Heart Strike (22 page)

The gunsels!

Melissa twisted around again and saw that the two gunsels were still firing toward the beach from the rear cargo hatch.

“Carla!” Melissa shouted to get her teammate's attention at the far end of the cabin. Then she drew a three-sided box in the air for “Door” and pumped out a “Hurry.” They couldn't take off safely with the cargo doors open.

By the time they were skipping off the wave tops, Melissa felt the heavy slam of the closing doors. Then they were up and headed back out to sea.

The beach was on Melissa's side.

The few still standing from the group that had taken receipt of the shipment were retreating up the beach. By their bright muzzle flashes, she could see that none of them were carrying heavy boxes of drugs.

The second group, the ones who were trying to hijack the drugs, were scattered and running themselves.

It was hard to tell, but she thought she saw a shadow from the first group crossing the moonlit sands back toward the drugs. A bright flash down the beach and a second and a half later—the time it would take a 7.62mm sniper round to cross the kilometer-long distance—the shadow collapsed to the beach.

Yep, the drugs were still in the surf. And Fred's sniper would make sure they stayed there.

“Neat solution,” Melissa observed once they were well clear.

“Rather pleased with it myself,” Richie said lazily as if it was all in a day's work.

“But what do I tell Ms. Sala?” All they'd done was intercepted an infinitesimal percentage of the drug trade. A hundred kilos would never be missed except by the gang that had paid a million dollars for it.

“Don't worry about Analie Sala.”

Melissa could hear that Richie already had it figured out. She raced to get there herself before he spoke again.

“If the delivery never reached the next tier of distributors, that's not our—”

“Because,” she cut Richie off, “we've already been paid in full, as has Ms. Sala.” The Venezuelan cartel didn't care if the drugs reached America; they only cared that they were paid. “Moore Aviation is about to be very popular with their Venezuelan contacts.”

“It is.”

“Now, Richie Goldman, you have something else to worry about.”

“Oh?” And he did sound a little worried, because he clearly couldn't think of what it might be. She enjoyed outsmarting his genius with something so simple.

Melissa watched the darkness out the broad windshield. No longer carrying any contraband and finally heading south, they flew at a comfortable five hundred feet above the waves. She'd never flown that low in her life until last week, and now it felt like a luxuriously safe altitude.

“What?” Richie was clearly churning trying to come up with something that he'd missed in all of his careful planning.

She left him to stew awhile longer. Melissa let her mind wander. Richie was handsome, smart, and promised to be a fantastic lover. Watching him fly and solve the problems of the mission on the go had been electrifying.

But there was a moment that had been more powerful than almost anything that had happened the whole week. More powerful than him punching out that asshole Chad.

It was back in the Orinoco. She'd stepped way over the line of reasonable risk when she'd gunned down that thug. There had been an awful moment when she was certain she had just gotten the entire team killed. She imagined a top-secret report titled, “Recent OTC grad gets entire team eliminated in less than seven days.”

The tension had ridden on a cusp, and then Richie had made the smallest sound, flipping the safety on his rifle into the firing position. It had said clearly, “I will die to defend this woman.”

That tiny act had tipped the balance of the entire dynamic between The Unit's team and the drug smugglers. But that wasn't what had ultimately mattered to her.

It was the statement he'd made that had been so special.

Melissa knew it was stupid, insane, and totally ridiculous. She'd known Richie for one week. One week today as a matter of fact. The sun was just breaking the horizon over Cuba and they'd be arriving in Maracaibo at almost the same moment she had seven days ago.

He was a geek, the ultimate tech, and a warrior on her own team.

And as dumb as it was, her frozen heart hadn't merely thawed in his presence; it had beat as if it had never been frozen in the first place.

She wanted to bury her face in her hands. She wanted to get out of the plane and dance—if they weren't in flight. She wanted…

“Oh,” Richie finally put the pieces together. “My promise. Trust me, I'll be taking care of that just as soon as we can find more than a dozen minutes of quiet.”

And she knew he would because not living up to his promises simply wouldn't compute for Richie—his integrity reigned absolute.

