Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(54)
“Get Ozzie on the phone!” Boss bellowed, wrestling the truck around another curve, shifting like a racecar driver. “Tell him to have the garage door up and ready. We’re coming in hot!”
Chapter Fourteen
Pain.
That was Rock’s entire world. Pain in his shoulders where they were wrenched behind his back. Pain in his nose where Ghost had inadvertently ground his face into the dirt road back at the park. Pain in his hands as the pickup slammed into another curve and, unable to control his momentum, he rolled onto them, squashing them between his ass and the corrugated metal of the truck bed.
Pain in his heart…
“I’m gonna have to cut you loose!” Bill yelled from beside him, and, just like that, all his maladies were forgotten. Had he convinced Bill he wasn’t screwing around? That letting him go was the only way to keep everyone safe? His heart soared with relief, only to come crashing back to Earth when Bill continued, “We’ve got the CIA on our tail, which means we need all hands on deck!” The truck swerved into another curve, and Bill squeezed him tightly, trying to keep them both from doing the whole slide-and-slam routine against the top of the rusted wheel well. “We can’t fight with you hog-tied!”
Fight…
They were determined to fight the CIA.
For him.
Goddamnit!
The military had a warm and fuzzy acronym to describe this situation. FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all recognition. Because not only were the Knights now involved in this god-awful mess, but it also appeared his worst nightmare was coming true. The stupid, loyal connards were determined to put their reputations, their freedom, and more than that, their very lives on the line.
For him.
He wanted to howl with frustration and fear, just have himself a good ol’ fashioned tantrum. But he’d already indulged in that, and look where it’d gotten him. Exactly where he’d always sworn he’d never be…
As Bill sliced through the zip ties shackling his hands before scooting down to tackle the bindings at his feet, Rock wondered if it was possible just to jump out and save everyone the trouble.
If he died on impact with the road, so be it. At least his friends would be alive.
And if he didn’t? Well, undoubtedly he’d be in the hands of the CIA, which was as good as dead since they considered him a rogue operator and traitor. But again, his friends would be alive…
So as the world around him exploded into chaos, as Boss continued to drive like a madman—about three times faster than anyone should attempt on this winding, mountainous road—and as some stern-sounding voice echoed through a loudspeaker and up into the canopy of trees, “Pull your vehicles to the side of the road unless you want us to open fire!” everything inside Rock screeched to a standstill.
His decision was made.
And even though it meant Rwanda Don would remain at large, even though it meant he’d never clear his name and that Fred Billingsworth’s real murderer would go unpunished, nothing mattered except the men with whom he’d he spilled countless drops of blood—an ocean of blood. And, as if in agreement of his decision, every scar on his body ached in memory.
Knife wounds, bullet wounds, broken bones. The Knights had been there through it all. Carried him when they needed to, donated blood when they had to, and always, always risking everything they had in order to ensure he made it out of every grisly, gut-wrenching situation alive.
But not this time.
This time he’d brought trouble down on himself, and he’d be damned if he’d let the Knights give up their reputations, their lives for him.
Oui, he was going to do this. The instant his ankles were free, he pushed to his knees and, holding onto the edge of the truck bed, managed to clamber unsteadily to his feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bill yelled, looking up at him in alarm, trying to scramble into a kneeling position even as the truck rocked and bounced.
“Tell everyone I’m sorry!” Rock said, planting one of his jungle boots on the side of the bed, wishing that he could see Boss and Becky grinning at each other with love in their eyes just one more time, wishing he could taste some of Shell’s homemade pasta, or…or hear the husky timbre of excitement and desire in Vanessa’s sweet voice when she spoke to him.
He took out the memory of the two of them locked together back on that narrow access road, mouths fused, hands hungry and searching, and held it close, held it in his mind’s eye. Reveling one last time in the feel of the humid Costa Rican air tunneling through his hair just like her soft fingers had done, sucking in the tart smell of damp foliage and wild orchids that reminded him of her salty sweet taste. Through the truck’s back windshield, he saw the back of her messy, dark head, realized it was the last time he’d likely lay eyes on her, and lamented the fact that he’d yelled at her earlier.
She’d only done what she thought was right. What he’d have done if the situation were reversed…
“Tell Vanessa I’m sorry and I understand why she did it!” he yelled as he made his final peace and allowed his muscles to bunch. The next instant, he pushed off the truck with everything he had.
But instead of going airborne, instead of the whole human-flight-that-would-inevitably-result-in-a-deadly-crash move he’d planned, he found himself being slammed onto his back in the middle of the truck bed, Bill’s hand clutching his waistband, the man’s face looming above him and contorted with fury.