A Father's Sacrifice (23 page)

A gunshot rang out.

N
ATASHA JUMPED UP
and dived toward the two men who were in a deadlock against the wall. Her ears rang with the sound of the gunshot. Her heart pounded in terror. Was Dylan shot?

As she reached them, Tom shoved Dylan away. Blood smeared them both, but the dark red stuff bloomed and spread on Dylan’s shirt.

Oh no!
Dylan looked stunned.

She wanted to go to him, check him, stop the bleeding. But her training had taught her to neutralize the threat first.

She lowered her head and rammed Tom in the belly, then flung her arms upward, hoping to disarm him. But his skinny pallid appearance hid a wiry strength. She knocked the breath out of him with her head-butt, but he didn’t fall. He kicked her, bruising her shin.

Then pain exploded in her head.

She blinked and suddenly found herself flat on the floor.

“Tasha!”

Dylan’s voice echoed in her head. He sounded as if he was in a tunnel. She squeezed her eyes shut and quelled the urge to laugh. He
was
in a tunnel.

Damn it. She shook her head. She was dazed from Tom’s blow. She got her arms and legs under her and tried to push herself up.

“Look at me, Natasha,” Tom said.

She looked at his shoes. He was standing right in front of her and she knew he was pointing his gun at her head.

He nudged her with his foot. “Look at me! I want to see your face when you die.”

She rose to her hands and knees and took a deep breath, preparing to slam into his knees. She wanted to check on Dylan, but she didn’t dare take the time. She needed all her concentration, all her strength, to try to save her life and his.

She raised her head slowly and tensed, preparing to ram her shoulder into his knees. Her heart hammered in her chest.

But a shadow loomed over her and Tom went down.

Dylan.
He’d slammed Tom against the wall and was pummeling him with his fist.

Tom was doing his best to keep the gun out of Dylan’s reach. He waved his gun arm high in the air. Dylan was right on top of him so he couldn’t get the gun in between them. A shot rang out but it went wild.

Wincing at the deafening report, Natasha grabbed Tom’s wrist in both hands, but both men fell toward her, and she lost her grip.

As she scrambled out of the way to try again to disarm him, she realized his arms were no longer flailing. He’d gotten them between him and Dylan. They were struggling for control of the gun.

She watched in horror, not breathing.
Please. Get the gun,
she screamed silently at Dylan.

Dylan’s face was pale and covered in sweat. He was losing strength fast.

She cast about, looking for something to use as a weapon. Something to help Dylan. Her eyes lit on the metal box. She picked it up and rushed the two men, aiming to hit Tom on the head.

The gun went off.

All three of them froze. Dylan and Tom’s faces reflected surprise and fear.

Natasha’s heart thudded once against her chest then seemed to stop.

“Dylan,” she sobbed, reaching for him.

He turned his eyes toward her, then closed them.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. “Don’t die. Oh God, please. Don’t let him die.”

He took a step backward and she saw the gun in his hands.

Tom looked at her, his eyes barely focused. “Natasha,” he muttered. “We could have ruled the world.” Blood was turning his black shirt darker, wetter.

He looked down and touched the wet material then looked at his blood-smeared hand.

“Still the best,” he whispered, then crumpled where he stood. His head thudded loudly against the concrete floor.

Dylan dropped the gun. He looked stunned.

“Your shoulder,” Natasha said, rushing to his side.

“Yeah, I’m kind of shot.”

“Kind of?” She hiccoughed a little laugh.

He lifted his good hand and swiped his thumb across her cheeks. “Don’t cry, Tasha.”

“I’m not crying.” She shook her head. “FBI agents don’t cry.”

“Yeah right.” He stepped away from her, toward Tom. He leaned down and briefly laid his fingers against Tom’s throat. “He’s dead.” He looked up at her. “I killed him.”

“Self-defense.”

He blinked and his blue eyes sharpened to electric blue. He turned over Tom’s body and felt in his pockets. “His cell phone.” He stood, swaying a bit.

Natasha looked at the screen as he thumbed through the recent numbers. Most calls were to one number. So he pressed the call button. But the screen brought up a No Service message.

“Damn it!” He stepped over closer to the door and tried again. “No service in here.”