Melissa had known for a hard and cold fact that it would never happen to her. But it had. She'd gone and fallen in love. And with Unit operator Richie Goldman. That was something she'd have to get over real soon.

No customs official met them as they pulled up to the Maracaibo hangar, running mostly on fumes. He was probably happily counting a few-hundred-dollar payoff in some corner office.

What did await them was Analie Sala and two more gunmen. She was all in black despite the midmorning heat that was already cooking Richie's brain. He'd only been awake for…thirty hours. And flying for the last dozen of it.

The team deplaned very carefully. Richie and Melissa held back at the cockpit doors. They wouldn't have good flexibility if gunfire came their way, but they momentarily commanded the high ground. Looking down at the others, Richie didn't want to give that up.

Ms. Sala stood calmly as the two teams of four gunmen each faced off. The differences were very distinct. The drug runners were edgy, hands shifting on weapons, feet never in optimal position as they constantly shifted. In contrast, each Delta operator was dead calm, unmoving, up on their toes, and ready to leap into action. It wouldn't even be necessary to focus on faces or attire to know who to target if the need arose; their body language was target enough to a Delta-honed eye.

It didn't come to that. Ms. Sala waved for one of the men to open the bucket. When it was opened, she pulled out ten neat stacks of bills and handed them to Carla, then signaled for the bucket to be closed.

A low rumble in the distance drew Richie's attention to the head of the alleyway between the long row of rusting hangars. A fuel truck lumbered its way toward them. No one was hiding their rifles or sidearms. Carla had turned to slip the money into a small backpack so that it was out of sight.

No one spoke while the plane was fueled. No one moved, except to stay out of the way of the fuel truck operator…who was very careful not to look at any of them. He was pumping much faster than those Sinaloa members on the barge off Cozumel.

Richie signaled Melissa and they eased down, out of the front doors, to join the group after the fuel truck finished and was backing up the length of the alleyway.

“I hear there were problems.” Ms. Sala was the first to finally break the silence.

“A few.” Melissa stepped forward easily and Richie shifted into a support position that offered a clear range of fire. “Nothing we couldn't manage.”

The two women squared off: the slim, dark professional and the tall, white-blond wonder. By sheer contrast, Analie Sala's sleek build and immaculate grooming should have made Melissa look large or overblown, but it didn't. Melissa instead stood like a shining beacon of health and beauty and made the Mexican expediter look diminished. Richie tried to cast them, but it wasn't working. Emma Frost versus Mystique from the
X-Men
didn't work. Tasha Yar versus B'Elanna Torres, if he was willing to mix
Star Trek
series, didn't cut it either. Even going to Kim Basinger as
Batman's
Vicki Vale versus Halle Berry's Catwoman didn't get him there.

Melissa was…too vibrantly alive.

He was left to wonder at that while the two women silently assessed one another. It took Richie a bit before it clicked.

“You're the one who tipped off Sinaloa about the fueling barge.” He pointed an accusing finger at Analie Sala.

“Of course,” Melissa agreed smoothly as the others startled. “That much made perfect sense. If we couldn't handle them, you would have been paid through back channels anyway and we'd be
lost at sea.”

Ms. Sala nodded silently.

Richie noticed the reaction of the two guards who had also flown with them. They didn't like the idea that they'd been deemed expendable.
It's the world you chose, guys,
Richie thought at them.

“Did you set us up on the beach as well?” Richie decided to play dumb to keep the suspicions away from the Delta team.

“No,” Ms. Sala said slowly. Then she turned to the two men who'd flown with them. “Tell me.”

The men spilled out their account. It was scattered and included only about a quarter of what had actually happened—though they did reasonably well for untrained observers. Delta training taught you to see more than anyone else and process it quickly and logically enough to eradicate aggressors before they tried to do the same to you. What her two men delivered to Ms. Sala was confused and included not one word about the sniper operating from farther down the beach.

“Shot our plane too,” Richie remembered.

“Show me.”

