Dare Me, page 6
Donovan stopped in his tracks, glanced around, then slammed open a nearby door with the flat of his hand. "In here."
"Here is just fine," Danica said firmly, stopping on a dime in the corridor. Jon's fingers tightened around hers. "I'm not having any type of surgery, Mr. Donovan." The soldiers behind them moved back at Special-Agent-in-Charge Donovan's nod.
"It wasn't an invitation, Miss Cross," he said, voice low. "Not only is the surgery imperative, time is of the essence."
"Turn up your hearing aid, pal," Jon snapped. "The lady just said No surgery. She's already been checked out by the presi—"
"If you'll come inside where we can be . . . private." Donovan paused, turned and spoke directly to Jon, which Danica found irritating as hell, since she was the one they were talking about opening up.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said unequivocally.
Donovan's eyes reflected compassion and an equal measure of annoyance. "If you'll follow me, I'll explain the seriousness of the situation."
She grabbed Jon's arm and moved with him to the far wall. "Give us a minute."
Donovan nodded, then signaled the soldiers behind them to stay where they were. "We—you— don't have much time." He marched into the room, leaving the door ajar.
"What kind of surgery, for heaven's sake? I walked in here. My arms work—nothing's wrong with me. Oh, God, Jon. What's going on?" Danica whispered, pressing a damp palm to her midriff, where butterflies were practicing takeoffs and landings. Her heartbeat still hadn't returned to its normal cadence of before leaving the palace. Now it throbbed uncomfortably against her rib cage.
What was Jon thinking as he glanced around so casually? What was going on behind his hooded gaze? His mouth looked grim, and he was holding so tightly to her forearm that his fingers were sure to leave bruises. A muscle ticked in his cheek.
"There's something really creepy about this." Danica tried to swallow, but all her spit had dried up hours ago. "This place. Donovan." She absently scratched a bite on her arm, then all the insect bites all over her body started itching like crazy. She wanted to cry with frustration. She was scared. Really, really scared.
Like Alice dropped down the rabbit hole, she had no idea what she'd stumbled into, only that whatever it was, was way beyond her comprehension. "I want out of here. Right now."
Jon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. She saw that he was back with her from wherever he'd just been. Thank God. "Yeah," he whispered, cupping his palm briefly to her cheek. "I'm with you on the creep factor."
He rubbed his hand up and down her arm in a soothing gesture that made her even more nervous. Because, damn it, she could tell from his expression that he too was freaking out at this new development.
She dropped her head to his chest with a thunk. "Oh, damn. I was hoping you'd tell me this whole thing didn't creep you out as much as it does me."
"Sorry, sweetheart," he said against her hair as he held her tightly against his chest. "There's a whole lot of wrong going on here. Hang tough while I try to figure out how the hell we get us out of this mess."
Danica wrapped both arms around his waist. "Speed-think."
Dani's face was white as Raven led her into the room—and Donovan. The glow of fluorescent lighting made the setting surreal. A metal table was pushed up to a large plate-glass partition. Two chrome chairs faced the room behind the glass. On the other side, an operating room filled with equipment had been hastily prepared. What looked like a couple of doctors and several male nurses stood at the ready.
Scared shitless, Jon gave Donovan a cool look. He'd left the door to the room open. For whatever good that would do. The soldiers stood outside. All six of them, AK-47s locked and loaded. "All right," he told Donovan, keeping his gaze steady. He calculated how many seconds it would take him to get to the older man, overpower him and relieve him of the Sig tucked into a holster beneath his jacket. "We're here. What the hell's going on?"
He kept Danica tucked beneath his arm, not wanting an inch of space to come between them. He'd feel marginally better if he were wearing Donovan's sidearm. Which he would be, given half a chance.
"Transair Flight 723 had a series of small bombs on board," Donovan said flatly, motioning to the medical personnel on the other side of the glass that he needed another minute.
Minute, my ass, Raven thought, his mind flashing vivid images of Danica being subjected to some Frankenstein-ish operation. Ice traveled in a chill streak down his spine. Wasn't going to happen. He needed a plan. Actually, he needed a lot of things. Other than his wits, a shiv and a small can of frigging hair spray, he was weaponless.
