Blindsided, page 5
part #1 of Book Two Series
Seven
The chaos within her felt like a geyser welling, preparing to erupt. Grief; joy. A toxic, tangled mix of love and hate and bitter, furious resentment. But worst of all: hope.
It felt like a thousand voices all talking at once, like insanity; it was more than Ruby wanted to bear.
Run, every part of her screamed. But there was nowhere to go.
She wasn’t stupid. She understood the man standing in front of her was her only shot at reclaiming the life she’d so painstakingly built.
The irony of which was not lost on her.
But the anger that simmered and seethed within her was absent of all reason. It belonged to an eight-year-old girl who wanted to cling to her pain, who wanted to make him pay.
Which was unhealthy and unkind, and not something of which she was proud. Especially when he spoke of his crazy, messed up mother, words that continued to bleed confusion and hurt and hate, all these years later. Something Ruby felt keenly; she still bled, too.
And she understood, as no one else could.
Damn him.
But he was right.
They had to work together; they had to move forward. Whatever that meant.
“Blowing shit up is not the answer,” she told him and held out her hand for the sketchbook. “We need a better plan.”
His eerie, beautiful gaze glittered. “Do we?”
She glared at him, exasperated. “Give me the damn thing.”
He didn’t move. Too tall, too broad, too intense; his earthy, evergreen scent surrounding her. His thick, ink-dark hair was soldier-short, accentuating the startling beauty of his face, and he’d inherited his mother’s arresting presence; it made awareness thrum through Ruby, vibrant and unwelcome.
“Does that mean you’re in?” he asked softly, staring down at her.
She arched a brow. “As opposed to staying here, hiding under your ma’s bed?”
“Big, bad, brave Ruby.” A hint of smile suddenly touched his mouth, softening him, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away. “That’s my girl.”
Sweetheart. My girl.
“Don’t,” she warned him.
He only stared at her, eyes gleaming.
“You can’t blow it up,” she said again.
He lifted a brow. “But I like blowing things up.”
She remembered the chilling, scary man she’d met in her apartment and wasn’t surprised. “Rafe.”
He stared at her for another long, motionless moment, his gaze stroking over her, and something glinted in his gaze, something she didn’t recognize and didn’t trust. Something that made her far too aware of herself, of him, and flushed her cheeks with hot, stupid color.
Then he handed her the sketchbook and sat down beside her.
The couch cushion gave, and she almost rolled into him. Instead, she caught herself and leaned back, away from the huge, heated, enormous presence of him. It was almost impossible to reconcile, that this large, damnably strong man was the result of the slender, fine-boned boy she’d known. That he would be handsome was something she’d never questioned. But she never would have guessed the little acorn would become such a mighty oak.
“Show me,” he said, watching her.
Her hands clenched around the book, tempted to bash him in the face with it.
So much anger.
She wasn’t certain she could contain it, no matter the lip service she gave herself. So she focused on the sketchbook instead.
Her drawing was an exact recreation of the plans she’d turned to ash. A bike wheel on steroids. Complete with the internal HVAC system, geothermal units, incinerator, and elevator shafts. She included the map, with its mysterious, jagged coastline.
One inlet curved around the northern arc of the wheel, the other hugged the southern arc. They drew closer as they moved west. Above the northern inlet, she’d written Sognefjord.
There were fjords all over the world, including Alaska and Washington State. South America, Europe, Antarctica. Maybe—
“That’s a hell of a skill,” Rafe murmured. “Having this will help determine where to set the charges so they’ll be most effective.”
Exasperation washed over her again. “You’re part of a clandestine, government-sanctioned organization which has both the United States military and private mercs at its disposal. But you’re the one who has to do this?”
He looked at her. “No one else will destroy it. They’ll claim it.”
The truth in those words silenced her for a moment.
“And if it’s nuclear?” she asked finally.
“I’ll deal with that bridge when I come to it.”
“Just slap on your cape and fly it to the moon?”
A dark look. “Don’t.”
“Tell it to someone who hasn’t seen you dance the Macarena in your underwear.”
He blinked, and to her amazement, color touched his cheeks. “That’s a low blow.”
A snicker welled up inside of her, and it felt like a betrayal.
Because beyond her intense awareness of him, and the pain and anger that lived ever-present in their every interaction, sitting with him, talking to him…it felt like then.
Like a deep, worn groove created over time.
A rut, she corrected. Muddy and slippery and where one just got stuck in place. A place she desperately needed to get beyond.
“This place is massive in size,” she continued doggedly. “And there are only four points of entry, all via elevators. Even if you could get in without getting caught, it would take an enormous amount of explosives to destroy it. More than you could carry. One person can’t do this.”
He gave her another dark look but then turned his gaze to the plans.
"Sognefjord," he muttered. “Norway.”
