Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(55)

“What the hell’s the matter with you!” Bill roared, eyes filled with rage and disbelief even as they slid and smacked against the top of the wheel well—bam! Rock’s ribcage felt that one—when Boss raced into another curve.

“Let me go!” he shoved at Bill frantically, wondering idly if he had a cracked rib. It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I won’t be able to live with myself if—”

But that’s as far as he got, because huge vacation houses appeared to the right of them and that deep voice once more sounded over the loudspeaker, “This is your last warning! Pull over or we will open fire!”

And a solution suddenly presented itself. Rock didn’t like it, but he’d take it.

Snatching one of his SIGs from where Bill had stored it in his waistband after disarming him, Rock pressed the cold circle of the barrel it into the man’s thigh. “If I have to shoot you in the leg in order for you to let me go I will,” he promised.

“You’re too late!” Bill grinned gleefully, and the next thing Rock knew, the truck was shifting down through the gears, the tires screaming against the asphalt, and he was sliding up the truck bed and crashing into the cab. He barely had time to gather his wits before Boss executed a hard right, gunning it one last time and then slamming on the brakes.

The truck came to a shuddering halt inside a well-appointed garage. A split second later, Ghost and Steady screamed to a stop on their right, and the garage door rolled down behind them.

Tick, tick, tick…

That’s all that could be heard for a few interminable seconds. Just the loud clicking of the overheated engines once Boss and Ghost switched off the ignitions. Stars spun in front of Rock’s eyes from the introduction his skull had had with the truck cab. It was very shades of Wile E. Coyote after the Roadrunner dropped an anvil on his head and, oui, he’d obviously watched way too many cartoons as a kid. But when he managed to blink them away and push up into a kneeling position, it was to find Ozzie standing by the door that led into the house, one hand on the control for the garage door opener, the other gently cradling an Mk-43 Mod 1 machine gun like a mother cradles a baby.

And the kid was grinning from ear to ear.

“Boy, is it ever good to have you back, Rock,” he said, chuckling. “Things were getting mighty dull without you.”

***

“They’re holed up in Ms. Edens’s vacation house,” the CIA agent relayed, causing Rwanda Don to sit forward, heart beating out a too-fast rhythm, breath coming in short, staccato bursts that resulted in the cell phone slipping.

Fumbling with it, R.D. managed to get it back in place before, “Is he with them? Rock? Is he with them? Did they get visual confirmation?”

Jesus. Get a hold of yourself. You’re blathering like an idiot.

R.D. forced a little self-control, as much as was possible given the situation, and leaned back in the leather chair.

“Affirmative.” Hearing that one word had R.D.’s breath rushing out silently and relief washing like a benediction through clenched muscles. “Babineaux was spotted standing in the back of the truck bed before the vehicle disappeared inside Ms. Edens’s garage. The team on site is doing their best to surround the house, but there aren’t enough of them. So we’re waiting on the choppers to pick up the two units still in the Cloud Forest and bring them back to San Jose. Once that’s done, offensive maneuvers will commence.”

Offensive maneuvers that likely would not have been needed if that stupid CIA observation team had stayed put, like R.D. had advised, instead of chasing after the two women!

Damnit! It was days like this that made R.D. happy to no longer be a part of The Company.

Bumbling imbeciles…

Of course, now was not the time for I told you so.

“You realize the Knights have friends in high places, too. They could call in—”

“They won’t be calling anyone,” the agent interrupted. “The observation team has activated the cell phone jammer. It’ll be nothing but hiss and static over the airwaves around that place.”

Good. That was good. So no more of Rock’s friends and colleagues would be racing to the rescue.

“You mentioned offensive maneuvers. What, exactly, will those entail?” R.D. asked anxiously.

This thing needed to be over. The sooner, the better. And then things could start getting back to normal. Well…the new normal. Because with Rock out of the picture, The Project, R.D.’s baby for the last half decade, was officially dead.

But maybe, just maybe, if everything continued to work according to plan, there would be a resurrection of it one day. All it would take was a tiny policy change, and The Project could once more be breathed to life. But that required the party nomination, which required campaign funds, which required—

Christ. It was all so complicated and messy.

“It’s simple,” the agent interrupted R.D.’s spinning thoughts. “Either Babineaux gives himself up without a fight, or the CIA teams storm the castle, killing everyone inside. After all, as far as the CIA knows, they are aiding and abetting a rogue operator and known serial killer.”

Serial killer…

If The Company only knew the caliber of men Rock had supposedly murdered, they’d likely saint him instead of sacrifice him.

R.D. leaned forward once more, picking up the end ball on the stainless steel Newton’s cradle sitting at the edge of the maple wood desk. It’d been a gift from a grateful patient—the Newton’s cradle, not the desk. And, unlike the other gifts received over the years, this one hadn’t been thrown directly in the trash.