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  He nods, solemnness filling his eyes. “Same. This is new territory for me.”

  “Is it real?” I ask. “Or do you think it’s because of the circumstances we’ve been thrust into?”

  Cruce peers over the water for a moment. I don’t take it as a means to be evasive. Merely a way to perhaps focus his thoughts.

  When his attention returns, it’s with a clarity I recognize. It’s the same expression he had on his face when he shot the man who was going to kidnap me. I can only assume it was the same when he saved my uncle’s life.

  Determination.

  Acceptance of an apparent truth.

  “It’s real,” he says. “As real as it can get between two people.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Barrett

  The minute Cruce’s hand covers my mouth, I instantly come awake. His other goes to my shoulder where he gives a gentle yet urgent-feeling squeeze. It’s dark and there’s just a small amount of moonlight filtering into the room through the open glass wall.

  His voice is low, barely a whisper, but I can hear something within it that makes my blood run cold. “Someone is on the property. The infra-reds have been tripped. I want you to get quietly out of bed and get your shoes on.”

  His meaning is clear. We’re going to make a run for it, and there isn’t time for anything but shoes. I’m only wearing one of his t-shirts. I don’t even have on panties. He has on nothing but a pair of boxers. It has to be serious if he’s willing to take flight like that.

  Cruce’s hand slides off my mouth, and he takes half a second to press a hard kiss on my lips, which reassures me a little. Then I follow his orders, quickly rolling out of the bed. We meet at the closet, silently putting on our tennis shoes in the moonlight.

  It’s as he’s reaching for his holster, which has a loaded gun within, that the bedroom door flies open. I can’t help the scream that comes from my mouth, but it’s cut short by Cruce pushing my chest hard and sending me back into the closet. I’m blinded by a flash of white light, an explosion rattling me so hard I fall to my knees.

  I immediately try to take stock of injuries, but I don’t hurt anywhere other than my ringing ears. I’m still blinded, so I assume it’s Cruce pulling me to feet. I’m so dizzy I start to sink again, feeling suddenly nauseous.

  Then I’m tossed up and over his shoulder. He takes off at a run out of the bedroom. Muffled sounds of what I think might be people shouting at each other tries to pierce through my panic. As I blink furiously, my vision starts to clear, even if it’s jumbled from Cruce’s hurried movements.

  I lift my head to look down the hallway toward the master bedroom, horrified to see Cruce stumbling out of it. He lurches all the way across the hall, careens into the wall, and stumbles back the other way. He has his gun in one hand, the other holding the side of his head, and I can’t tell if he’s injured or not.

  My hearing starts to clear just in time to experience Cruce’s roar of agonizing fury as he starts to run after us.

  Us?

  Who the hell has me?

  I start to struggle against whoever’s shoulder I’m tossed over, but the person is big and strong, and I’m not even fazing him. He’s also leaving Cruce behind, and my last glimpse is of him stumbling after us as the man sprints out the front door and moves quickly down the path to the beach.

  I dig my hands against my captor’s back and push up to look over my shoulder. Several black-dressed men run in front of him.

  Two others appear from the darkness on the path behind us. They are dressed in black, too, from head to toe and carry handguns.

  I scream for Cruce, but I know it’s fruitless. He’s one man against several, and he was clearly injured in that blast… whatever it was.

  It takes only moments before we emerge onto the beach. The men head straight for the dock and as I twist once again to see what we’re running toward, I’m stunned to spot a black inflatable boat with an engine. One of those military-types soldiers train in.

  “Get her in the boat,” someone yells, and the man carrying me dumps me unceremoniously inside. It’s a jarring fall, and my lower back hits something hard.

  I ignore it, immediately scrambling toward the edge with the intent to fling myself into the water.

  “Oh, no you don’t, princess,” someone says. A large hand is in my hair and yanking me back. When he lets go, it sends me sprawling, my t-shirt flying up to expose my nudity.

