Hush (41 page)

Pushing open the door to the room, she took out her iPhone and called Amber's work number. Her friend, a purchase manager for a trucking company, had been able to commit to only so many days before she had to return home. Acadia knew she'd be there now, worried, but having to keep on punching the clock.

Amber was out, so Acadia waited while the guy on the other end found a pen to take a message. By the time he got back to the phone, several minutes later, Acadia
realized she couldn't put everything she needed to say into a message, so she made sure to say she was fine and that she'd be home the next day. She'd call Amber when she got there.

She picked up Zak's duffel from beside the bed. What on earth was she supposed to do with a bagful of bullets and silk boxer shorts? Maybe she should leave it here.

Better yet, she'd leave it with Cam. As she stepped out into the corridor, she heard a loud,
very
loud, thud. The odd sound stopped her in her tracks. “Don't overreact,” she whispered as her heartbeat went into manic overdrive. “Cam dropped something, or—”

She strained her ears for another noi—

An explosion rocked the building. The walls shuddered, the floor pitched wildly, and she had to grab the doorjamb to stay on her feet.

Footsteps—punctuated by gunshots—echoed up the stairs as Cam yelled from the floor below, “Go! Go!
Go!”

EIGHTEEN

C
am pounded to the top of the stairs. Without sparing a glance for Acadia, he shot out a hand to grab the newel post, then pivoted and continued firing down below. The sound of running feet and gunshots echoed and reverberated through the stairwell. She watched in disbelief as Cam shouted, without turning, “Catch!”

Something sailed over her head and clinked to the wood floor several feet behind her. She was afraid to look.

“Bathroom, lass,” he shouted, splitting his attention between firing his weapon and keeping whoever was trying to run upstairs from doing the same.

Acadia scrambled to pick up the key.

“The escape route,” Cam prodded. “Remember? Get downstairs and out the side door. Across the empty lot and two streets down, hit Juan Pablo South. Bank parking lot. Green Ford truck. Haul ass to the airport. Don't stop for anything.” His entire conversation was punctuated by the rapid fire of a submachine gun pointed at whoever was answering fire below him on the stairs.

She gripped the key tightly. “What about you?”

“I'll do my job. Hold them off. Keep you safe. Go.”

“Will y—”

“Go!”

Acadia ran back into the room and slammed the door. God. She was some kind of freaking bomb magnet! How could anyone know where she was? Oh, no. Zak? If they knew she was here, had they already—She flinched at the sound of gunfire. Close. Too close. Wood shattered; a high-pitched screech as if a bullet had hit metal.

Locking the surprisingly solid door, she quickly wedged the chair under the handle, then ran into the bathroom. Footsteps pounded up the uncarpeted wooden stair leading to the second floor. She slammed the bathroom door, pulling at the towel rack with the towels still on it.

Wait; if she just vanished, would they know to look for a trapdoor? She needed a red herring to delay them.

Window! A likely escape point. She ran to the small window and flung it open, then grabbed the towel rack again.

Pull forward, twist to the right.

A small door opened in the wall. It was plenty big enough for her to crawl into, which she did like a crab; then she kicked it closed behind her just as she heard the door to the room shatter with the force of a kick or a shot. She couldn't let herself think about Cam.

The tunnel wasn't big enough to stand in, but she
crawled as fast as she was able. It was dimly lit with small, motion-activated LED lights spaced at twelve-foot intervals. It was also dusty, dirty, and filled with cobwebs that clung to her hair, face, and clothes. She heard the men shouting to one another through the walls. Their American-accented voices sounded muffled and distorted through the tunnel.

Acadia breathed a sigh of relief as she heard footsteps racing farther away.

She took a short flight of steep steps down to the lower floor, another long crawl as she navigated a tunnel and another set of sharply descending stone stairs, until at last there was a door.

Holding her breath and her aching side, she cautiously opened the door into bright sunlight. She quickly glanced around—no guys with guns, no feral kids with a vendetta. She ran.

Gasping for breath, she sprinted across a weed-choked lot with a dilapidated building on it. Over piles of bricks and broken stones, over mounds of dry, cracked dirt, over blowing newspapers and empty bottles. Her breathing came in sharp pants; her lungs burned. She felt as though she had a giant bull's-eye painted on her back. If any of those men glanced out of one of the side windows, they couldn't miss her fleeing form. She'd be dead.

She turned the corner, heart manic. The streets were empty. It was hours until the city workers would start returning home. She was alone. Just her and the scraggly
weeds. The hot breeze lifted her hair off her sweaty neck and cooled her cheeks. The stitch in her side gave an uncomfortably sharp pang as she ran around the corner and checked the street name. Juan Pablo.

There, across the street. Banco Central. Clearly not in business, with its broken windows, decayed facade, and trash-strewn parking lot. The green truck Cam had told her to find was the only car in the otherwise empty lot and Acadia squeezed the key until the teeth scored her palm. She forced her legs to pump faster as she ran across the empty street.

How long since Zak had left? Fifteen minutes? A little longer? Would she get to the airfield before they took off? God. He was
not
going to be happy to see her. She knew that. But there was nowhere else for her to go. Nowhere that she'd be safe.
If
she ever felt safe again, which was a pretty big if.

And what if she got there and Zak was gone? Or dead!

