Baggage Claim (Tru Exceptions - Christian Romantic Suspense Book 1) (7 page)

There was a large cement area that led down to the water. Yet Dawson was fully stopped now, carefully scanning the entire area and looking confused.

"Something isn't right," he mumbled, lost in his own thoughts.

"What? What isn't right?"

"We shouldn't be here."

"What are you talking about, Dawson? This was the plan."

"Yes, but why are we here? If the tracking signal wasn't working and the terrorists had no idea where the bomb was, why didn't they detonate it? We should be dead."

With a feeling of dread, Rachel understood Dawson's point. "Maybe…" But she couldn't think of any reason why they wouldn't set off the bomb if it had completely lost their control. It would be more dangerous for them to have it fall into other hands who could use it to identify them and their methods.

Rachel saw a man walking toward them from further down the dock. Dawson must have recognized him because he didn't seem alarmed.

"Tate, glad you made it," the man said, shaking Dawson's hand. "I'm Paul Simmons. We have everything ready. I just got the call that they've successfully deactivated the bomb. Everything should be good to stick it in the helicopter and get it out of here. We've got two other agents down there to ensure the area stays secure. One of them is the helicopter pilot. He and I will be taking possession of the suitcase and flying it to its next destination. A team of other agents will be here in a few minutes to escort you and Miss Saunders to safety.”

As if he hadn't heard a word Paul Simmons had said, Dawson turned to Rachel. "Unless… " he said, continuing the previous topic. "Unless they never fully lost control of the bomb. Unless they knew they would be able to find it again."

The world was completely silent for the space of two heartbeats.

"Rachel, get down!" Dawson's yell came a split second before he body slammed her into the ground.

Everything exploded in gunfire.

Rachel couldn't breathe. Hitting the ground had completely knocked the air out of her lungs. Dawson fell on top of her. As the gunshots beat a staccato rhythm through the air, he crouched over her, shielding her with his own body. The second there was a break in the barrage, Dawson scrambled off and literally dragged Rachel behind some large crates.

"Rachel, are you okay," he asked urgently as his hands checked her for any injuries.

Rachel still couldn't speak, but managed to nod.

Simmons had managed to scramble to safety nearby as well. Both he and Dawson took out their phones.

"We have shots fired!" Dawson said into the phone. "They knew where to find us. Is the tracking device still disabled? Check it!"

More shots were fired. Dawson peeked around the crate, watched a few seconds, and then returned fire.

"Great! Why weren't they already in position? It'll be too late by the time they get here. They're already closing in on our position."

Dawson soon disconnected the call and turned to Simmons. "Tracking is enabled again."

"How is that possible?" he asked. "We had it disabled."

"I don't know. Maybe the tech guys were so focused on deactivating the bomb that they didn't notice the terrorists working to reactivate tracking."

"So what do we do?" Rachel asked, finally finding her voice.

While still peeking around the crate and trying to determine the enemy's position, Dawson answered, "The bomb is still deactivated, so they are sending a team of agents now to assist us in apprehending the terrorists. The problem is that we're a good ten minutes from having those reinforcements."

"Ten minutes!" Simmons fumed, his hands fumbling as he reloaded his gun. "We'll be dead by then! Why didn't they have a team ready?"

"They said they didn't anticipate this problem and were trying to keep very few agents involved until the situation, meaning the bomb, was fully under control. Obviously, we can't wait that long. I'm sure they've identified our position and are working even now to surround us. We have to get to the helicopter and get this bomb out of here. They suggested that, if we could have the bomb in position by the helicopter when the rest of the team arrives, they will be able to cover the departure and apprehend the terrorists so they can't track it."

"There's one problem with that," said the other agent. "I just spoke on my phone to the two agents trapped down closer to the helicopter. The pilot was hit in the first attack. He'll live, but there's no way he can fly."

"I'm trained to fly a helicopter," Dawson said. "I guess I'll have to do it."

Of course he's a helicopter pilot
, Rachel thought irritably. Was there anything the man couldn't do?

