Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 3

  Sam drove slowly past the parking lot toward the private jet holding area. Despite the lateness of the hour, the airport, surrounded on three sides by the black waters of Guanabara Bay, was reasonably well lit. Two heavily-armed men stepped into the perimeter of her headlights, gesturing for her to stop.

  “Talon, I’m being stopped one klick east of the farthest runway. Two hostiles.”

  “Roger that,” Talon replied, “I’ve got eyes on you.”

  “I’m leaving the headlights on and putting the phone in my pocket so you can hear me, but we’re going radio silent. Remember: Stick to the plan. Take me out as soon as the exchange is done. But if something happens to Carey, you know what to do.”

  “Wilco,” Talon answered with his voice deadly soft.

  Sam took a deep breath and slipped her phone into the breast pocket of her cargo vest before stopping the car. She opened the door, stepped out slowly, and held her arms up as she walked into the beam of her headlights. When the men saw she was holding a semiautomatic in one upturned hand, they immediately raised their guns.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” she called out, her voice supplicating. “I’m just showing you that I’m putting my weapon down on the ground.” She knelt slowly, carefully, laying her gun on the asphalt. She looked up at the man closest to her. He held an assault rifle toward her face as he quickly advanced, kicking the gun away. She estimated that he was in his mid-twenties, clearly military trained. He had the complexion and coloring of a South American. The man behind him was taller and black.

  “I have another gun in my ankle holster,” Sam told them calmly, reaching for it cautiously. “I’m going to take it out slowly and put it on the ground, alright?” The South American advanced closer, his finger on the trigger. “Be easy. Easy,” she implored softly. “I just want my partner back. I’m not here to cause trouble.” Sam repeated her intent in Portuguese as she pulled the pistol from her ankle holster. As soon as the pistol touched the ground, the man kicked it away. Sam yanked her hand back, narrowly avoiding his boot.

  She prayed that making a show of relinquishing her guns would prevent them from searching her. Slowly, she stood, waiting for further instructions as she looked beyond both men toward the holding area. She saw four—no, six—additional men step from the darkness of the low-lying buildings and the cover of parked aircraft.

  The man closest to her stepped behind her, ready to urge her ahead, but she moved forward before he could jab her with the muzzle of his rifle. She followed the black guard as he moved swiftly toward the group of men waiting. As she watched them watch her, Sam registered the throaty rumble of a twin engine jet flying overhead. She glanced up, catching the wing lights of a private plane as it veered right from Sugarloaf Mountain, heading toward the runway closest to the water. She wondered if Lucien had been circling the airport while waiting for her to arrive. It was a smart move—the easiest way to keep Carey captive and away from any rescue attempts until she’d arrived.

  “Tricky motherfucker,” she muttered under her breath as she watched the Learjet descend.

  The guards frog-marched her toward the runway as the jet touched down and taxied toward them. The light was dim, but there was still enough visibility to see the jet’s tail number as it neared. Sam prayed Talon had a clear shot from wherever he’d decided to roost.

  She’d met him, Simon, and Henri at a rally point a couple miles back, dropping off Wes and Rush before they went to work on recon with the rest of the group. Sam had waited on the side of the road, listening in while they surveyed the perimeter of the airport, relaying status updates on what they were seeing until it was time for her to pull into Lightner’s trap.

  As the plane halted less than thirty yards out, the door opened, and a beefy armored guard emerged first, carrying a MAC-10. Carey followed, his hands bound behind his back, his massive shoulders hunched, expression stony as he stared out over the tarmac. He’d taken a few blows to the face, but he wasn’t as badly worked over as she’d expected him to be. That told her something about Lightner. He must have taken Carey by surprise, or he’d threatened Carey with something so significant, he hadn’t fought against the capture. Another tall guard with dirty-blonde hair and a distinctly Slavic look descended behind Carey, but there was no Lightner. Sam’s body tensed.

  “Where’s your boss?” she called out, drawing their attention. The men turned to her. Sam forced a look of annoyed boredom.

  The blonde guard behind Carey stepped forward, holding a phone to his ear. He had a deep scar on the side of his face and the iciest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She guessed he was Russian, possibly Eastern European. When he opened his mouth, Sam realized her first guess had been correct.