It took a minute, but they found three holes, two in the wing and a long crease close above Melissa's window. Had the shot been a foot lower, an infinitesimal amount on a wild shot at a distance, it would have punched the windshield and caught Melissa square in the face.

Richie's gut twisted. He'd taxied the plane to keep Melissa out of the line of fire. Instead he was the one who'd turned her into harm's way.
Lesson here, Richie: The woman can take care of herself.
And she was doing a fine job of it at the moment. She was doing a good job of protecting them all at the moment.

“Richie?” Kyle called over.

“Huh? What?”

“Could you and Chad check where those bullets went? Make sure we didn't get anything structural.”

“Roger that.”

Then Kyle stepped up to the power position in close support of Melissa, and Carla and Duane took the opportunity to drop back a defensive step. Richie knew if Melissa was safe anywhere, it was beside Kyle.

They went inside the hangar together and pulled out a ladder so that they could get up to the wing.

“That is one cool lady,” Chad said as he scrabbled around in the toolbox.

“Yeah, she's amazing.” Richie was pleased that Chad was finally warming up to Melissa. “See. She's okay despite what you—”

“I was talking about Ms. Dark, Sleek, and Sexy Analie Sala. Woman's name is even fun to say.”

“You weren't planning to…”

“Depends on whether opportunity presents itself. And me, I'm a big fan of creating opportunity.” Then Chad's voice darkened. “I still don't trust your bitch.”

Richie's arm was back before he even knew it, and Chad had his hands up and was backpedaling.

“Whoa there, little brother. Man, she's got you in a twist.”

Too far away for a punch, Richie simply dove at him.

* * *

There was a horrendous crash from inside the hangar. It sounded like their entire spare parts rack had just been dumped onto the concrete. The noise continued with huge crashes and bangs that made Melissa wince and tuck up her shoulders against the noise.

Analie was safely in her air-conditioned SUV and the four thugs were gone with her. They were only about halfway up the hangar alley, so she tried to look casual as she hurried into the hangar. It took her sun-blasted eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowed darkness. The others were piling in behind her as they hit the same problem.

It took her almost as long again to make sense of the scene as it did for her eyes to adjust. Richie and Chad were grappling on the floor, and Richie was playing for keeps. It was all Chad could do to defend himself, as it was clear he didn't want to hurt Richie.

Richie was a formidable fighter when he was roused. Whatever had set him off had been enough that Chad could barely manage a defensive battle.

Even as she watched, Richie heaved Chad, who was twice his size, into the tool chest, knocking it to the floor with a massive crash that sent wrenches and screwdrivers scattering in every direction. Richie the true warrior was as awe-inspiring a fighter as he'd been a lover.

Duane and Kyle tried wading in and were almost kneecapped by a viciously swung hammer.

Melissa pulled out her sidearm. She considered shooting Chad, but instead aimed for the big wooden post in the corner of the hangar.

The crash and boom of the big Colt M1911 shattered the air and reverberated off the steel roof and walls.

Duane and Kyle did dive-and-rolls coming up with their sidearms aimed at her chest.

Chad and Richie froze in place, Richie with a solid grip on one of Chad's ears and Chad in midcurse as he tried to find a way to break Richie's hold but still protect himself from Richie's next blow. For two men who could kill with a single strike, they looked practically comical in the abruptly freeze-frame positions.

Carla stood quietly beside Melissa with her arms crossed.

She was the first to break the silence with, “Are you boys done?”

Chad twisted his head enough to look at Melissa despite Richie's firm hold on his ear.

“Bitch!” His voice was low and nasty.

Melissa decided shooting him would have been the right choice, but she'd already holstered her sidearm and Kyle and Duane hadn't yet, so she left well enough alone.

And that's when Richie's fist caught the point of Chad's chin and sent him tumbling into the pile of rusted-out car parts that lined the back of the hangar.

A part of Melissa wanted to shout, “One for the home team.” But most of her wanted to go back to OTC graduation and be assigned to join Mutt and Jeff on the Arabian Peninsula.

* * *

Richie saw Carla coming his way and knew he was in the shitter. But all she did was hold out a hand as an offer to help him get back to his feet.