Donovan started pacing—marching—around the small room, hands clasped behind his back. "Security Chief Edgardo Villalba-Vera was behind the attempted murder of the president's heir, and the murder of most of his cabinet. Plan A was the crash, rigged to look like nothing more than an unfortunate accident."
Dani's arm tightened about Raven's waist. "Other than my wife being on board," he said, hugging her to his side to give them both a modicum of Dutch courage. "I don't see what this has to do with us."
The other man turned and started pacing back the other way. "Vera has already tried a coup. Didn't work. He wants Palacios dead. Because he doesn't want the public outcry to screw his own chances of the presidency, he can't be seen to be involved in assassinating the president. As far as the people, and the president, are concerned, Villalba-Vera is a hero for bringing Miss Cross back here to San Cristobal to honor her for saving young Rigo. Your saving the boy," he snapped as though it was an accusation, "has activated Vera to move to Plan B."
"Well, gee, I'm sorry I survived and saved the president's kid. What was I thinking?" Danica said with only a slight tremor in her voice. "This is all very interesting, but still, nothing to do with us." She tugged Raven toward the exit.
"Sadly, it does," Donovan replied, though she didn't get any genuine feelings of regret or remorse from his tone.
"Villalba-Vera brought you to San Cristobal, Miss Cross, because he plans to use you to assassinate El Presidente."
"That's ridiculous."
"Unfortunately not," Donovan snapped, resuming his pacing. "Two months ago a . . . device was stolen from our top-secret R&D labs in— It doesn't matter where. Suffice to say it's imperative that we retrieve said device ASAP."
"What kind of 'device'?" Jon demanded before she could form the words to ask the same thing.
She rubbed at the persistent itch behind her left ear, then rubbed a bite on her elbow, then another on her hip. If this guy and his convoluted story didn't drive her insane, the itching from all the insect bites would. None of Donovan's problems had anything to do with her and Jon. She'd just promise not to assassinate anyone and they could go.
"Let me just say that the device was something we were working on to eliminate enemies of our country," Donovan said grimly. "A small explosive chip—"
Raven had to support Danica as her knees gave a little dip when the implication hit. Jesus Christ. "How small?" he demanded.
"Tiny. A microelectronic chip encapsulated within proven inert biocompatible—"
"Implanted in Danica?"
Special-Agent-in-Charge-of-Terror nodded. "We suspect soon after her arrival, which explains why she was kept sedated. All that was required was a standard 3 cc syringe in order to implant the microchip. A modified Monoject syringe is used to facilitate a subcutaneous injection procedure.
"And before you ask, yes," Donovan said. "We're positive she's wearing the chip. My man detected it behind her left ear when you were picked up. The reader has manual, remote or computer-controlled operational capability and is battery-powered, using a 9-volt alkaline or 110/220-volt AC adapters. It also transmits via a standard RS232 interface to a computer. A low-energy radio signal energizes the device, which transmits a signal. The reading time is less than forty milliseconds."
The damn thing was in her head? "Tracking capabilities?" Raven asked, cold to his marrow. The question wasn't only "Could Vera track them?" It was "Could Vera remotely detonate the micro bomb implanted in Dani?"
"Yes." So Vera knew exactly where they were. Caught between Scylla and Charybdis. There were no good guys in this. "What was his plan?"
"Detonation of the bomb when Miss Cross receives the keys to the city from the president tomorrow afternoon."
No one would suspect her. And even if they did, a search wouldn't reveal the microscopic bomb. She would have been within touching distance of President Palacios. Ingenious.
Diabolical.
Not frigging going to happen. "How do we block the signal?" Donovan hesitated.
Raven put Danica gently away from him, then in a lightning-quick move kicked the door shut, locked it, and whipped around to wrap his fingers about Donovan's throat. He spoke directly against the man's ear. "Before those guys come in here, I'll kill you with my bare hands. So for the last time, is there a way to block the signal without removing the implant?"
