . . .

Owen dragged his hands over his face. Fucking Foster. When that man discovered just what part he’d ultimately played in this cluster fuck . . .

“Christ. What is the furthest point across the world from here?” he wondered aloud. Might be a good time to consider retirement there.

He dropped his hands, slid them into his pants pockets and wandered to his window, where he let his gaze blur over the lights of Arlington.

Foster was too damned smart for his own good, just like Creek. Asked too many questions. Dug too deep. Only Foster was savvy as well as smart. He’d fashioned himself a sweet little safety net out of blackmail, and it had kept his ass on the right side of the grass. At least so far.

Owen didn’t need paranormal abilities to see he was headed down the same path. He could only hope he was as smart, if not smarter, than Foster. He certainly wasn’t too proud or too arrogant to take a strategy from the man’s playbook. He’d need some heavy counter-ammunition if Schaeffer came gunning for him. Which Owen could predict approaching with ninety-nine-point-nine percent accuracy.

Because, no, he would not play by Schaeffer’s rules.

But, nor would he risk his children’s future.

“Joce,” he murmured, staring out at the night, “if you’re not already dead, you’re going to wish you were when I get ahold of you.”

He picked up his cell from his desk, hit speed dial and waited as the phone rang at the crash site.

“Sir.” The sergeant in charge who’d been keeping Owen informed had obviously memorized Owen’s number and now answered with all the latest data. “Another three tons of rubble have been removed from the main building.”

Owen gritted his teeth, holding back the complex emotions only time could settle.

“We’ve cleared the floor underneath, checked every cell, all the hallways. We’ve recovered sixteen additional bodies. But not Deputy Dargan yet. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Thank you, sergeant.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear, heard a faint, “Sir?” and brought it back. “Yes, sergeant?”

“I thought you’d want to know that the lab manager, a Mario Abrute, was off-site during the explosion. He’s in detainment at Area 51 now.”

“Isn’t the investigation team handling staff interviews?”

“Yes, sir. But the security logs show—”

“I thought the security system and all its files had been obliterated.” Owen rounded his desk, sat and picked up a pen just to have something to stab at his blotter.

“Everything within the Castle,” he said. “These logs were from the gate. They only show official entries and exits.”

Damn. Still not a sliver of evidence of who had gone into that site and broken O’Shay out. Sure, everyone who knew about the operation and the relationships also knew who’d done it, but Owen couldn’t officially, legally or morally go after their asses without some shred of evidence . . . which they’d incinerated.

Or rather, the Air Force Apaches had incinerated trying to catch them.

While they’d been helping someone escape who’d been wrongly imprisoned.

Alongside their teammate who’d been claimed dead, had his memory erased, and turned into a human military weapon.

He rubbed his temple. “What’s worse than a cluster fuck?”

“What was that, sir?” The sergeant raised his voice over the roar of a Black Hawk’s engine in the background.

“Abrute, sergeant,” Owen said. “The logs. What did they show?”

“They show a Sergeant Decker entering the premises approximately an hour prior to the explosion, then exiting again just twenty minutes before. When he heard the explosion, he held onto Abrute and secured him to the base. But with all the commotion, that information wasn’t relayed until just now.”

“Which is important because . . .” Owen hurried the sergeant along.

“Because, sir, Decker was dispatched to bring Abrute back to the site for questioning related to O’Shay’s project.”

Owen straightened. His mind sharpened.

“He said,” the sergeant went on, “Deputy Dargan directed him to take Abrute back to his residence to retrieve some notes. These notes were reportedly in a secure briefcase of some kind. He reported that Deputy Dargan told Abrute that if she received the briefcase that night with the notes intact, and I’m using Decker’s words here, sir, he would ‘suffer no harm.’ ”

Owen looked at his watch. Another flight to and from that godforsaken desert? No way.

“Sergeant.” Owen firmed his voice. “I’m giving you a direct order. Get Abrute’s ass on a C10 and get him to my doorstep.
Yesterday
.”

“Uh . . . I mean, yes, sir. I just, there are forms—”

“I am well aware of every goddamned fucking form this military creates, sergeant. And I’m an expert at completing every goddamned fucking one.” Owen paused to breathe. To control his temper. This information should have been relayed to him while he’d still been there this morning. This was completely unacceptable and someone’s ass was going to burn for the oversight. “And make damn sure that briefcase with every page of notes is on that plane with him, sergeant, or your career will look like your current environment.”