  I don’t even have time to be concerned about it, my only thought escape. Once again, I lunge for the side, only to be jerked back viciously by my hair again.

  “Try it again and I’m going to hit you,” the man promises.

  I rise to my knees, lose my balance as I’m still dizzy from that explosion, and press my hands into the bottom of the boat so I don’t face plant.

  I growl, “Fuck you.”

  His laugh is so sinister that my blood goes cold. “Later, princess. Promise.”

  Three men jump into the boat, taking positions around me.

  “Go, go, go,” someone yells, and I lift my head to see the last two men sprinting down the dock.

  A gunshot pierces the air, and one of them crumbles. The other doesn’t even slow, turning on the jets to reach the now-running boat. It starts to drift backward from the dock when another gunshot rings out.

  Eyes on the beach, I feel my heart miss a beat when I see Cruce running toward us. His feet hit the dock and he takes aim at the man just as he starts to launch himself off the edge toward the boat.

  Cruce squeezes the trigger without pausing in his chase. The man jerks sideways, his hand going to his shoulder. Twisting, he falls into the water.

  The large man beside me raises his own gun, aiming it right at Cruce, who’s now in a flat-out sprint to reach the end of the dock as the boat starts to pull away.

  “No,” I scream, launching myself at the man. I grab hold of his arm, jerking it down.

  He merely laughs, nodding at one of his teammates. I watch in horror as the man levels his gun, aims at Cruce, and fires off one shot.

  Horrified, I stare as Cruce launches his body off the dock toward us. I can’t tell if the bullet hits him or not. I only hear his soft grunt as his hands slap against the side of the boat, holding tight for just a moment.

  His gaze locks with mine, and it’s filled with fierce determination to save me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I scream at Cruce above the whine of the boat engine. “This is all my fault.”

  Whether he hears me or not, I don’t know. He hauls himself onto the edge of the boat, getting one shoulder up and over the inflatable as we continue to reverse away from the dock.

  The man who shot at him originally takes aim once again, right at Cruce’s head.

  “No,” I screech, now trying to lunge for that man. The gun goes off before I can make it to him, and when I whirl around to the front of the boat, Cruce is gone.

  I dash for the edge, intent on trying to leap over once again. I have to save Cruce.

  A large, meaty arm wraps around my middle and hauls me back. I strain against his hold, searching the darkened water as we pull away from the lighted dock. Cruce never reappears, and hot tears start leaking from my eyes.

  It doesn’t seem to register that I’ve been kidnapped, nor that I’m now heading off to a fate that could be worse than death.

  Doesn’t really matter, though.

  Not if Cruce is dead.

  “You’re a feisty one,” the man holding me says appreciatively. “But that spells problems down the road. You’re going to need to take a nap for me.”

  I have no clue what that means. I desperately search the water, seeing nothing but the wake left by the boat.

  And then I feel a small prick in my arm. I try to keep my eyes open, hoping to see Cruce’s head break the surface near the dock, but it’s receding from my view. Whatever that fucker just shot into me works fast, and my head lolls until it falls back on the man’s shoulder.

  “Blow it,” s
omeone says, and I wonder what that means.

  There’s an explosion, a wave of hot air caresses over me, and I watch almost dispassionately as the boat we’d had docked blazes into a ball of fire.

  I close my eyes and fall under, not really caring if I wake back up.

  ♦

  “Let’s go,” someone says from the doorway. I spin away from the window where I’d been thinking about Cruce.

  And crying.

  I can’t believe he’s dead. Part of me refuses to believe it, but the other part knows what I saw. My heart hurts so bad, and I feel like I’m dying.

  I’ve been in a beautiful bedroom in someone’s exceptionally expansive mansion. I’d woken up here a few hours ago, at least by account of the battery clock on the bedside table.

