Smokescreen (22 page)

Accessing the video feed from the WAM-ball, she saw the two grenades bounce into the room, scaring the Bronze Tigers back, then detonate one after the other. Pools of black smoke and blazing embers spewed into the air, creating dark masses that glowed with an inner light.

Drawing her final pair of pistols, Christie went back into the door she’d just left. The view she’d gotten from the WAM-ball indicated that most of the Bronze Tigers believed she would be coming through that door.

Inside the helmet, Christie felt like she could barely breathe. The bitter smoke slammed into her lungs with her first breath, biting deeply enough to make her cough. She triggered the adrenaline pump inside her body then, and the world suddenly got slower as her movements sped up.

She targeted the Bronze Tigers standing outside the billowing smoke clouds. Once she was immersed within it, even her Enhanced vision—night vision as well as thermographic—would be useless. She fired, aiming for head shots. Part of her, the part that would later regret the violence she’d unleashed, screamed. But she silenced the voice, knowing that Michael and Dalton would be dead the minute that she let up.

If they weren’t already dead.

Once the pistols blew back empty, she stepped inside the swirling smoke. The WAM-ball came to a rest near the middle of the room, still providing Christie with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree visual of the room as the vid-cam spun inside the resilient rubber housing. She judged her position as she reloaded the pistols by feel, slamming home two more extended magazines.

Using the information given to her by the WAM-ball, Christie fired at targets that stepped outside the two smoke clouds. Walking through the cloud revealed other targets when she bumped into them. She used the pistols and her knees and elbows to take out everyone she came in contact with. She shot those she could, but crushed larynxes, shattered temples and cheekbones to cause unconsciousness and concussion and grabbed heads to bring her knees up into them and stun or kill the Bronze Tigers.

The WAM-ball told her Dalton was still covering Michael, but Dalton was bleeding from at least three wounds. Evidently he’d caught stray rounds or the Bronze Tigers had guessed the bomb he’d used to hold them at bay was now disconnected.

Christie felt the adrenal pump strong within her now. Even her lungs opened up and she felt like she was breathing easier, but she knew that was a lie. Her lungs were filling up with smoke that would later have to be coughed out and the payback to her system would leave her devastated.

Sammy Bao had stepped into the smoke cloud as well, obviously deciding that was the safest place for him. Christie moved warily, knowing the smoke clouds were already starting to disperse. She blinked, waiting for her vision to return.

A shadow moved in front of her, getting more visible as it neared her. A moment later the man stood revealed in the shifting smoke. He had a hand over his mouth, coughing, eyes streaming tears. He saw her and lifted his weapon, aiming at her and firing.

The bullet cut the smoke-filled air and slammed into Christie’s faceshield. With her adrenaline-spiked senses, she saw the bullet slap into the bulletproof polymer, hoped that the round wasn’t dead-on and fired her own weapon at the man’s hand covering his mouth. Her head snapped back, driving her backward a step. When she recovered, she looked around for the man and saw him still falling, a hole in his hand and blood rushing from his mouth as his eyes glazed.

Sirens shrilled out on the street, letting her know that the Washington, D.C. PD had arrived in record time. Christie figured maybe her dad had alerted some of his buddies to be prepared to roll immediately.

Then, over the WAM-ball view, she saw Dalton lurch to his feet unsteadily and get Michael moving toward the door. Evidently he’d decided to get the boy clear before anyone thought to use them against Christie.

One of the Bronze Tigers stepped through the smoke, saw Dalton escaping, then raised an alarm and his assault rifle. Turning instantly, Christie lifted her pistols and fired at the man, chopping him down before he could shoot. Two more Bronze Tigers stepped clear as well, and Christie killed one of them with head shots before her weapons blew back empty.

Gathering herself, she ran and leaped, delivering a flying kick to the man that snapped his neck and sent him down. She rolled and got to her feet as Sammy Bao emerged from the swirling smoke.

Stains from the smoke coated his electric-blue suit and his face. Dust coated the lenses of his wraparound sunglasses. He lifted his pistols and fired at her.

Suppressing the instinctive urge to duck for cover, knowing she was the only thing standing between Dalton and the boy, Christie ignored the thundering thumps that hammered her chest and faceshield, tilting her head so the chances of catching a bullet full-on was practically nil. Her faceshield shattered, holding together but filling her vision with cracks.

Bao’s pistols blew back empty before she reached him. She threw herself forward into a slide, choosing to stay low rather than go into the air where Bao’s greater size and strength could give him an advantage. She took his feet out from under him with her legs, spilling him to the ground.

She rolled, coming up at once as Bao did the same. The sirens continued screaming outside.