From thirty—twenty—ten feet away, the truck screamed
rusted piece of crap.
Her heart sank. It didn't even look as though it would run. No wonder it had been safe left out here. No thief was desperate enough to steal it.

It was also the only game in town.

Acadia sucked in a breath and pulled at the door handle, half expecting it to come off in her hand. To her surprise, the door was locked. She dropped the key trying to jam it into the lock, bent to pick it up, and shoved it into place on the second try. She yanked the rusted
door open and slid across the cracked vinyl seat. The truck smelled of fried food and spoiled fruit. She'd open the window later. Right now all she cared about was putting as much room between herself and the not-so-safe house as possible.

Acadia had the key in the ignition even as she was slamming the door shut and locking it. The engine came to life with a powerful purr. More a Ferrari than a jalopy, just like the Taurus.

These black-ops guys were something else.

Gripping the wheel with both hands, she pulled out of the lot onto the street. The truck went from zero to seventy in seconds. As she paused a fraction of a second at a cross-street, she heard a massive explosion. An enormous plume of smoke and fire mushroomed into the sky behind her from the direction of the safe house. Acadia flinched. “Oh, God—Cam …” She couldn't think about him right now. “Don't look back, don't look back.”

She put her foot down on the pedal, flattening it to the floor, and the truck leaped to 100 miles an hour. The body rattled alarmingly, and she was afraid pieces of it were going to come flying off, but that didn't stop her. She'd never in her life driven so fast that buildings passed in a blur.

Acadia managed a screeching turn onto the on-ramp, two wheels rising into the air, and she hurtled toward the
autopista intercomunal del aeropuerto
. If she remembered correctly—and she knew she did—the private airfield was three miles beyond the airport turnoff.

Acadia slowed down only enough to blend in with the other speeding commuters leaving the city, determined to reach Zak—if it wasn't too late. Her hands were damp on the wheel, and the speedometer was edging just over 102 when she heard the sirens behind her. At any other time, in any other place, she would've been thrilled to have the police right on her tail. But she didn't think those black vehicles closing the gap behind her were the police.

And even if they were, they sure as hell weren't going to help her. The last time she'd seen them, they'd followed her and Zak from the airport. The exit to the private airfield was up ahead. She pressed her foot to the floor and prayed that she didn't kill herself before the guys behind her managed to do it.

She shot a lightning-fast glance into the rearview mirror, and the truck slewed sideways. Three black SUVs closed in behind her. They had black tinted windows, police insignias, and flashing lights.

Ahead she saw a large black helicopter with lazily spinning rotors. There was no choice. Stomach in her throat, she slammed her sweaty palm down hard on the horn and headed straight for it.

AS THE RAUCOUS SOUND
of a car horn echoed over the noisily spinning rotors, Zak looked up from strapping himself in. “What the—”

An old pickup truck was barreling across the tarmac, heading straight for the chopper. A quarter of a mile behind it, three black SUVs fanned out in a pincer
movement to trap truck and helicopter. They were gaining fast.

As the deceptively junky-looking truck approached, Zak saw the pale oval of the driver's face.

Acadia
.

His heart leaped and his hands went to his harness. Her features were blurred by speed, but he couldn't miss that silky blond hair, or the sensation of horror he felt seeing her here. Fuckit. Now what?

“Friends of yours?” Reith asked dryly, his weapon, an M-16, in the firing position, his eye narrowed as the pickup and the SUVs behind came straight at them at over a hundred per.

Zak gritted his teeth. “The one in the truck.”

Behind him, the man who'd introduced himself as Spincher flagged down the chopper pilot. “Incoming hot!” he said into the mic. “We got bogeys closing in, get those guns warmed up!”

The chopper had massive artillery at its disposal. Enough to lay waste to a couple cars. And Acadia, if he didn't get out and get her.
Now.

Zak swung down to the ground, head ducked. They'd equipped him with a fully loaded M-16 for the trip, and he had that with him as he landed on the tarmac in a crouch.

“Cover me,” he shouted as the truck screeched to a stop, engine still running. He yanked open the driver's door and grabbed Acadia's arm. Over the rotors and gunfire, he yelled, “Are you hurt?”

The sound of a handheld rocket launcher canceled out what she shouted in return, and Zak made do with hauling her as fast as he could scramble back to Savin's Apache. A hundred yards away, the lead SUV exploded into a loud fiery ball of heat and metal. The guys on the chopper knew what they were doing. The heat and force of the blast swept over him, singeing his lungs. He staggered, but he didn't let go of Acadia, just pulled and supported her while they kept their heads down and their feet moving.

A flaming steering wheel slammed down a foot in front of her, then bounced. Tightening his arm around her waist, Zak lifted her over it without breaking stride and kept going. She was shaking and out of breath, hyperventilating, but as far as he could tell, she wasn't bleeding.

She was shouting, but he couldn't hear her. “They blew up the safe house.” Zak read her lips as they reached the chopper; hearing was impossible with the noise. A second vehicle was hit and more flames shot high into the blackened sky, producing pillars of thick, oily smoke.

In the distance, he heard the faint sound of sirens. Or maybe the sirens weren't that distant; it was hard to tell with the cacophony of bullets firing and shit blowing the hell up in every direction. Bits of vehicle—a seat, a car door, part of an engine block—dropped around them like some sort of Salvador Dalí hailstorm.