"We have no idea how many of them there are, but we can't stay here," Simmons said. "I'll follow and cover you the best I can. What about the girl?"

"She's with me," Dawson answered.

"Okay, let's do it."

Dawson turned to Rachel. "Are you up for this?"

"I'll be fine," she replied, trying not to think about bullets zinging past her head.

"Follow me. You'll have to stay close, but keep low."

There were crates and machinery littered around the dock. They methodically ran with their bodies hunched from one shelter to the other, pausing, watching, listening, and then running again. Rachel heard gunshots following their movements. Heart pounding, she fully expected to feel the bullets ripping into her, but either the terrorists were bad shots or their movements too furtive for them to be accurate. Dawson didn't return fire, probably not wanting to give away their exact location. Simmons held his fire as well, simply following and trying to safeguard the immediate vicinity.

Rachel could see the outline of the helicopter. They were close. Suddenly a gunshot sounded at close range. Rachel tucked her head down as several more ripped through the air, all close but from slightly different locations. Rachel realized the truth. The terrorists had been guarding the helicopter, knowing it was their original plan of escape. Now that they had tried to approach it, she realized they were probably surrounded. They had walked into a trap.

Simmons was a few yards behind her, on the ground, returning fire. Dawson crouched behind a large crate a few yards in front of her. Although his weapon was drawn, he didn't return fire. Rachel realized he wouldn't want to risk giving up their location unless it was absolutely necessary.

The dock was illuminated by a bright overhead street light, but Rachel still couldn't see anything clearly outside of about a twenty foot radius. She knew Dawson was still trying to conjure up a way to make it to the helicopter, but Rachel couldn't see how it would be possible to get there with both the suitcase and their lives. Although not constant, gunfire was coming from at least three different directions. They couldn't go forward and they couldn't move back. They were trapped.

The gunfire seemed to die down, at least for the moment. Rachel lifted her head in time to see a shadow disengage from the rest of the darkness and sneak up on Dawson's side.

Dawson must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung around and raised his gun, pointing it at the man's chest. At the same time, the attacker raised his weapon, pointing it directly at Dawson's chest. They were in a deadlock. Guns pointed at each other. Neither willing to give up.

"Drop your weapon and hand over the suitcase," the shadow said clearly.

"No thanks. I don't think I like that idea," Dawson said.

Dawson was going to be killed!
Rachel knew that even if he handed over the suitcase, he'd still be shot. She had to do something. Carefully, so as not to attract attention, Rachel began to move forward, closer to Dawson as the men talked.

Rachel noticed that this man, like the other terrorists from the alley, had no accent. Why would terrorists trying to detonate a bomb on U.S. soil sound American?

Rachel had now maneuvered herself into a position where she could see the attacker more clearly. While she still couldn't see his features, she got a good look at his gun arm fully extended from his body. Silently, she opened her purse and pulled out the 9mm Dawson had insisted she keep.

"I guess I could just kill you and then take it," the man said.

"No, that's not going to work," Dawson replied. "You might kill me, but you won't touch the suitcase. You'll be dead."

Rachel was aware that the circle was getting tighter as the man's associates were slowly closing in on Dawson's position as well. Simmons was rapidly firing his gun, already engaged in his own fierce battle.

Lord help me!
Rachel breathed as she brought the gun into position and held it steady.
Careful, Rachel, careful,
she coached herself.
You can do this.

"That's not necessarily a bad deal," the terrorist mused. "My colleagues will collect the suitcase. Such a sacrifice would be honorable for a man like me. What about you? Are you ready to die?"

"You first."

Rachel pulled the trigger. The terrorist screamed, the shot almost knocking him over as he dropped his weapon and grabbed his injured hand. She'd hit her target.

Other shadows began converging on Dawson. He jumped back behind the crate and began firing.

"Rachel, the suitcase!"

Rachel hurriedly shoved the gun back in her purse, then drew the strap over her head and one arm so it hung diagonally across her body. Wasting no time, she shot to her feet and sprinted for Dawson. Trying not to think about the shadows turning their attention to her, she grabbed the suitcase with both hands, lifted it off the ground, and raced for the helicopter.