  I know I’m in a mansion because I can see out the bedroom window on the second floor, and I’m actually in a wing that juts off the main portion. There’s an identical wing on the far side, done in brown brick with cream trim. The grounds—rolling hills and pastures—look far-reaching and extensive, not another house in sight.

  I have no clue if I’m even in the United States, but the style of the house does seem to be typical American. In addition, my captors all had American accents so through my logic and deductive reasoning, I believe I’m on home soil.

  I recognize the man at my door. He’s big, burly, and dressed in camo fatigues with a black t-shirt. My guess is he’s former military, by virtue of his bearing and command, but the longer hair and goatee means he’s private contract.

  He’s the man who had threatened to hit me, and he shot Cruce as he was hanging on the edge of the boat. He’s scarier in daylight, with a jagged scar running down from the bottom of his right eye to his jawline.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, crossing my arms over my stomach in stubborn refusal to be a good prisoner.

  “We’re going to ‘shut the fuck up and obey me or I will hurt you,’” he growls, then points toward the door. “Now let’s go.”

  I believe him. I believe he’ll hurt me. By the look in his eyes, it’s obvious he’d relish it.

  I want to bolt for the door, but I force myself to walk slowly to defy him in some small way without getting myself hurt in the process.

  After I make it safely past him, he gives me a rough shove through the door. I stumble, my elbow knocking against the doorframe.

  Asshole.

  I rub it gingerly as I move down the hallway in my bare feet. I’m still wearing the t-shirt I had on when they abducted me, but someone had thrown a pair of gray sweatpants over the foot of the bed I’d woken up in. They still had a price tag on them.

  Surprisingly, they were my size and fit perfectly. I didn’t want to be grateful for it, but I was. I’d felt way too exposed in just a t-shirt with no panties underneath, particularly because that asshole walking behind me had made a veiled threat to fuck me in the boat.

  I shudder even thinking about it, but I keep my chin lifted high.

  “Down the stairs,” he directs, and I’m thankful he doesn’t touch me again.

  When we reach the first floor, he moves past me. I dutifully follow him to a set of double doors stained dark. He gives a slight knock, waits a moment, then opens the right door.

  He doesn’t enter but rather motions me through.

  I’m terrified, but I quickly move into the room, ready to hopefully learn the identity of whoever is behind this. The brute follows close behind me.

  At first glance, I see it’s an office or study with dark paneled walls, a wooden tray ceiling, and gleaming parquet floors. Shelves filled with books, sculptures, and antiques line the wall, and a thick Persian carpet sits beneath a heavy, masculine desk.

  There’s a large, leather executive chair on the other side, facing away from me, and it slowly turns around to reveal a man.

  A rather ordinary-looking man, except he’s impeccably dressed in a light gray silk suit with a dark purple tie. He’s on the shorter side… no taller than five-seven would be my guess since his head wasn’t even showing above the top of the chair. He’s in his mid-to-late sixties with snowy-white hair cut short and precise. He stares with shrewd blue eyes a moment before pushing up from his chair.

  “Welcome, Dr. Alexander,” he says in a crisp New England accent as he motions with a hand to one of the chairs across from his desk.

  “Welcome?” I sneer, not moving a muscle. “I’ve been kidnapped at gunpoint. My… my…”

  My voice cracks, and my eyes prick with wetness. I cough to clear my throat. “The man protecting me was shot and killed.”

  “An unfortunate by-product,” he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand, and for the first time in my life, I want to kill someone.

  Him to be precise.

  “Now, Dr. Alexander… please sit and let’s talk.”

  I lift my chin, refusing to move.

  “Sit, or I will have Paul put you in one of those chairs,” the man says with such iciness in his voice that a shiver runs up my spine.

  I don’t even bother looking over my shoulder at the oaf I now know to be named Paul. Instead, I walk stiffly toward the chair on the right. I take a seat, perching my ass on the very edge and folding my hands in my lap. My spine is straight and locked tight for any battle of words that might come my way.

  The older man stares a moment before giving his attention to Paul. “Thank you, Paul. That is all for now.”

