Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(60)

And, yeah, who wouldn’t be pale? He was about to turn himself over to the CIA as a traitor, and The Company wasn’t exactly known for its leniency toward traitors.

Pale, but clean, she noted distractedly. At some point he’d washed off most off the mud and grime they’d accumulated from their trek through the jungle, and she didn’t doubt that was because he figured he was in for a very long, very rigorous examination—both mental and physical—and why add sweat and dirt to the discomforts he was sure to suffer at the CIA’s hands?

He’d traded in his tank top for a loose, gray T-shirt, which only emphasized how much weight he’d lost over the last few months. He’d definitely been running on empty when she found him.

But at least he’d still been running, that taunting voice whispered.

A hard sob shook her as she watched him take a step forward at Agent Wilhelm’s command. Then a gunshot rang out, loud and shockingly obscene. It was followed by three more in quick succession, and that’s when her world ended…

***

When the first charge blew, Rock didn’t need to pretend to stagger back as blood sprayed out from his chest and up into his face. The C4 packed quite a little punch and, even though they’d put protective tape beneath the cap containing the small amount of explosive and a good amount of his blood, it still managed to sear his skin.

The second and third blasts were a little harder to fake, but he did his best.

Of course, the fourth shot caught him completely off guard and had him landing flat on his back with a loud umph. His left ear felt like it’d been sheered clean off the side of his head.

Had Ghost decided to take one real shot? Make it count? Maybe to help Rock out with his bid for an Academy Award? If so, Rock was certainly going to give the man a piece of his mind, because…

Merde.

He’d didn’t remember the part where he signed up to be Picasso.

Then again, going through the rest of his life minus one ear was a small price to pay if this thing actually worked. And that was the last thought he had before utter confusion exploded around him.

Suddenly Boss was screaming, “You bastards promised not to shoot!” at the same time Agent Wilhelm shouted, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Which one of you *s is firing!”

And Vanessa?

Well, Vanessa was just screaming her head off. Even through all the pandemonium, Rock could hear the agony in her wail as Boss hooked strong hands beneath his armpits and, with a mighty heave that had every single one of Rock’s sore muscles protesting, began hauling him back into the house. He let his head loll back on his neck, kept himself completely boneless. And once the soles of his boots cleared the threshold, Steady, ready and waiting at his predetermined spot, slammed the door shut with a loud bang.

Then it was Ozzie’s turn in this little sideshow they’d scripted. The kid, after receiving his cue from Boss, squirted some of the blood Steady had drawn from Rock’s vein not more than thirty minutes ago onto the floor. Boss dragged Rock back through it, creating a huge bloody trail indicative of a man who’d just sustained three shots to center mass and a fourth one—four, really?—to the head. At the designated location, about fifteen feet down the hall and mostly concealed by the partition leading into the kitchen where they’d faked a humongous pool of blood, Boss dropped him.

Rock opened one eye, caught the concerned look on Boss’s face, and gave him a thumbs-up. The C4 had managed to singe him, and he thought he smelled the pungent aroma of burning hair—which told him they should have shaved his chest before taping the explosives on—but, other than that and the god-awful ringing and burning in his ear, he appeared to be in one piece.

Huh….

He hadn’t really believed it would work. Then again, Wild Bill Reichert did know more about the esoteric use of all things that go boom than any man in the world.

Agent Wilhelm’s voice sounded again over the loudspeaker, only this time he was relaying his intention to enter the premises and ascertain the condition of the rogue operator.

Rogue. Rock detested that word. It was synonymous with a cheater, a blackguard. And, while technically he was operating outside of orders—had been for the last six months—none of those descriptions accurately portrayed him.

“Come on in, you sonofabitch!” Boss shouted after he’d run back to the door, throwing it wide open. Rock figured now was the time to pull out his best Meryl Streep as a beam of golden sunlight slipped in through the opening, highlighting the back of his head where he lay in that sticky pool of fake blood and…

Sweet Lord. The sound Vanessa made when she saw him.

He was certain he’d hear it in his nightmares from this day forward. Because if heartbreak, guilt, denial, and grief all combined together into one huge, ugly lump, it would make the awful noise tearing out of Vanessa’s ravaged throat.

It’s not real, chere.

But for her, unfortunately, it was. And there was nothing he could do to reassure her. In fact, he felt a little guilty when it occurred to him that the scene she was causing likely went a long way in helping convince the CIA that what they’d just witnessed was, indeed, his death.

And, as if Boss could read his thoughts, the big guy continued yelling, “You’ve killed him!” And even though Rock had his eyes closed, he imagined Boss was standing in the doorway like an avenging angel, all two hundred forty pounds of pissed-off operator, puffed up and looking ready to shoot someone. “You might as well come and see your handiwork!”