Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) (34 page)

While Crocker flew, Bert had left her alone during the flight, with an occasional word of reassurance that Crocker had flown in worse and knew what he was doing. Then the geek mercenary—and wasn’t that a contradiction in terms?—had bent his head back over his iPad and did whatever hackers did.

Now, they were landing at a small private airfield in Key Largo. On their first fly around, she noted there was only one runaway; it was bordered by housing developments and water. Lots of developments and lots of water. One of those fly-in/fly-out communities Florida seemed to have a lot of. It looked really tricky for a night landing, but backlit by the light from the cockpit instruments, Crocker’s body language looked completely relaxed. The man displayed no outward sign of nerves at all.

She wished she felt the same. Her stomach roiled and every worst-case scenario swarmed her mind like a cloud of killer bees, buzzing and stinging until she wanted to scream. God, she really wanted Vanko beside her. Was he even okay? How much drugs had they given him? And when he woke up, would he even see her note? Maybe she should’ve pinned it on his chest and not taped it to the laptop.

“You sick?” Crocker shut down the plane after making a perfect landing. She really could come to hate him; he did everything so calmly and with assurance. He came back to stand beside her and then leaned over and undid her seat belt.

She couldn’t help herself, she cringed away. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He closed his eyes as if he were praying for patience. “I haven’t hurt you and don’t plan on it. So don’t move away from me. Now, tell me why you look as if I killed your cat.”

Elana swallowed past the lump of fear and anxiety lodged in her throat.

“Sorry. Nervous.” She looked down the aisle and watched Bert open the cabin door. The smell of the ocean came into the plane on a humid night breeze. She took in one breath, then another until she could speak without sounding like an over-anxious female. “I’m also worried that Vanko might have been allergic to the drugs. What if—”

“He wasn’t. He’d have shown signs before we left.” Crocker’s words made sense. She let go of one worry. But her biggest concern was still dive-bombing the tenuous hold on her sanity—Demidas.

Yes, Crocker was big, scary, and confident as hell, and while he’d promised to protect her, her gut was screaming he couldn’t, and her brain wasn’t disagreeing with her instincts in this case. The devil was wilier than the man before her.

Vanko, she wanted Vanko. He was more than a match for Demidas.

“Elana…I can tell you to stop worrying, but you’ll do it anyway. If you do what I say when I say it, you’ll be fine. Demidas will be dead, and you’ll be back with Petriv before you know it. Come on.”

Crocker held out a hand and waited for her to take it, patience in every line of his body, but she sensed his need to move. He was a man of action, but could rein it in when necessary. He was making an effort to be patient; she ought to meet him halfway. She placed her trembling hand in his calloused, warm one and let him help her from the seat.

“Sam,” Bert called from the cabin door. “Joe’s waiting by the hanger for us with transport.”

“Coming,” Crocker called over his shoulder, then he looked at her. “You gonna be okay? Your hands are like ice, and you’re really white around the lips. You need some more pain meds?”

“No…not right now.” She exhaled and realized she hadn’t thought about her wound since they’d taken off. Funny how fear of dying in a plane crash blocked out pain. She assessed her pain level and found it bearable. “I need to be alert in case…bad things happen.” She eyed him. “I need a knife. You promised me a knife.”

Crocker shook his head and snorted. “Lady, I’m not going to let Demidas get to you.”

Elana returned his snort, but hers was more skeptical. “Demidas has killed more people than you. Ruined more lives than you. He’s in league with Satan himself. I wouldn’t count your success or money before you’ve secured them.” She held out her hand. “I need a knife. Any kind of knife.”

She thought fondly of the steak knives they’d made her leave at the hotel. That thought led to her last view of Vanko, unconscious, his breaths shallow and slow.

Please, God, let him be okay.

Crocker pulled a knife from his boot and handed it to her. “You know how to use it?”

Elana looked it over. “Yes.” It was a switchblade. She found the release for the blade and pressed it. The long blade snapped out. It was clean and shiny-sharp. She folded the blade back into the hilt and slipped it into her deep, front jeans pocket. “Thanks. It’s perfect.”

“Better question is,” Crocker said softly, “can you kill a man with it?”

A flashback to her mother lying on a Moscow street, a bullet hole in her forehead, formed her answer. “I can kill Demidas.”

“You didn’t kill Deke back at the hotel,” Crocker reminded her.