Circling to the right, keeping her hands up in front of her face, careful not to step on any of the dead bodies surrounding her, Christie watched Bao.

“It’s over, Bao,” she said.

“Not over,” he spat. He reached under his jacket and took out a knife, flicking it open with quick movements to bare the blade.

“You lost,” Christie said. “You lost the device and your hold on Dr. Reynolds. You lost face, too.”

Bao smiled at her. “Then I’ll wear yours.” He lunged at her, swiping at her throat with the blade.

Instinctively, she dodged back. When she did, she stepped into a spinning sidekick that felt like it took her head off her shoulders. Recovering, she found that the faceshield had broken into pieces and the Kevlar helmet
had slid sideways on her head. Still backing away, she loosened and removed the helmet, holding it by the straps. When Bao lunged again, she sidestepped and swung the helmet, catching his arm and knocking the knife from his hand.

Then he was on her, punching, kicking and blocking with his legs as she tried to hold him back. He was too big, too powerful and as quick as she was. For a few seconds, it was everything she could do to simply stay alive. And time was running out. She knew the adrenal pump was running out and would leave her defenseless.

Bao wouldn’t care if she were unable to protect herself. It would only make her easier to kill.

The only thing she had going for her was technique. Bao was used to using his size, his speed and his strength, against opponents. Christie blocked a head punch with a forearm sweep, then jabbed him in the face, rocking his head back. She countered a leg sweep, danced out of the way and caught him with a roundhouse kick to the back of the head. Again and again, she managed to break his attack and sting him, but she might as well have been a mosquito for all the damage she was able to inflict. In time, she’d wear him down, but time was working against her. Once the adrenal pump emptied, she was finished.

Bao growled angrily, deep in his chest, and rushed in with his arms thrown forward. In the WAM-ball, she saw herself picked up and thrown back against the wall. Cracked plaster rained down around them, tainting the smoke-laden air with white dust.

He locked his hands around her throat and squeezed. She started choking at once. Spots filled her vision till she was blind. She turned her full at
tention to the WAM-ball feed and saw Bao choking the life from her, on the verge of snapping her neck as he forced her head backward. He’d wedged his body between her legs, forcing her back against the wall so she couldn’t kick him or gain any real leverage, using his greater strength and size for all that it was worth.

She clapped her hands against the sides of his head, bursting his eardrums. But he didn’t release her even though blood streamed from both ears. Curling her forefinger over her middle finger, stiffening them both, she brought her right arm beneath his left, then struck as hard as she could.

Her fingers penetrated Bao’s left eye. Blood covered her hand.

For a moment she didn’t think even that was going to stop him. He remained locked on to her. Then Bao toppled, dead before he hit the ground.

Christie tried to catch herself and remain standing, but her legs didn’t work and she fell in a heap. Feeling the payback in her system already beginning, she managed to force herself into a sitting position with her back against the wall. She sat in front of Bao’s corpse, with a room full of dead Bronze Tigers all over.

She was still there when the Washington, D.C.S.W.A.T. teams arrived to take charge of the scene.

Movement caught her attention at the corner of her eye. She lifted one of the pistols, holding it in a trembling hand.

“Chace!” It was Dalton, barely managing under his own power. His face was grim, smudged and bloody.

She put the pistol down as Dalton stumbled for her. She knew he wasn’t going to make it. Forcing herself
up, she caught him as he started to fall. Only her Enhanced strength kept them from toppling.

“Knew I could count on you,” he whispered. Then he exhaled and went limp.

Tears filled Christie as she laid Dalton on the floor and started C.P.R.
Damn you, Dalton!
she thought.
Don’t you die on me!

She kept at it till the EMTs arrived and pushed her away.

S
till bruised and battered, sunglasses and a Braves baseball hat concealing some of the damage, Christie sat in the lower deck at the Atlanta baseball field along the third baseline. Three days of healing, and a constant series of interrogations and follow-up investigations, and she still looked like hell. The bruises were starting to fade, though. And D.O. Fielding, instead of writing her up for attempting the rescue solo, had ordered her to take a few days off.

Dalton sat beside her. Like her, he was dressed casually, wearing jeans, a pullover and tennis shoes. His right arm was in a sling and he limped on his right leg. He’d worn a Kevlar vest to the ransom meet, but he’d still suffered four bullet wounds. His doctor hadn’t wanted him moving around much, but Dalton was Dalton and he decided he was fit enough to attend the game.

“Regretting being the tough guy?” Christie asked. “Thinking maybe you should have stayed in the hospital or checked into a hotel room?” The baseball game had been his idea, just to get outside once he was released from medical. Personally, she thought he was pushing it, but during the past few days of visiting him in his hospital room, she’d learned that he was an incredibly resilient guy.