He looked down the tunnel back toward the lab. “We’ve got to get out of here. Ben’s running out of time.”

“There should be an escape route.”

Dylan looked stricken. “This
is
the escape route.” He rubbed his hand down his face.

“What about an override for the doors?”

“Sure. In an hour, but by then whoever has Ben will have—” His voice shook.

“You’re telling me Mintz didn’t build an escape hatch on this tunnel?”

Dylan nodded. He wiped his eyes.

“That’s not possible. Mintz wouldn’t take the chance of getting locked in here.” It didn’t make sense, given Mintz’s insistence on triple redundancy. “Come on, let’s find it.”

“Might as well,” he said. “I don’t have a better idea.” He looked around, then rubbed his temple. “Where’s the box?” His voice was strained and his face was pale.

“Over here.” She picked it up. “I need to wrap your shoulder. You’re losing a lot of blood.”

He looked down at the bloody T-shirt. “No time. Let’s go. I don’t think we have but about thirty minutes.”

She nodded. Ben’s life was at stake.

They walked back up the tunnel, examining every inch of wall. “This is taking too long,” she said. “If I were Alfred, where would I put an escape?”

“In the middle?”

“That’s what I was thinking. Now, where’s the middle?”

“Right before the first curve. We’re pretty close.” Dylan was sounding more and more strained and his voice was getting weaker. He took out the cell phone and tried it again. “Still no signal,” he mumbled.

Natasha slipped under his good shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Lean on me,” she said.

He tried not to but soon he was allowing her to help him walk. “Here’s the curve. The midpoint of the tunnel is about fifty feet from here. God, I hope we’re right.”

As they walked around the curve, Natasha counted her steps.

Just then, she heard a faint noise.

“Did you hear that?” she asked. “Wait!” She stopped. Did she feel air? Fresh air? “I think I feel a breeze.”

Just then dirt and sand sifted onto the floor.

“Dylan!” A gruff, unmistakable voice echoed in the tunnel.

Dylan looked around, hope striking a spark in his eyes. “Alfred?”

“Dylan! Natasha! Answer me!”

The words echoed all around them.

“Alfred!” Dylan’s voice broke. “Thank God.”

Natasha studied the wall on the north side of the corridor. There, about four feet from the floor, was a section of concrete that didn’t look like the rest, on close examination. She tapped on it. It sounded hollow.

“Dylan!”

It
was
Mintz. “Stand back,” he shouted.

A noise like a fist hitting a wall reverberated through the tunnel. Then a second blow followed the first, and Mintz’s fist slammed through drywall that had been painted to look like concrete. Light and air gushed in through the hole, blowing drywall dust into their faces.

A shadow blocked the light as Mintz poked his head in through the hole.

“Dylan’s injured.” Natasha took the metal box from Dylan’s hand and handed it to Mintz.

“Gambrini’s right behind me.”

“Dylan—” she squeezed his waist “—give me Tom’s cell phone.”

He leaned against the wall and fished it from his pocket. “Find Ben,” he muttered.

“We will. Here.” She handed the phone to Mintz and called out to Gambrini.

“The last called number is to whoever’s holding Ben. They have instructions to kill Ben in probably fifteen or twenty minutes if Tom doesn’t call them.”

Mintz handed the phone behind him. “Where is Tom?”

“He won’t be calling anybody.” Dylan’s words were slurred. “Find him, Alfred. Find Ben.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Gambrini said.

Natasha heard him scrambling backward, out of the tunnel.

Dylan slumped. “Alfred, Dylan’s passing out. He’s lost too much blood.”

“Gambrini,” Mintz called over his shoulder. “Send Robby and Hector in here and phone an ambulance
now.
We’ve got to get Dylan out of there.”

“No,” Dylan mumbled as he slid down the wall. “No ambu…lance. Ben. Save…Ben.”

Chapter Thirteen

Natasha rode in the ambulance with Dylan. She wanted to go with Mintz to join Storm and Gambrini in rescuing Ben, but Mintz had refused to let her.

“He’ll need you when he wakes up,” he’d told her.

“He’ll need you more,” she retorted. “He trusts you.”

Mintz had met her gaze solemnly. “But he loves you.”