“He wasn’t Demidas.” She glared at Crocker.

He examined her face for several seconds and then smiled. “Yeah, I think you’ll do what you have to do.”

“So?” She looked past him to Bert who spoke urgently to someone outside the plane. A cold, sharp pain stabbed her in the gut. The short hairs on her neck rose. Something was wrong, she knew it. She patted the knife she’d just put away and choked out, “What’s next?”

“We take the transpo Joe has provided, head for the marina, and take a boat ride to a small cay in the Bahamas. Demidas owns an island there.”

“Sounds simple.” But nothing involving Demidas was that easy. She shook her head in an attempt to shake away the niggling worries and fears swamping her mind. Then icy tingles swept down her spine. The proverbial goose walking on her grave feeling. “You trust this Joe guy? His plan?”

Because Elana didn’t. Her gut told her to run as fast as she could away from the whole situation.

“Joe and I go a ways back.” Crocker took her arm and urged her toward the door.

As they moved forward, gunfire erupted outside the plane. Lots of gunfire and men screaming and cursing. A battle raged outside. Was someone trying to rescue her?

Some of the bullets pierced the plane’s hull and hit the seats in the row in front of her.

Crocker pushed her behind him and onto the floor of the aisle. “Stay down.” He hunched over her, protecting her body with his, his gun in hand. “Sit rep!”

“Some guys just took out Joe and his team.” Bert peered around the edge of the door and took several shots. “Fuck! They’re storming the plane.”

Crocker crawled toward Bert as he returned fire. Then Crocker added his gun to the mix. For several seconds or minutes, all Elana heard was the roar of automatic weapons.

At a horrific scream, Elana looked up and watched as Bert fell out the door onto the tarmac. Blood and tissue spatter was on the cabin wall behind where he’d crouched. She cried out and began to stand; she had to help Bert.

“Quiet.” Crocker snarled as he crawled back to her and then manhandled her in between two rows of seats. “Stay down.”

Crocker, keeping low, moved forward again, his gun pulled and aimed at the doorway. She whimpered as another fusillade of shots tore through the plane at window height and Crocker returned fire. She bit her lip to hold her screams in as pieces of glass and the plane’s ceiling came down onto her body.

Then all was silence, eerily so. The smells of gunfire, rain, and wet asphalt were on the wind whistling through the holes in the plane.

Crocker glanced back for a brief second, his gaze filled with what could’ve been an apology. Then he turned back to face the way danger would enter. His hands were steady and the ugly large black gun was aimed at the open doorway.

“Sam Crocker.” A voice with a Russian accent called out.

Ohmygod! No!
Elana knew that voice. It had haunted her nightmares along with Demidas’s voice, scent, touch.

“Zivon,” she whispered.

Crocker shot her a feral look. “Who is he?”

Bad news.
Her breath hitched. “The devil’s minion.” When Crocker growled, she added, “Demidas’s right-hand man, almost like a brother.”

“Fuck, just fuck,” Crocker mouthed under his breath before shouting, “What the fuck do you want?”

Me.
Elana touched her pocket and felt for the reassuring presence of the knife. It was all she had now. Crocker was as good as dead, and he knew it as well as she did. Maybe he’d take some of the men with Zivon out before they got inside, but she doubted it.

“Send out Elana.”

Crocker looked at her, and she shook her head. “I’d rather die here than go out there.”

He nodded. “Fuck off, asshole!” He moved forward another few feet and shot around the edge of the open cabin door. The return gunfire tore up the upper part of the cabin for several seconds.

Elana grinned when she heard Zivon scream at his men. “
Pizdets.
Stop shooting up the plane! You’ll kill Elana. The boss will make you pray for death.”

Crocker turned. “Not too bright, those Russkies.” His lips twisted into a small grin, sharing the dark humor of the situation. Then a canister was shot into the cabin of the plane and white smoke with a horrible odor filled the air.

Crocker crawled to her. “Hold your breath as long as you can.” He covered her body with his. “Sorry. So sorry.”

He raised his gun hand and shot at the doorway as men wearing gas masks poured inside.

“S-sorry.” Then he succumbed to the gas and collapsed on top of her.

