Under Fire (37 page)

She launched herself at General Sullivan, nothing left to lose. “You bastard! You godforsaken piece of shit traitor!”

Screaming, she kicked and clawed, hoping someone would hear her before it was too late. And if not, at least she would leave some scars on Sullivan for the world to see.

The butt of his gun slammed into her jaw. Pain blasted through her. So much. She hadn’t even known it was possible to hurt this bad.

He pinned her to her seat and his evil eyes bored straight into her. “Keep it up, bitch, and we can really celebrate.” His gun dug into her neck, his erection pressing into her stomach. “I like my women with fight in them.”

She went very, very still.

Sullivan smiled, blood dripping from one of the four welts she’d clawed down his cheek. “That’s what I thought.”

He grabbed her arm and hauled her out of the Humvee. She dragged her heels and started to struggle until he pushed the cold steel of the gun against her forehead. He was clearly taking this to the death, so she might as well fight.

And in that moment she realized how right Liam had been earlier. She was a fighter. She hadn’t stepped off, just taken a breather. But Liam was wrong about their not having what it took to build a future together, and she intended to do everything in her power to stay alive and grasp that future with both hands.

Her fists clenched at her side.

The general yanked her arm with brutal strength. “Don’t give me a reason to kill you now. You wouldn’t be the first bitch that got in my way and paid the price.”

Timing. Timing was everything. She needed to wait for the right opportunity. She forced herself to relax in his steely, repugnant grasp. “Where are we going? What are you going to do with me?”

“Shut up. Be a good little girl and you won’t get hurt. I don’t have time for this. Now walk!” He shoved her forward past the open back ramp of some kind of cargo plane and toward the rear wheels.

He kicked the wooden chocks out from the rear tires and dragged her under the aircraft to the other side, where he kicked out the chocks in front of those wheels.

“You’re stealing a plane?”

“It’s on alert for possible rescue missions, so it’s all fueled and cocked on. I’m a general. Nobody questions me.” He started up the ramp, yanking her until her feet tangled. “Come on.”

That was his plan? Bravado, and pull a Steve McQueen with a military aircraft? If so, there should be help on the way soon. She could seriously use some of that Chuck Norris whup ass right about now.

She searched the late-day horizon for the security vehicle’s taillights, just barely visible in the distance.

General Sullivan laughed. “No help there, little lady. We will be out of here before they even know it.”

He dragged her to the entry door on the side of the airplane and pushed her ahead of him roughly. “Turn left and head up to the cockpit.”

She moved forward in the dark toward the murky light-illuminated windows ahead, hearing the aircraft door closing behind her.

“Get in the right seat. Now! That’s an order, understand?”

“Okay, I’m listening, behaving.” She crawled into the copilot’s seat and sat down.

He kept his eyes on her while he climbed into the pilot’s seat on the left. “Put on your seat belt and the shoulder harness.”

Strapping herself in, she willed her hands not to shake, to show no weakness. “There’s not a chance in hell you can get away with this.”

“Your opinion is duly noted. Not that I care.”

He leaned over and pushed the gun into her face. While staring at the gun touching her nose she heard a click. She flinched, and oh God, the squeak of fear had come from her.

General Sullivan smiled, the scent of breath mints and overpriced aftershave thick and cloying. “That was your harness locking into the seat so you won’t be moving around.”

He turned back toward the panel in front of him and started touching different controls. He seemed to be searching for something.

Does
he
even
know
how
to
fly
one
of
these?
“What are you looking for?”

“Why do you keep talking?” He resumed his scan of the cockpit.

“You don’t actually know how to fly one of these, do you?” Hysteria bubbled through the horror. She had a deep understanding right now of how Liam must have used humor in the past.

“Listen, bitch, I am not only a general. I am a fighter pilot.” His voice rose with increased agitation. “I can certainly fly one of these trash-hauling sorry excuses for an airplane.”

“Okay, okay”—she patted the air—“calm down.”

If he did get this thing off the ground, she certainly didn’t want him crashing the plane. Although if it took him long enough to figure this out, surely someone would come and stop this insanity.

He seemed to find what he was looking for and started flipping switches. The instrument lights came on, bathing the cockpit in a red glow.

The general looked out the windows and said, “Nobody around. Time to roll.”

He moved levers until an engine coughed to life. The cargo plane jerked into motion, moving forward toward the dimly lit runway ahead even as the general wildly manipulated controls, starting the rest of the engines. By the time they reached the runway they had a head of steam. He was figuring this out too fast. She needed more time. Where was help?

The general overshot the center of the runway and ended up almost on the grass.

“Piece of crap airplane,” he mumbled. “Steering’s screwed up.”

Felt like operator error to her. But best to keep that to herself. The last thing she wanted was more of Sullivan’s attention.

As she held herself still and quiet, she wondered what had happened to Liam and the others. If the corruption went this high up the chain, there was no telling how deep it went.

Sullivan veered back in the center and pushed up the throttles. Lights flashed ahead. Her stomach lurched. A security vehicle drove toward them about halfway up the runway.

Someone had figured out this was wrong. Someone knew. She wasn’t completely isolated with this maniac.

Except the airplane and the security vehicle were on a collision course, playing chicken in a game where no one seemed ready to give up. She threw her arms up in front of her face…

Swoop.

The nose lifted off the ground.

The plane bucked as they climbed. Up and down. Side to side. As the general turned the yoke back and forth quickly.

Good God, was an aircraft able to do this and stay airborne? Never, never, never again would she complain about turbulence during a flight. That was nothing. This guy was going to crash at any minute.