The stupid wig was loose and kept getting in her eyes, making it difficult to see. Catching movement out of the corner of her right eye, Rachel ripped off the wig with one hand, turned toward the oncoming attacker, and threw the hairy beast in his face. She didn't wait to see if he stopped, and she didn't even register the pain of ripping the wig with its attached pins off her head. She had to make it to that helicopter.

Finally, reaching the passenger's side door, she searched for the handle.
How the heck do you open a helicopter door?

Someone grabbed her shoulder. Wheeling around quickly, she broke the hold, knocking the assailant's hand away with her forearm. Catching the gleam of a gun in his other hand, she reacted instinctively. She blocked the gun with her left forearm at the same time as she brought her left leg up in a front kick directly to the man's groin. Before he even had a chance to react, she then shifted her weight and used the same leg to land a hard side kick with the heel of her boot directly in his gut.

Her movements were seamless, the entire sequence lasting no longer than a second. Moaning, her attacker fell to the ground. Right now, survival was paramount in Rachel's mind, to the exclusion of her usual thought patterns. Normally, Rachel hated the thought of having caused someone pain. But her dad had trained her that when facing a real attacker, never pull any punches (or kicks for that matter).

Once again, she jerked at the helicopter door, finally pulling it back. She hefted the suitcase up, climbed in behind it, and shut the door. It was a small helicopter. Her feet were practically on the seat to make room for the suitcase on the floor. Seconds later, the door opposite her opened. Dawson climbed in, his movements almost frantic.

"The cavalry is here, but we're not safe yet," he announced as he quickly pulled on a headset and began pushing buttons. "They'll have a good battle that I'm not planning on sticking around for."

Rachel could hear rapid gunfire outside, but it didn't seem directed at the helicopter. That was probably deliberate since it would be too dangerous to risk igniting an explosion with the bomb inside. The case might be able to withstand some fire, but Rachel doubted it could withstand being engulfed in an exploding helicopter.

Dawson handed Rachel the other headset and started the helicopter. Her stomach flipped as it left the ground. Dawson quickly gained altitude and headed south over the Hudson River.

Dawson pushed a button and said, "We have cleared the dock and are currently traveling southward. I need to know our destination."

Rachel could hear Dawson clearly through the headphones and could also hear the response on the other end.

Directions and coordinates were rattled off to Dawson. They made no sense to Rachel, but Dawson seemed to understand.

"The tracking signal has also been disabled again," the voice on the other end added. "With both it and the remote detonation deactivated, you shouldn't encounter any more trouble. Agents are rounding up the terrorists at the dock, and we'll have a team waiting to take possession of the bomb at the facility."

"Roger that," Dawson replied, ending the transmission.

As they reached the bay, Rachel could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance. She was glued to the window as the helicopter passed close. Had this weekend gone according to plan, she would have been seeing it under vastly different circumstances. To be sure, this helicopter flight was definitely thrilling, just not for any reason she'd ever expected.

Leaving the Statue of Liberty behind, Dawson continued south over the bay. At his current speed, Rachel couldn't imagine it taking them terribly long to reach their destination, wherever that may be.

Having a sudden thought, Rachel lifted the suitcase onto her lap and began opening it.

"What are you doing?" Dawson asked.

"I was going to remove my clothing from the suitcase. It doesn't really have anything to do with the bomb, and I'd rather not have a bunch of scientists sifting through my underwear. Is that okay?"

"I guess," Dawson replied, his tone showing a little uncertainty.

Rachel reached into the suitcase and removed her nightgown, shirts, and panties that were on top of the bomb and to the side. She had no idea what had happened to the rest of the contents of her suitcase. She unceremoniously balled the clothing together and placed it at her feet.

She began to re-zip the top of the suitcase. Something flickered on the bomb's display screen. Angry red numbers appeared on the screen, then rapidly changed, counting down. Rachel watched in horror. 2:00… 01:59…01:58… 01:57…

The bomb had been activated.