Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(45)

She leaped up. “Hold on. Wait! I’m getting off here!”

The driver accelerated and cleared the end of the terminal, easing the bus into the chute of an exit ramp. No escape.

“Too late,” he said, his voice faintly triumphant. “You can get off at the next terminal, or you can make the loop.”

Tam sank back down into her seat, jaw clenched, and fought with the urge to panic. She murmured something senseless but soothing to Rachel’s inquisitive babble, and she started rummaging in the diaper bag for her jewelry case. Her hands were cold, shaking.

She was an idiot for having put Rachel into this situation. For not finding a solution sooner, not doing the hard, necessary thing before it came to this. There were some possibilities in her purse, but she disliked the thought of spraying toxic substances in an enclosed area near Rachel. She identified each by touch, discarding one after the other as too risky. The barrette she currently wore was her best bet. It was a small dose, and just a soporific, not a poison or a corrosive, if Rachel should accidently take a hit.

She pulled it out of her hair, positioned it between her fingers.

Maybe she was being paranoid, she thought. These men might just be mercenaries off to Iraq or Afghanistan. Men like that tended to have that hard, suspicious vibe. They kept to themselves, traveled light.

Yeah, right. Her stomach churned. Rachel picked up on Tam’s unease, and went very quiet, clutching Tam’s collar with damp, clammy kitten claws.

Thick Neck slid across his seat, across the aisle, and into the seat behind them. He leaned on the back of their seat, grinning.

Adrenaline ramped up in her overloaded system. Her hand tightened on the barrette. Thick Neck fluttered blunt, bolt-knuckled red fingers at Rachel. “Hi there, cutie,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Tam gave him a big, sweet, sudden-death smile. Rachel dove for cover in her bosom. He watched appreciatively. “Nice,” he said.

“She doesn’t like strangers,” Tam said.

“She’ll like me when she gets used to me,” Thick Neck said.

The hell she will, shithead, she told him with her eyes. “Why don’t you just piss off?” she suggested sweetly.

The segue into doom had been so smooth, she wasn’t even surprised when the SIG with the silencer rose up, cleared the top of the seat, and pointed at the back of Rachel’s curly head.

The guy clicked his tongue. “Rude,” he whispered. “Now listen to me, bitch. Do exactly what I tell you. Move real slow, and don’t make a sound. I’ll let you just imagine what’ll happen if you don’t, because I don’t want to have to say it in front of the little cutie-pie. Got me?”

Tam’s eyes darted around the bus. The men who’d gotten in after Thick Neck watched what was happening with expressionless faces. Patchouli Pothead dozed blissfully on, head lolling, mouth slack.

“Listen good. Put the kid down real slow on the seat,” Thick Neck whispered. “Then stand up. Turn your back to me, and put both hands behind your back. Slow…slow. Barker, get over here with those cuffs. Wow, they didn’t tell me you were so hot. Look at those tits. We’re going to have to get to know each other, beautiful. Those tits are special.”

Tam put Rachel down on the seat, detaching tiny, clinging hands from her hair. “Listen, baby,” she whispered in Ukrainian. “These men are bad. Slide off the seat and onto the floor, and stay way down. Can you do that for Mamma?”

“Shut up, bitch. Speak English,” Thick Neck growled.

“Shut up, and speak English?” she murmured. “Neat trick.”

He scowled. “I said, shut up!”

Rachel stared up into Tam’s face, her dark eyes huge, and slid like a boneless little eel down into the dark well between the seats. Brilliant, smart, good girl, yes, yes, yes. Tam silently cheered. To hell with the stupid doctors who’d warned her that Rachel probably had brain damage. The kid was smart as a whip. She made Tam proud.

“What’s the kid doing?” Thick Neck whispered furiously. “I didn’t tell her to get on the ground! Get her back up onto the seat. Now. Hey!”

Patchouli Pothead exploded into movement with a shout. A silenced gun went off—thhtp. Tam took advantage of Thick Neck’s distraction, whipped her arm up under his gun hand, knocked it upward. She squirted the barrette straight into his face.

Thick Neck’s gun went off. The window next to them shattered. The shuttle veered on the road, bounced against the guardrails, scraping and fishtailing. “What the flying f*ck?” The driver lurched to a shuddering, squealing stop. He turned, and gaped.

“Drive, you dumb f*ck!” Polar Fleece guy snarled. “Move!”

Thhtp. Another silenced gunshot. Thick Neck blinked stupidly, started to sag. One down, thank God.

“Get down!” Patchouli Pothead was shouting frantically, and she realized, startled, that he, too, had a gun. “Mettiti giù, cazzo!”

Holy shit, it was Janos. He squeezed off another shot, ducked as Sweat Shirt popped up and took a shot at him. Crash, tinkle, another window. She dove into the aisle. Thhtp. The driver looked surprised, put his hand up to the hole that appeared in his throat. Blood welled thickly through his fingers. He flopped forward at the waist and dangled like a doll over the gearshift.

Two more shots. What seemed like a panting eternity of silence followed them. She huddled, plastered to the plastic carpet runner.