  I don’t look back but eventually, I hear Paul’s footsteps recede and the door close. Rather than sit back in his chair, the man walks around to me. He comes to stand before me, leaning against the heavy wood of his desk and casually crossing one leg over the other at the ankle, tucking his hands into his dress pants.

  “You’re a smart woman,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “You know why you’re here.”

  I do, so I don’t feel like this requires a reply.

  “It would go a lot easier on you,” he continues in a weirdly pleasant, conversational tone, “if you would just give me the formula.”

  “Who are you?” I demand. “And why do you want it?”

  He doesn’t appear offended. “I don’t think you really want to know that, Dr. Alexander, because I certainly can’t let you go at some point if you can identify me.”

  I don’t buy that. I’m not getting out of here alive if they’re able to get that formula out of me. But it’s clear he’s not going to tell me his name.

  Still, I press. “You’re American. We had assumed a foreign power wanted the science.”

  “You assumed wrong,” he replies blandly. “Now… I can promise you will be released unharmed if you will share your knowledge with me. If you don’t, it’s going to hurt.”

  “I choose hurt,” I reply stubbornly, hoping to God I can withstand whatever they have planned for me while internally begging the Jameson group to figure out where I am.

  “As you wish,” the man says with a sinister glare.

  Then he backhands me across the face. It comes so fast I can barely blink before he makes contact.

  It’s a vicious blow, and it snaps my head so hard to the left that pain shoots up my neck and explodes across my cheekbone. I see stars in my vision and when they start to clear, the man is staring at the gold signet ring on his right hand, presumably checking for any chunks of my skin left behind.

  I lift my hand to touch my face, and it comes back with blood on it.

  “Paul,” the man calls, and the door opens. “Take her to the basement and work on her.”

  The words make my blood go cold. Tensing, I try to psych myself up—try to pull out all my strength and courage. The minute I give this information up, I’m done for in this world.

  As I think it, though… a part of me isn’t all that scared by the prospect because at least I would be reunited with Cruce.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cruce

  When my head breaks the surface of the water, I tread for a few moments, staring out at the remnants of the fiery
mess that was my only means to chase after Barrett. I can faintly hear the engine of the inflatable tactical boat moving in the direction of Virgin Gorda.

  I swim toward the shore, which wastes precious moments, but there’s the minor matter of fire and boat fuel I need to navigate around in the water. My shoulder hurts like a motherfucker where I’d taken a bullet, but it feels like it went all the way through. It takes me at least ten minutes to make it to the beach, and I spend another few moments trying to catch my breath and stay upright against the dizziness caused by blood loss.

  Hissing through my teeth, I gently poke at the entrance wound in the front of my shoulder, just below my shoulder blade. Hesitantly, I do the same on my back, feeling a slightly larger hole there. I’m relieved the bullet is out, but I’m worried I might die from blood loss.

  However, that’s not an option since Barrett is in the hands of people who are deranged and sophisticated enough to pull off a very quick assault and also had the intelligence means to find us. Gritting my teeth, I jog up the path toward the main house.

  Once inside, I walk over to the large rectangular fire pit that sits in the middle of the living area. We hadn’t touched it yet as we hadn’t spent a lot of time in here. It’s not designed for heat but rather ambiance as the flames are gas generated and more of the simmering type—meant to cause a romantic glow more than anything.

  Without much thought, I turn the gas valve on and use the push button to ignite it. I then head straight to the guest bathroom where I remove Barrett’s laptop and notes from the vault behind the painting over the toilet. Whoever struck us tonight didn’t have the time to get this. I’m sure they looked for it on the way in and out as best they could, but since I pursued them after recovering from the flash-bang grenade they’d tossed in the room, I had obviously pissed on those plans.

  The laptop is crucial—not just for the research but because I have a feeling the answer to how we were found is on it. The words Barrett’s had screamed from the boat still echo in my ears.