  “Mr. Lightner would like to speak with you,” he told her in heavily-accented English, holding out the phone. Sam accepted it slowly, pressing the speaker button so Carey and her guys would be able to hear.

  “Thought we had ourselves a little date, Lightner,” she remarked, her eyes on the Russian, “I’m not the kind of girl who appreciates being stood up.”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine you are,” Lightner replied easily, his British accent crisp. “But I’m also not the kind of man who appreciates being lied to.”

  “Really? Then you must never speak to your wife.”

  The Russian smirked at her reply.

  Sam looked over his shoulder to Carey. He shook his head ever so slightly. Lightner wasn’t on the jet. Her fingers tightened around the phone.

  There wouldn’t be a trade, she realized.

  They’d kill Carey and take her.

  Lightner’s responding chuckle was mirthless. “I heard you had a quick tongue, but I know you have an even quicker mind,” he answered silkily. “How many men do you have breaching Santos Dumont right now? Four, maybe five?” he asked.

  Eight. Nine, if you included Wes.

  “You’re making it harder on yourself than it needs to be,” Lightner continued.

  “I figure the only person making things hard for me right now is you, Lightner,” Sam replied. “So, if you’re not here to do the exchange, how did you envision this going down?”

  “My guards will accompany Carey to your vehicle, you’ll board the jet, and then they’ll release him. He drives off to enjoy his freedom and die another day.”

  Sam watched Carey as Lightner spoke. His blue eyes burned with frustration. She saw the muscles tense in his shoulders as he fought to maintain his rigid composure. He didn’t know what she had planned, but she doubted he’d like it any less than letting her get on that plane in his place.

  “Well, I know you’d hate to leave a lady disappointed,” Sam continued, “and since you’re not here, we could call this whole thing off. You let Carey and I walk, with the agreement that we don’t poach your talent or your clients unless they come to us on their own,” she offered amicably. “Though I do like the look of this Russian,” she remarked, eyeing him.

  He was tall, well over six feet, with an air of cruelty about him. She guessed he was Lightner’s ringleader for this particular circus. The Russian stared back, unblinking with the empty, deadly gaze of a born predator.

  “What’s that quaint American saying?” Lightner responded casually. “’No dice?’ Yes, that’s it. And I’d hate to disappoint Nazar after all the years he’s taken to find you. I did promise to deliver you on a silver platter, after all, and he’s such a good client,” Lightner confided. “Always pays on time, in full.”

  “And how do I know you’ll keep your word and not kill my partner?” she replied, eyes on the Russian.

  “You don’t,” Lightner answered easily.

  “You’ve got me over a barrel, Lightner,” Sam conceded, glancing around at the heavily-armed men surrounding her and Carey, presumably all former military, given their choice of equipment, highly-developed physiques, and their controlled, alert expressions.

  “Now, I’d rather not make a scene, so I’m going to ask for one amendment to your proposal or I won’t go lik
e a lady,” she told Lightner, trying to keep her voice casual, “I’ll kill or maim as many of your men here as I need to satisfy my ‘Hell hath no fury’ temperament and all that,” she added.

  “Says the unarmed scorned woman?” laughed Lightner.

  “There are ten men here that I can see,” she replied, “so you must have an idea of what I’m capable of.” She paused, and then added in Russian, “Beda nikogda ne prikhodit odna.”1

  Sam saw a momentary flash of amused admiration filter through those icy cold eyes.

  “Your Russian here has a nice AN-94 I’d like to add to my collection.” Sam knew the Nikonov mechanism of the AN-94 featured a two-burst function that allowed a second shot from the weapon to escape before the shooter even felt the recoil of the first. The Russian would be able to fire off two shots extremely close together, feasibly piercing through even the best body armor. The assault rifle was expensive and rare, issued only to Russian special forces; if she gave him the chance, he’d tear her in half right through the vest she was wearing.

  “And you amuse me, so let’s hear your request. I believe it’s customary to grant you one before you die.”