And part of him, she felt certain, hadn’t wanted to be alone while he faced losing Michael. Neither of them had been able to get in touch with Dr. Reynolds.

“I’m not the tough guy,” Dalton said behind his wraparound sunglasses. “You took out Bao and his guys. I just picked up your slack.”

“You kept Michael safe.”

Dalton frowned, and the expression pulled at the bandage on his face. A plastic surgeon had had to put his left cheekbone and face back together. “I shouldn’t have ever let him get that vulnerable.”

“That wasn’t your fault. You did what you could.” Christie stopped herself from telling him that if anyone was culpable in the boy’s kidnapping, Dr. Reynolds had been. Since she’d gotten her son back safely three days ago, Dr. Reynolds had agreed to relocation. Christie still didn’t feel overly charitable toward the woman. Grace Reynolds hadn’t come to see Dalton while he’d been in the hospital. Neither had Michael.

“Still haven’t found out who hired the Bronze Tigers?” Dalton asked.

“Not yet. We will. It’s a matter of time. The Bronze Tigers, though, have become persona non grata. They’re all in the process of being rounded up and bounced as undesirable aliens. That will help level the field. For a while.”

Dalton craned his head around with difficulty, searching back up in the stands.

Christie took his hand in hers and squeezed gently. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispered. In the past few days of being around him, of talking about Michael and Mac and the other things he’d talked about while on painkillers, she’d gotten closer to him. Whatever was
going on between them, even though she was afraid of putting a name to it, it was real and solid—the beginning of something wonderful. She didn’t know how far it would go, but she was willing to go the distance.

Dalton felt the same way. She could see it in his eyes, and feel it—like now as he held her hand—in his touch. He just didn’t trust life as much as she did. But that was fine because she was patient.

“I thought your dad was going to join us,” Dalton said. He’d gotten to meet Wallace Chace in the hospital.

“He is,” Christie said.

“He’d better hurry or he’s going to miss the opening pitch.”

And then Christie saw her father coming down the steps. He towered and stood out among the crowd, something he’d always done. With his size, he made the small boy at his side look even smaller.

Michael Reynolds, dressed in his Braves uniform and wearing his baseball hat, looked anxiously through the crowd as he held on to the big man’s hand.

“Michael,” Dalton whispered, pushing up from the seat. He had some difficulty with the wounded leg.

Then Michael saw him and came flying down the steps. In another heartbeat, Dalton had his arms wrapped around the boy’s shoulders. After a moment, when Michael released him, Dalton looked up at Wallace.

“I found him at the airport wandering around,” Wallace said. “I couldn’t very well just leave him there, now could I?”

“You managed this?” Dalton asked.

“I still have a few strings I can pull now and again,” Wallace said. “And I came from a big family, raised a big family.” He shrugged. “I know how to negotiate
when it comes to family. I talked to Dr. Reynolds and pointed out that Michael needed you. My daughter thought you did. And I thought so, too.” He smiled. “You and Michael will get to see each other on a regular basis. Who knows, maybe Dr. Reynolds will decide she needs her security chief back when he gets on his feet.”

They sat and Dalton looked at Christie in surprise. “You kept this a secret.”

“I,” Christie told him triumphantly, “keep the best secrets.” But it had been hard.

Dalton took her hand, squeezed it warmly, then leaned over and kissed her. She kissed back, lost in the moment and the excitement she felt in him.

“Dalton,” Michael whispered on the other side of Dalton, “is she your girlfriend?”

Dalton pulled back and looked at Christie, smiling. “Yeah. She is.”

“Cool,” Michael said.

Christie sat next to Dalton and snuggled in close when he wrapped his uninjured arm around her shoulders. His breath felt warm against her hair. Seconds later, the announcer asked the crowd to stand for “The Star-Spangled Banner” and she stood with Dalton with their caps over their hearts. Before she could sit down, Dalton turned her to face him.

“Thanks,” he said. “For being here.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her, tilting her face up to meet his. She wrapped her arms behind his neck and held on to him, surprised at his strength and the intense way he made her feel.

“Guys,” Michael whispered. “This is a baseball game. Uh…guys? Everybody’s staring.”

Looking away from Dalton, Christie saw that one of
the audience cams had locked on to them. They stood embracing and kissing for the whole ballpark to see on the holograph above centerfield.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” Christie said.

“Do you think so?” A playful smile pulled at Dalton’s wounded face.

Before she could say a thing, he took her into his arms and kissed her again. She fought back, but it wasn’t much of a fight.