His finger traced the coastline. His hands were big, scarred, and callused, a startling juxtaposition to the sleek, expensive suit he wore. “These inlets lead to the North Sea. That has to be their main access. Tunnels from the facility to an inlet so they can use the waterway for transport. That’s how they’ve gotten everything in.”
“The North Sea,” Ruby repeated. “Sounds balmy. You got a SEAL team handy?”
He said nothing, staring at the plans. Then, “Shit.”
“Sweet baby Jesus, he’s seen the light!”
“I can do without the commentary.”
“You could do with a little sense. You’re one man; this place is going to require an army to take it down. Even if you could get into the center section and—”
She broke off, frowning. She turned the sketchbook sideways, then upside down. As she stared at it, her stomach suddenly turned to lead.
“What?” Rafe asked quietly.
She shook her head. Bent over the drawing. Squinted at it.
“Ruby,” he said again, sharp with impatience.
A chill whispered through her. “I’ve seen this before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last year, my EMT crew was called to O’Hare because a passenger on one of the incoming flights from Namibia was sick. When we responded to the call, we had to follow CDC protocol and quarantine him and the other passengers and crew in a negative pressure room, because they were afraid it was Ebola. The negative pressure allows air into the isolated space, but not out, which prevents any contaminated air from escaping. That room,” she pointed to the circular, glass-walled section in the center of the compound, “looked just like this.”
Rafe stared at her. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t think the plant is manufacturing conventional weapons. I think it’s manufacturing biological ones.”
Eight
For a long moment, Rafe said nothing.
Biological weapons.
Which he should have considered. Ebola, anthrax, smallpox, even the goddamn plague were still alive and well in laboratories across the globe. And CRISPR technology had changed the playing field when it came to creating a weapon designed to be spread by a specific carrier to a particular population.
Nothing so neat and tidy as a bomb—which could be diffused, dismantled, destroyed. No, a bio-weapon was like a vat of spilled water, running into every crack and crevice, soaking the earth, flowing downstream as fast as gravity could take it.
Uncontainable.
Jesus Christ.
He stood. “I’m going alone.”
Ruby only arched a brow. “I have the map on speed-dial. I don’t need your ass to hold my hand.”
He stared down at her, his heart a heavy, dull thud in his chest. “This isn’t a game.”
“You need me.”
No, he didn’t. He didn’t need anyone. And he might have temporarily lost his mind—giving into that odd, ephemeral bond he felt with her—but no way in hell was he letting her walk into a situation that involved a virus that could kill her in a matter of minutes.
Best-case scenario, he thought.
“You don’t get to decide,” she told him coldly.
“Just keep pushing,” he warned.
“Bring it, spy boy.”
They stared at one another, the air crackling.
“I’ll stop you,” he said, his hands curling into fists.
“You’re welcome to try,” she told him flatly.
But short of hog-tying her and delivering her to Will and Cheyenne in Wyoming, Rafe knew there was nothing he could do to prevent her from flinging herself headlong into this fucked up, dangerous situation.
Another win on his part.
Shit.
“You’ll just be in the way,” he said. “A liability I can’t afford.”
Her dark gaze flashed, and he knew he’d hurt her.
“I have to do this,” he added harshly. “And it’s likely to be the end of me. I won’t let it be the end of you, too.”
She only snorted. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
“Don’t I know it,” he bit out.
“I know the CDC’s containment and quarantine protocols,” she told him impatiently. “And I know the difference between a prion and a protozoan. Can you say the same? I’m a licensed EMT, I’m certified in search and rescue, and I kicked your ass in the warehouse like a damn boss. What makes you think you don’t need me?”
He couldn’t look away from the grim determination in her face. That face…it was so familiar, and yet so different. She was beautiful. Dusky, dark cocoa skin; those glittering, amber fire eyes. High, broad cheekbones, and her mouth…
“Goddamn it,” he snarled.
“You know I’m right,” she said.
“I don’t want you to die.” The words were ragged.
“I won’t.” She stared hard at him. “And neither will you.”
The look pierced him, as if she knew that he stood on the precipice of self-destruction.
You’ve decided go out in a blaze of glory—how special.
Damn her. How the hell could she get inside him so easily? So quickly?
The walls that contained him had been built brick by brick from his earliest moments, and while there were a handful of people he allowed within them, no one entered without his permission.
Except her.
“I can help you,” she said, watching him.
I know the difference between a prion and a protozoan. Do you?
Damn her. Of course he did.
A protozoan was a parasite. A prion was… a protein?
“Fuck,” he said viciously and rubbed his face.
She was right: what made him think he didn’t need her?
Shit.
He turned and marched into the kitchen. Opened the fridge and removed the eggs, butter, and milk he’d bought earlier in the week and slapped them onto the counter.
He collected a bowl and a whisk. Added several eggs to the bowl, a little milk, some cinnamon from the cupboard, and whisked it until it was frothy. Then he got out a pan and threw a pad of butter into it, adjusting the burner beneath to the right temperature.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ruby demanded, watching him from the couch.