He disconnected. Slammed his phone on his desk, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Damn Jocelyn.

Damn Schaeffer.

Owen had to force himself not to call the sergeant back and apologize. But he did redial the man.

“Yes, sir,” the man answered in a brusque, guarded tone.

“Well done, sergeant.”

A moment of shocked silence. “Thank you . . . sir.” “Abrute and his information are need-to-know.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Senator Schaeffer is
not
in the need-to-know category.”

Another second of silence. “I understand, sir.”

“If you get any static, send it my way.”

“My pleasure, sir.” A hint of humor played in his voice and relieved Owen’s guilt.

“Thank you, sergeant.”

He set the phone down again and stared at it for a long time. The pieces were starting to click together now, the puzzle’s image beginning to take shape.

He’d spoken to Jocelyn only half an hour before the explosion. Which had been after she’d discovered Abrute had O’Shay’s formula. Why she hadn’t been able to get it from O’Shay himself, he didn’t know. Yet. But when she’d spoken to Owen, when she’d told him she wanted him, she’d been planning a celebration. She’d been planning on rewarding herself for a job well done.

Owen slumped in his chair. How was it that he fixated on women who saw him as a prize instead of a person?

 

Jessica had been drifting in and out of sleep for the last hour, lying curled beside Quaid on the floor of another truck, her head on his shoulder. She secured his body against the hard bump and rock over rough Vermont roads leading into the Appalachian mountains with an arm tight across his abdomen.

Thank God they were approaching their final destination. At least for a day or two. No one really knew what life held in store for any of them from day to day at this point. After they’d evaded whoever had been sent to keep them from rescuing Quaid, they’d picked up Alyssa and the kids and driven back to the plane. From there they’d flown sans-flight-plan to the border of New Hampshire and to yet another private airstrip in the middle of nowhere. Two trucks had been waiting, loaded with supplies, not a human in sight. They’d parked the plane beneath a shelter built under a heavy covering of forest that looked as if it would crumble in the next high wind, and headed toward the Vermont border.

After the second flight and this second long drive, all while helping to carry Quaid, nursing him with liquid, stressing over his physical and mental well-being, his future,
their
future . . . she was exhausted. As was the team surrounding her. Everyone dozed in the darkness.

The entire landscape of her life had changed. And she had no idea what skills or knowledge she would need to navigate this new terrain. Considering that Quaid might truly not remember her, Jessica wondered if she’d be making all these changes alone. And whether the end result would earn her what she needed most—the love of her husband.

Finally,
finally,
the truck slowed.

“We’re here.” Kai put his hand on Jessica’s arm. “Wait. I’ll be back to help you with him.”

Everyone piled out and as she waited, she pressed kisses to Quaid’s face and ran her hand over his soft bristle of hair. The scars rasped against her palm and stirred anger and sadness. “We’re here, baby. Can you wake up for me?”

She didn’t get any more response this time than any of the other eight hundred times she’d tried.

When Kai returned, Jessica helped move Quaid toward the end of the truck bed and hoist him over Kai’s shoulder. She walked beside them toward a building—an old barn shining in the trucks’ headlights. Other than a covered carport, nothing but thick forest shone in the side beams. They were on thirty acres of uninhabited land owned by a “friend” of Mitch’s.

The air was crisp and clean. The night as silent as the dead. And as dark. Until Mitch slid open a panel beside one of the doors, revealing a power grid hidden beneath something that had looked like just another piece of weathered siding, and flipped a switch.

Three different floods swamped the area with warm light. Jessica winced, shielding her eyes. The rest of the group groaned in unison.

“Damn it, Foster.” Teague worked three padlocks on the doors. “Would you warn us before you do that?”

“Bitch, moan, complain . . .” Mitch put both hands against the edge of one of the doors and leaned his weight into it. “Ransom, get your lazy ass over here and help.”

Luke sauntered to Mitch’s side. “Bitch, moan, complain . . .”

Keira laughed.

Cash put his sleeping son into his sister’s arms. “I’d better get over there, too. God forbid I catch that wrath.”