She wasn't gentle as she grabbed his hand, which was throbbing from hitting Chad, crunching down on his fingers hard as she helped him up. Richie managed not to cry out, though Carla was Delta strong and proving it.

Then she stepped over an interlaced pile of pry bars and chisels and grabbed Chad by the ear. Chad cried out, “Ow! Ow! Ow!”—which satisfied Richie no end while he massaged his bruised and now battered fingers—as she guided him to his feet. As soon as she let go, Chad clamped a protective hand over his ear and hissed in pain. Richie wished he'd ripped the damn thing off when he'd had the chance. It would serve him right.

“Who's going to start?”

Richie ignored Carla and glared at Chad. “You try calling Melissa a bitch or whore again, and I'll take you down permanently, Chad. And don't think Q the nerd can't do it. I went through the same fucking training you did.” Richie knew he'd never been so goddamn angry in his life. It was a tidal surge inside him that made him wish he'd clawed Chad's eyes out.

Chad gave him the evil eye in return. He was bleeding from a half dozen cuts where they'd slammed each other into anything they could find. Blood was dribbling out of his blond hair, coloring it dark red before it ran down his temple.

“What? No scoff this time? No rubbing your chin and calling it a love tap?” Richie spit out the words and was surprised when he spit some blood along with it. When had that happened? He wasn't feeling anything.
Adrenal surge,
some part of his training informed him. In a full-on adrenaline high he could lose a leg and not feel it. He glanced down but saw that he had two legs and both were still attached. He rubbed his hand along his own jaw but still felt nothing except for a couple of teeth that were wobbly.

“Because of name-calling, Richie?” Carla looked up at him. “Really?”

She shared a look with Melissa that Richie couldn't catch before turning to Chad.

“Care to explain?”

Chad just glowered at her.

Kyle stepped up behind Carla and rested his hands on her shoulders, anchoring her in place.

“Well, Chad,” he said in that commanding voice—which at the moment made Richie want to turn on him as well, “we've heard Richie's complaint, and we've also heard him swear for perhaps the first time in his life. Now you either explain yourself or you and I are going to have some issues.”

* * *

Melissa wasn't sure if she'd ever truly understood Kyle's role here until that moment. His adjustments had always been minor, his comments soft-spoken. Now he stood inside the dim hangar and all authority centered on him. He was judge, jury, and executioner, and there was no question about his ability to fulfill all three roles to their limit—he didn't wield power; he was power.

Watching him stand and wait out Chad's sullen silence, she also finally understood what there was between Kyle and Carla. And she could see that it was deep. She wanted that. All of a sudden, she wanted it badly.

When she couldn't stand it any longer, Melissa finally broke Chad's sullen silence. “He's had it in for me since day one.”

Kyle nodded. “We're all aware of that. He—”

“She went right after Richie!” Chad shouted, then spit out a mouthful of blood that splatted audibly on the concrete before continuing. “You saw it. She went right for him from that first moment.”

“And I went for her,” Richie said evenly.

Melissa was impressed. Richie still looked like the magnificent—if a little battered—fighter, yet he was speaking calmly. Was the nerd integrating with his inner warrior?

“No, Little Brother. You don't get it. I know her type. Hell, how do you think I get the women I do? She was just looking for the easiest way
in
on our team and saw you with your jaw dropped down, easy pickings.”

Richie kicked aside some of the metal scrap scattered across the hangar floor, which hurt Melissa's ears because it was so loud in the strained-to-the-limit tension. He moved up until he was right in Chad's face.

“And I went for her,” Richie repeated.

“She's just using you, bro. You're just too naive to see it.”

Richie's fist went back all over again, but Duane caught it.

She hadn't noticed Duane moving into position, his silence extending beyond merely not speaking. But he was right where he was most needed. And Duane was at least as strong as Chad; Richie's fist might as well have been trapped in concrete.

Chad didn't take advantage of it as Melissa expected.

Instead he hung his head and rubbed his jaw as if it hurt like hell. Then he mumbled, “Someone had to look out for you.”