“We need to eat.”
“Now?”
Right goddamn now.
He needed to do something. Dwelling on how helpless he felt was useless, and if he continued to argue with her, he was going to do something he regretted.
Something they both regretted.
“You’re right: I don’t know shit about contagions,” he said, ripping open a loaf of bread. “Only what the Agency taught me, which wasn’t much. So maybe I do need you. But you’re going to stick to me like glue. Do you hear me? We do this together, or not at all.”
She said nothing.
“This is not a democracy,” he continued, dunking the bread into the egg and milk mixture, then tossing it into the pan. “I am the supreme leader. You do nothing without my direct approval. Understood?”
“Supreme leader.” She smirked. “You’re hilarious.”
He gave her a black look. “I will handcuff you to me if necessary.”
A snort. Then she stood and strode toward the cherry wood cabinets. “Plates?”
The tension thrumming through him eased. He flipped the piece of toast in the pan. “Next to the fridge.”
She pulled out two plates and hunted down silverware. “Syrup?” she asked.
“Unlikely,” he replied.
She returned to lean against the large granite island that dominated the space and waved a hand around the kitchen. “Why keep it?”
He put the piece of cooked toast on one of the plates and handed it to her. “Because it’s worth a small fortune.”
“So?”
The disdain in her reminded him that she’d known his mother. With Ruby, there was no having to explain anything: not the messed up place he’d come from, or the messed up woman who’d borne him. The damage both had done.
Ruby already knew.
He wasn’t certain how he felt about that.
“It’s all I have left,” he said shortly and added another piece of toast to the pan.
“Seriously,” she replied. Nothing more.
Annoyed, he turned and looked at her. “What’s your problem?”
“It’s not my problem,” she said in a chiding tone.
“I’m weak,” he said. “Is that it?”
“Not weak.” She sat down on one of the sleek metal stools that hugged the island, grabbed a fork, and began to cut up the piece of French toast he’d given her. “You want it to make sense.”
Something within him stirred. “Don’t.”
“Okay,” she said and shrugged. Took a bite, chewed. Looked blissfully unconcerned, while his insides were suddenly churning.
Damn her.
He turned back and flipped the toast in the pan. “What’s wrong with wanting it to make some goddamn sense?”
“Nothing.”
When she said no more, he ground his teeth. “But?”
“But it’s never going to.”
His chest hurt, his breath lodged in his lungs like a wedge. For Christ’s sake. He was a grown man; at what point was he going to get over this shit? “Why not?”
“Your ma didn’t have the capacity to care about anything—not you, not this place, not even herself. She was broken.”
“I know that,” he said stiffly.
“Do you? Because trying to understand her, that’s a fool’s errand. It’s impossible, Rafe. You aren’t like she was. Look at you, all ready to kamikaze your ass to save a world that’ll never know the difference. That takes heart and courage and integrity; how could you ever comprehend the thoughts and actions of a woman who had none of those things?”
Rafe turned to look at her. His throat ached; in his head, all of the chaotic, white static that haunted him fell silent.
“You might as well try to translate ancient Greek into emojis,” Ruby said. “It’s a different language, one you’ll never speak. Make your peace and move on.”
She ate another bite, met his gaze, and shrugged again.
And inside of him, something cracked.
Make your peace and move on.
He’d spent years looking for clues: who was his mother? Why was she who she was?
What did that mean about him?
Would he become her?
“She made me,” he said unwillingly.
“You made yourself.”
He said nothing. Then, “What if she wasn’t sick…what if she was evil?”
A moment of silence punctuated that question.
“Does it matter?” Ruby asked.
He served her another piece of toast. “Do you believe in evil?”
A look he couldn’t decipher crossed her face. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s touched me.”
She said it simply, without rancor. But the thought of evil—someone like his mother—coming within a hundred-mile radius of Ruby made the predator within him stir. “Who?”
She looked at him, narrow-eyed, and said nothing.
“You’re going to tell me,” he told her softly. “You’re going to trust me again.”
She only arched her brows and took another bite of her toast. “You should sell it. Out with the old, in with the new.”
Rafe leaned against the counter and let his gaze sweep over her. Every time he looked at her, that sharp, electrical thrill jolted through him. Joy; relief.
Excitement.
I missed you.
“I like the old,” he said.
Color flushed her cheeks; the pulse in the hollow of her throat fluttered wildly. Evidence that she wasn’t as unaffected by him, by them, as she would like him to believe.
He didn’t know how he felt about that, either.
“I’m sorry I never came back,” he said.
She stared at him, her face impassive, her gaze opaque. He couldn’t read her worth a damn. The Ruby he’d known had been animated and expressive and telegraphed every thought; the one before him was as cool and reserved as the most experienced field agent. The difference was extreme, something that resulted only from an experience of equal extreme.
So many things he didn’t know; questions he had no right to ask.
Questions he would ask anyway.
You will trust me again.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asked, ignoring his words.