Now she paced the short length of the emergency room cubicle with Mintz’s words echoing in her ears as she waited for Dylan to wake up. Stopping at the head of the bed, she pushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead and picked up the cool, wet towel the nurse had given her. She patted his face.

He groaned, but didn’t open his eyes.

She traced his honed jaw, his cheekbone, his brow. His pallor and weakness brought tears to her eyes. He was so determined, so focused. He was going to hate being injured.

She looked at the bandage covering his shoulder and part of his neck. An awful realization hit her.

Oh, dear God! His shoulder. He couldn’t operate on Ben.

“No, please,” she prayed. “Don’t let Ben lose his chance to walk.” What had the doctor told her? That they’d know within twelve hours if he’d have to have surgery to repair ligaments. Without surgery it would take him at least two weeks to be able to use his arm. With surgery it would be more like six weeks.

Ben didn’t have six weeks. He didn’t even have two.

Natasha compressed her lips, trying not to cry. What would Dylan do? He’d said Ben probably only had about another week before he lost too much viable muscle and nerve tissue.

She remembered him saying there were only two other surgeons in the world that could do the delicate procedure that would give Ben the ability to walk.

She took out her cell phone and called Mitch Decker.

“Mitch, it’s Natasha.”

“Hey. Storm told me what happened. Are you okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine. Dylan’s in the hospital and Storm and Alfred and several agents are looking for Ben. Mitch, that’s not why I called.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea who Mohan Patel is? He’s at the University of Mumbai. Or Frederick Werner at Johns Hopkins?”

“No, why?”

“Dylan’s been shot in the shoulder. He can’t operate on his son. He told me those two were the only other surgeons in the world who could do this operation. I need to get in touch with one of them.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then she heard paper rustling.

“I know the Chief of Medicine at Johns Hopkins. Let me give him a call.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Tell me the name again.”

“Frederick Werner. Neurosurgeon. Dylan studied under him.”

“Give me a few minutes.”

“Mitch—thanks.”

She disconnected and stared at the cell phone display. No calls. Why hadn’t Alfred called? She was so worried about Ben.

Dylan’s thick black eyelashes fluttered and he groaned again. “Ben?” he said hoarsely.

She set her phone on the bedside table, pasted on a smile and leaned over the side rail. “Hi, there,” she said, caressing his hair, working to put a light tone in her voice.

He frowned drowsily at her. “What’s going on?” He went to push himself up and discovered that his arm was immobilized. “What the hell?”

“Tom shot you, remember?”

He let his head fall back against the pillows. “Tom shot me. When—?” He broke off.

Natasha saw his eyes sharpen as adrenaline overcame the effects of the morphine they’d given him.

“Where’s Ben?”

“Dylan—”

“Damn it, Tasha.” He glared at her. “Where is he? Where’s Alfred?”

She put a hand on his chest. “They’re looking for him. We should hear something soon.”

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out there helping them? Ben’s going to—he’ll be scared.”

“Alfred made me promise to stay here with you.”

He frowned at her, obviously assessing whe
ther to believe her. “Are you telling me the truth? Or are you here because—because Ben—”

“No! No, Dylan. They’ve traced Tom’s last call. Alfred and Storm and several other agents are on their way to the location now.”

He closed his eyes and wiped his face with his good hand. “Swear to me you’re telling the truth.” He turned his searing gaze on her.

“I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“
Again,
you mean.”

She compressed her lips. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about Tom earlier. I know if I had, Ben might not have been abducted.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I’ve been going over everything, trying to figure out what went wrong. How someone inside the house could know where Ben was being hidden—” She stopped and met Dylan’s gaze.

His eyes widened.

“Charlene,” they said in unison.

“Oh my gosh, of course. It makes perfect sense.” She pressed the heel of her hand against her temple. “How did I miss that? It’s so obvious. Tom suckered her in, used her. Just like he used everybody—the young insurgents who did his dirty work for him, the homeless kids who believed that he would take care of them. I’m sure she thought he loved her. I’ve seen him in action. He had an incredible charisma when he wanted to turn it on. It’s like he hypnotized his followers.”

“Charlene. She wouldn’t kill Ben, would she? I believe she truly cares for him.”