She’d put herself in dangerous situations her entire adult life. But not until this moment had she realized she’d done so hoping to join Caden. What a helluva time to realize how very much she wanted to live so she could fight to win back the man she loved—Liam McCabe.

***

Brandon’s body was on fire with pain.

His mind fogged with images of the bombing in the Afghan marketplace. Was he back in that nightmare, in some cosmic do-over loop where he screwed up again and again? He coughed, tasting blood. Clamping a hand to his chest, he felt the pulsing stickiness. If he just closed his eyes, he could sleep. As he’d done last time. Surrender to the pain.

Wake up in the hospital. Marked. Discredited.

Groaning, he rolled to his side, seat belt jabbing into his side. Seat belt? Not the marketplace.

He opened his eyes and the past half hour came rushing back with mind-blowing clarity. He was in the back of General Sullivan’s Humvee. He’d been shot by General Sullivan, who could have only one reason for resorting to such extremes. Sullivan was the one dealing intelligence secrets. And the bastard had left with Rachel Flores.

Rachel Flores, who’d put her life on the line for him. The only person to believe in him. He couldn’t leave her out there alone.

He lifted his hand. Or rather, he tried to. God, it hurt, really hurt like nothing he’d ever felt, and he’d been messed up mighty bad in that marketplace explosion. He clamped hold of the seat and hauled himself upward. If he could get out of the vehicle and shout for help… He pulled a handle. Locked. He fought down devastating frustration, the kind that could make him surrender now.

Of course the doors were locked so he couldn’t run while they were driving. Pressing his palm to the worst of his wounds, he leaned over the back to look for something. Anything. Maybe a way out the rear hatch.

Runway light illuminated a tarp draped over gear. Inching his fingers to grip, he tugged aside the canvas and uncovered—

Oh God, a body. He’d exposed a face—a woman’s face. Her features were masked by her red hair. Her shell of an ear peeked out, a simple pearl earring on the lobe. He stared at the red hair, his chest gripped in a panic tighter, more painful than the gunshots. It couldn’t possibly be Catriona. He’d seen her get in another Humvee with Sunny Rocha.

He wanted to sink into his seat and howl out his grief. To surrender completely. This time, no waking up in a hospital. Just. Quit.

Silence echoed.

In that silence, he thought of her. Catriona. The way she waited patiently while he got his head together rather than telling him what he should be feeling or thinking. With her, he wasn’t a PTSD patient or a wounded mess. He was a man, a cop, a guy who could take a regular walk on the beach and make love to a woman.

And the cop within him was shouting, loudly, not to let blood loss and shock cloud his judgment. Catriona got in a different Humvee.

He edged up on the seat again and looked closer at the auburn-haired woman.
Auburn
hair. Darker and coarser than Catriona’s whispery ginger hair. His arm slid over the seat and he brushed the strands clear until he could see more clearly.

It wasn’t Catriona. He didn’t recognize her, but some other poor woman lay lifeless from a broken neck.

He collapsed back into his seat. Sullivan was a traitor and a murderer. And he had Rachel.

Each breath rattling harder than the last, Brandon searched the Humvee. He didn’t know if he would make it out alive or not, but he refused to let Rachel die because of him. He scoured the inside of the vehicle that was fast becoming his coffin, hunting until his eyes landed on the radio on the front dash.

One inch at a time, he crawled forward.

***

“He did what?” Liam asked, stunned.

Less than ten minutes into his interview with the OSI, questioning had been interrupted. He was told the base commander wanted to see him at the command post.

Pronto.

No sooner did Liam arrive than he was pulled into a small room with the base commander—a young colonel—who said General Ted Sullivan had stolen an airplane. And damn it, that made him want to pound a wall. He’d known something was wrong back on the flight line when they’d all been separated, and there hadn’t been a thing he could do about it. Refusing to go with their escort hadn’t been an option. Drawing his weapon… also not a good idea then. Demanding that Rachel stay with him would have netted zero results, given that he was outranked.

Their plan to come in had turned into a cluster fuck and he had no idea how. Most important of all, where was Rachel? Last he’d seen of her, she was with the OSI captain.

Colonel Mary Zogby stood with her hands behind her back, a pulse ticking in her forehead along her dark hairline. “General Sullivan stole an airplane off the flight line. The only logical conclusion I can draw is that he has something to do with Lieutenant Harris’s data that’s being processed by our decoders.”

He didn’t need her to spell out the obvious. Protocol dictated the plane would be shot down without delay. “And I’ve been brought in, ma’am, because…?”

“Just as we became aware of the plane taking off, we received an emergency call over the radio in General Sullivan’s Humvee—from Lieutenant Harris. There’s no easy way to say this. The general shot Lieutenant Harris and then abducted your friend Rachel Flores.”

Liam reeled back a step, the air whooshing from his body as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Rachel was going to die. Either at General Sullivan’s hand or when that plane was shot down. And Liam had brought her here. To what he thought was safety. He couldn’t speak. He could barely stay on his feet.

Thank God, the colonel seemed to understand and continued talking while he got his shit together.

“We’re not sure how exactly, but the HC-130 on alert fired its engines and was rolling down the runway before security could get to it. Once we received the call from Lieutenant Harris, General Sullivan’s Humvee was recovered near the airplane, hidden between some aerospace ground equipment—generators, to be exact.”

“Lieutenant Harris?” he choked out.

“On his way to the hospital. Critical condition. He passed out before we could learn anything more from him.” She drew in a bracing breath. “In the back of the Humvee, a body was discovered. Special Agent Sylvia Cramer. Preliminary signs indicate she was strangled to death, and since she was in the vehicle Sullivan was driving, we can assume he’s the one who killed her. Right now, General Sullivan has nothing to lose.”