Elana couldn’t tell if he’d been shot also. All she knew was she couldn’t move. She inhaled sharply as his weight threatened to asphyxiate her and took in a deep breath of the acrid air. She coughed. The world faded, and she fell into darkness, floating on a sickening swirl of foul air. Down. Down. Down. A nauseating free-fall with no bottom.

Russian voices sounded from somewhere far above her throbbing head. Then the weight on her body was removed. Seemingly disembodied arms lifted her up and took her away from the hot, smelly vortex into cool, damp, fresh air.

She moaned and tried to move, but arms like bands of steel held her against an even harder chest. “N-n-no-o.”

A sharp prick on her neck. Another injection.
No!

“Hush, Elana. Rest.” Zivon’s voice followed her into another bottomless abyss.

Tuesday, 1:00 A.M., Ocean Reef Club air strip, Key Largo

Vanko ran toward the emergency vehicles and police cars surrounding a small plane near one of the hangers located at the farthest part of the private air strip. He spotted Andy Walsh, who stood head and shoulders over most of the men scurrying over the scene. The only man who matched Andy’s height was his Marine colonel dad who stood next to him.

“Andy. Colonel.” Vanko stopped by the men and searched their faces for a sign they had good news. He found only grim faces and anger in their eyes. “Where is she?”

“Sorry, Vanko.” Andy gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Elana was taken away on a jet helicopter soon after a gunfight, according to one of the ground crew. They headed east, out over the Atlantic.”

Vanko swore. The Walsh men blocked him from the curious glances of the first responders and locals who’d come to stare at what was now a crime scene.

Taking a deep breath, he reined in his anger and fear. “Who’s taken jurisdiction?” He left unsaid who did they have to evade to do what needed to be done. Vanko had no time or patience to play politics.

Colonel Walsh snorted. “Who hasn’t?” He scanned the area, a look of disgust on his face. “Jurisdictional in-fighting is making this more of a cluster than it already was. FBI and Homeland are duking it out while the CIA is claiming it’s an international incident. Even Interpol showed up since Demidas is a wanted criminal in every European country outside of Russia and the former Soviet states. This is a fucking joke.”

Then Colonel Walsh smiled. “Come on, boys, let’s move. Our transport is here.” He pointed to a sleek black Bell jet helicopter, just landing well away from the crime scene, at a darker end of the small airport.

“Put a move on, Vanko.” Andy tugged him away from the bullet-ridden plane. “We don’t want the Feds trying to stop us. Dad and I have a plan in place to mount our own rescue.”

“Good.” Vanko ran alongside Andy and his father. He would’ve gone it alone if he had to, but to have two elite Marines at his side and covering his ass would help. “Have you talked to Ren?”

“They’re still socked in,” Andy said. “SSI is short on operatives right now. Earl’s woman’s situation in Chicago has heated up. Loren and Paul are covering that. Price is on an op in South America. Trey is in New Mexico. So, Dad put a call out to Devin who’s also on leave for the holidays, but was holed up on some Caribbean island with his latest honey.” Andy shot him an evil grin. “Dad sort of told him to put his pants on and get his ass to Isla Cay in the Exumas.”

“Isla Cay? That’s not Demidas’s island according to the last intel I had from Keely,” Vanko said.

“It’s not. It’s our staging area. Ren knows John Taylor, the owner of the cay closest to Demidas’s. Dad called in a favor from one of his former Marines who now owns a private security firm in Florida to loan us the helo, weapons, explosives, and a combat-proven pilot.”

Vanko climbed into the belly of the helicopter and immediately put on the headphones for communications. Once the other men were similarly situated, he asked, “And after we get to this Isla Cay? What then? We can’t fly onto Demidas’s island. He has anti-aircraft security according to the photos Keely procured from the military satellite.”

“Taylor is loaning us his boat and dive gear,” Colonel Walsh said. “We can make a water approach and then scuba in. There’ll be help on the island who’ll disable the water approach and beach security.” Which according to the NSA and military intelligence reports was aimed at submersibles and boats rather than swimmers, but extra precautions were always good.

“Help on the island?” Vanko asked. “How did we get help on the island?”

Andy’s laugh was harsh and humorless as he leaned back as the pilot took off as soon as the cabin door was closed. “That Crocker fucker was still alive when the first responders arrived at the clusterfuck. Dad sort of horned in and questioned the fuckass. He told Dad who to contact and we have. The native household servants hate Demidas and want him far away from their women.”