  “Carey is released first. I want to see him drive out of here with my own eyes. Then I get into the jet. No muss, no fuss.”

  The moment ticked past, drawn out by Lightner’s ensuing silence. Sam could have sworn she felt the men drawing closer to her, though they remained still, awaiting further instructions. “Do we have a deal?” she asked into the phone, eyeing the Russian.

  “Hand the phone back to Valery,” Lightner answered.

  “I want your word first,” she replied. “My daddy always told me a man’s word is his bond.”

  “Really? Mine always used to say, ‘A man’s character is defined by his actions.’”

  “So you really are an asshole then,” she countered blithely.

  “Naturally,” Lightner laughed. “How do you think I’ve gotten this far?”

  “Carey means nothing to you,” Sam pointed out. “Hurting him to punish me won’t be nearly as satisfying as what Nazar has planned for me,” she added. “No matter what, I’m a dead woman, and you’ll still get your payday. So please. I’m asking nicely. Grant me this one request.”

  Lightner remained silent for a moment.

  “I suppose I’m feeling a little good-natured, given the lateness of the hour. Very well, Ms. Wyatt. You will watch your partner get his pardon.”

  Sam sighed in relief. She held the mobile out and the Russian took it, taking it off speaker and holding it back to his ear. He muttered “yes” once, hung up, swung his hard gaze to the beefy guard closest to Carey and nodded. The guard stepped forward, prodding Carey forward with the tip of his 9mm.

  As Carey approached her, he took a deep breath. “Sammy—”

  “Go on to the car, Bear. Get the hell out of here,” she interrupted.

  Carey stopped, his throat choked as his eyes blazed with emotion.

  “Go on now,” Sam urged again, her own eyes burning. She blinked quickly, trying to remain stoic, turning away from him as the guard forced Carey past her. Two more guards followed him toward the SUV. The Russian watched the scene play out with disinterest.

  Sam noted the rest of the guards moving in toward the plane, tightening the circle around her. Her skin tingled with anticipation, heart pounding as she struggled to appear nonchalant.

  “He gets in the car unharmed, and I won’t cause you any problems,” Sam told the Russian, loud enough so the others could hear.

  The Russian didn’t respond, his attitude blasé.

  Sam turned, watching Carey make his way toward the SUV. As he moved to the driver’s side, the guard stopped him. Pulling out a serrated knife, he sliced the ropes binding Carey’s hands. Carey rubbed his wrists, looking past the guards toward her again.

  Sam nodded at him. “Go on,” she mouthed, praying she would see him again.

  As Carey turned to open the car door, the Russian looked down at her and said, “Tonul topor sulil, a kat vytschili i toporoscha zhal stalo.”2

  Sam’s eyes widened as she translated his comment.

  Valery called out to the guard who had just freed Carey, “Shoot him.”

  Sam spun as the guard lifted his 9mm and shot Carey in the chest, point blank.

  “NO!” she shouted. “NO!”

  In the split second that she saw blood blossom across Carey’s chest, Sam dropped to the ground, cradling her head. “Kill them,” she muttered hoarsely, her mouth close to the phone hidden in her vest. “Kill them all.”

  Sam heard the muted shots of the first and second bullets penetrating the skulls of the guards to her right. By the time the two men fell to the ground, Talon had picked off two more, a suppressor muffling the rifle blast, catching them unawares.

  As soon as the Russian saw the men drop, he reached forward and grabbed Sam’s hair, lifting her bodily as he used her for a human shield while he dragged her back toward the jet’s stairs. Gunfire enveloped them, and guards fell as her team opened fire in the surrounding darkness. Sam cried out as she felt her hair being torn by its roots; one hand struggled to get a grip on the Russian’s fist while her other hand reached for the knife she’d hidden in her belt. The moment she felt the handle, Sam begged him in distraction, “Please—don’t do this, please let me go…” she pleaded.

  The Russian grunted and jerked her back harder, straining her neck as he pulled her backwards. Sam used the momentum to swing the knife down, firmly planting the five-inch blade deep into his thigh. The Russian released a pained howl as he released her on a curse. Sam caught a glimpse of Rush rolling under the jet, its engines already powering up from standby. He crawled toward the landing gear with an explosive in his hand.