"Tests show—adrenaline and endorphins mute it somewhat," Donovan choked reluctantly.
Just as reluctantly, Raven released Donovan with a shove. He and Danica could power a small country with their adrenaline at the moment. Now not only did he have to get them the hell out of Dodge, he had to find a doctor, a qualified doctor, a doctor he could trust, to remove a prototype microscopic implant, in the middle of the night, in a strange country. Piece of cake.
Raven had contacts, people he could call for help. But it was getting the right people, and the right kind of help—immediately—that concerned him.
"Mute it? Somewhat? Without removing it?" Danica demanded, eyes wide as she stared at him. "Screw somewhat!" She stepped forward and glared at Donovan. "Get it out of me. Nozvl"
Raven grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back against him where he could hold on to her, trying to still his own panic so she wouldn't see it. "Hang on," he said calmly, rubbing his palms up and down the goose bumps on her arms. "Nobody's cutting you until we have all the answers." Yeah. As if.
"What's the real goal here?" he asked Donovan rhetorically. "Retrieving the chip, or my wife's continuing good health?"
"Of course both are equally important to us—"
Yeah. Right. The damn chip was the star attraction. One small American woman who happened to be the unfortunate carrier was expendable. "Can the bomb be reused once it's been removed?"
"Well—"
"A simple yes or no." "Yes."
Ah, man. This was as bad as it got. They didn't give a damn about Dani. Once they had their frigging prototype, that would be it.
He had to ask, even though the chances of them getting anything like a scalpel near her were slim to
go to hell. "How safe is the procedure?" Nothing less than two hundred percent guarantee would be acceptable, and even then Raven would hesitate. He didn't trust this bastard farther than he could throw him. "The truth."
"Five percent," Donovan admitted.
"Five percent chance that something could go wrong?" Jon shook his head grimly and thought about grabbing the guy's throat again. Nobody was getting near Danica unless they could guarantee that she'd be fine afterward. Even if it meant he had to kill every living soul on this godforsaken spit of land.
"Forget it," he said, already thinking about an escape route. "Tell your medics to stand down, because it's not happening—not with a five percent failure rate."
"Five percent chance of success," Donovan corrected, albeit reluctantly. "Ninety-five percent probability of terminating the patient."
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Black dots danced in Danica's wavering vision as she felt every vestige of blood drain from her head. If she fainted, Jon would have to carry her out of here while trying to fend off the soldiers. And she knew, without a doubt, that she and Jon would be getting out of here soon. How soon, and exactly how, she wasn't sure. She locked her knees and concentrated on her breathing. Buck up, she told herself. Do not fall apart. Think.
"It's a lose-lose situation." Jon sounded as grim as Danica felt. And she was feeling pretty damn grim. Oh, God. A bomb inside her? Not just inside her. Inside her head?
Do. Not. Freak.
"There's absolutely no choice, Raven. None," Donovan told him. "Without the removal of the bio-chip,
Villalba-Vera can, and assuredly will, activate it. That's a hundred percent death warrant."
"It was apparently easy enough to insert. Reverse the procedure," Jon told him tightly. "Surely to God we don't need an operating room and a surgeon?"
"There's a fail-safe built in. The device can't be exposed to oxygen." Donovan's tone was terse. "It's us or Villalba-Vera. And be assured, in the unlikely event that he doesn't detonate the device while it is still contained, he will find you and remove it himself. The race is on to see who gets you, and it, first. Time is of the essence. Surely you can see that."
"I do," Jon agreed, sounding reluctant. "But I'm going in with her."
Danica spun around to stare at her nearly-ex-husband, who'd clearly lost his mind. "Are you out of your freaking mind? He wants to cut into me! How do we even know he's telling the truth about this— this—thing?"
Jon cupped her face in both hands, his palms as dry as hers were damp, his dark eyes glittering with—what? Regret? Determination? "Listen to me, Danica. We don't have any choice but to go into that room. The longer you drag your feet, the longer we'll be here. Once the chip's out, we'll be on our way home."