  Sam wrapped an arm around the back of the Russian’s legs as he stepped back, his hand gripping the blood-slicked knife handle. Before he managed to pull the knife out, Sam yanked him down, taking full advantage of his pained surprise. She drew the semiautomatic from the holster at his waist. Holding the gun under his chin, they locked eyes and Sam pulled the trigger, blowing off the top of his head. She watched the coldness in his gaze fade as what was left of his head lolled back. Blood, brain tissue, and bone splinters littered the tarmac behind him.

  She only just managed to roll to the side and lift the dead Russian over her as one of the guards trained his assault rifle on her. He squeezed off a shot that penetrated the Russian’s back and hit the Kevlar plate covering her sternum. Sam gasped in pain, the wind knocked out of her. She felt the blood from one of the bags she’d taped to her bulletproof vest oozing cold rivulets onto her stomach and arm.

  “Fuck—Sam! SAM!” She thought she heard Rush shout. “She’s down!”

  The guard advanced on her. Sam raised her arm under the heavy weight of the dead Russian and aimed the gun at the guard as the edges of her vision blurred from the pain and the lack of oxygen. Before she could get a shot off, he pulled the trigger again, and Sam felt another bullet slam against the vest like someone had hit her in the chest with a Louisville Slugger. Sam opened her mouth, struggling to breathe, unable to make a sound as her vision faded.

  As the guard approached and loomed over her with the rifle aimed at her face, his lip curled. Sam managed to suck in just enough air to focus. In that instant, years of training and tradecraft came to the fore. Her gaze sharpened and her hand swung up in a tight, deliberate arc.

  Sam squeezed the trigger and precision-nailed the guard in the throat a split second before he could react. Her head dropped back to the ground, body stiff with pain and shock from the hits. The last thing she saw before was her shooter’s eyes rolling back as he dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands clenched uselessly about his throat in the vain effort to hold back the blood gushing from his pharynx.

  “SAM!” Rush grasped the shoulders of her vest, dragging her from underneath the Russian. “Talk to me!”

  “Carey,” she whispered, the edges of her vision
beginning to twist and char as she faded to black.

  Carey…

  *

  September 1997

  Texas A&M University, College Station, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  He was standing behind a camera mounted on a tripod, taking pictures of students who were walking past the Corps Arches on their way to the quad, completely absorbed with whatever he was seeing through the viewfinder.

  It was an uncharacteristically windy day—the broad Texas sky darkened with an impending storm. Sam’s long hair whipped around her, and she tugged at it, wondering if he would glance across the grass and catch her staring. She half-wanted him to and at the same time… she hoped he wouldn’t so she could look her fill from a distance. She’d seen him before, usually completely absorbed in whatever he was seeing through the viewfinder, his focus absolute. And it made her wonder… what would it be like to be looked at like that? To be seen—really seen by this beautiful photographer?

  All her life, she’d been uncomfortable being looked at. She knew what people saw in her: unusual looks, a rough-and-tumble gamine from a ranch in the middle of nowhere, and if they recognized her, they saw the money, saw she was a Wyatt and made usually inaccurate assumptions about what that meant. In high school, girls wanted to take her down a notch and boys wanted to make her a notch, so Sam had taken to downplaying her presence early on, present but on the fray, observant without being engaged. When she came to A&M, like so many other students, she took the opportunity to reinvent herself. Samantha didn’t want to be known as Robert Wyatt’s eldest, didn’t want to be seen as a prize to win or a rich girl to suck up to.

  She joined the NROTC immediately, working quietly on her own merits, creating a separate identity, where she was known for her intelligence and her hard-work, on her willingness to go the distance. But if Sam was honest, it was easier that way; easier to avoid being seen for who she really was. Being asymmetrical to the slice of universe she inhabited was a form of its own protection. She wasn’t sucked into the day-to-day dramas. There were no fights with irate roommates, no whispered confidences with new friends, no walks of shame after fraternity parties. College felt almost experimental, as if she were watching from a distance, wondering what all the fuss was about. It never bothered her before—in fact, she preferred it.