Every cell in her body shrieked a resounding "no!" She searched his face with eyes that burned. Terror grabbed her by the throat, but instead of giving in to it, she held on to the protective gleam in Jon's eyes. He would be with her. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. The one thing she'd always felt with Jon was safe. Even though they'd drifted apart, their marriage crumbling around them, the Jon she knew would protect her.
Please God, she prayed, let me know this man as well as I think I do. "If I die in there, I'm coming back to haunt you," she told him as a terrible calm came over her. She'd crossed the line from unmitigated fear to a place where she'd stepped outside her body to observe herself. Her other self was escorted to the adjacent sterile room by two men, trailed by four armed soldiers. With Jon right beside her, holding her hand.
Sounds muted. The floor felt unsubstantial beneath her feet, and the air smelled imperceptibly of antiseptic as she, Jon and Donovan went inside. The door shut behind them. Danica was aware of each individual, slow, dirgelike thump of her heart as Jon led her to stand beside a linen-draped operating table. It was a blessed relief to feel nothing at all.
Except that, in some dim recess of her brain, she knew she had to shake this lethargy. It was hard for her to read Jon's signals.
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He turned her to face him, sliding his hand down her numb arm to take both her hands in his. His eyes scanned her face, and he frowned, looking worried.
"I'll be with you every second. Trust me, sweetheart. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, or let anyone or anything take you away from me ever again." She could see their fingers entwined, his hands large and dark, hers ridiculously small and pale, but she didn't feel the contact.
He bent his head slightly and looked directly into her eyes. She didn't blink. Jon had lovely eyes. A deep rich blu—"Ow!" She jerked when he pinched her forearm. Hard.
"With me now?"
Danica blinked like a sleepwalker after a rude awakening. "Oh, yeah."
"Ready?" A guy in a cap and face mask asked as he snapped a rubber glove onto his left hand.
What an irritating sound that is, Danica thought, annoyed. The brightly lit room pulsed with the low hum of machinery as Jon turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. "One kiss before she goes under."
"Or my head explodes," Danica murmured with gallows humor.
"Ah, sweetheart, you're one in a million." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him, his face buried against her neck. "Trust me," he whispered on a quiet breath. "Give it a count of five and start bawling. Make it dramatic, and make it loud."
He lifted his head to brush his lips over hers. Danica felt a small spark of life as she parted her lips to greet his. But the spark was short-lived as he mouthed, "Four," brushed his mouth over hers again, lingering a little, then "five—"
Danica burst into noisy faux tears and shrieks of terror. Her own screams grated on her ears, but she kept it up, getting louder and louder and storming about the room, distracting the men while Jon did— whatever he was doing. She was too busy playacting to look.
All eyes turned to her—then a second later toward the door as it burst open, slamming noisily against the wall. Four guns clicked as the soldiers spilled through, some standing, some kneeling in the open doorway—weapons drawn.
"Oh, for—" Donovan snarled, striding toward them. "She's just hysterical, not being murdered. This room is sterile. Get out and close the damn door," he ordered the soldiers. Their weapons clicked as they backed out of the room and shut the door behind them. Donovan turned. "Keep her quiet, for God's sake, or we'll have—" He turned to find Jon standing directly behind him, a tank of ether raised at shoulder level.
Jon's shoulder—his face. He reached for his gun, but Jon was faster, slamming the heavy tank into Donovan's nose. The accompanying sound was like the snap of a stalk of celery. Then a thud as Donovan hit the floor. Danica didn't even wince.
She ran to the door, slamming home the lock, then spun around to see Jon, a gun in each hand. Face expressionless, he motioned for the medical personnel to close the gap between them, which they did with stunned, robotic precision.
Danica bent to pick up the heavy tank beside the unconscious and profusely bleeding Donovan. Feeling no sympathy for him, she hefted the tank, staggering for a moment under the weight. As a weapon it was unwieldy, but no one was going to shoot at her when she was holding it. She hoped. "That looks like a closet over there." She nodded in the general direction of a door across the room.
