Free Fall (Elite Force 4)

She shot out of her seat, already eyeing the door.

Mr. Smith scowled from beside the big screen, his infamous clicker in hand as he orchestrated the forces closing in on the bakery truck. “Agent Carson, please return to your seat.”

“No, sir, I need to talk to you about what’s going on in there.” She wasn’t sure who she could trust and she didn’t want to announce her suspicions over the headset to the dozens of listening ears. “If you’ll just give me a moment of your time.”

“No can do,” he snapped. “I’m busy. Sit your ass back down in the chair now. That’s an order.”

Chain of command be damned. She was out of here. And even as much as she wanted to tell herself she was just a field operative following her well-trained instincts, she also knew she couldn’t sit by passively any longer. She had to see Jose.

“Sorry, sir.” She tapped the mouth piece with one hand and snagged a New York Yankees ball cap from the station beside hers. “Can’t hear you. Going through a tunnel.”

She tossed aside her headset, rammed the ball cap over her head, and sprinted toward the door.

***

Jose whipped open the back doors of the bakery truck.

And—shit. There wasn’t so much as a petit four in sight. His worst fears were confirmed. A half-dozen large steel canisters lined the inside of the truck. They could be as innocuous as milk containers, but they also looked exactly like vessels for transporting a toxic gas.

Bubbles and the Saint had weapons drawn on the driver and passenger in front. Data was on lookout. Brick and Fang had his back in case anyone leaped from inside the truck. Only one man waited in the back and he kept his hands raised, the bottom half of his face covered in the black head wrap. He seemed to be cooperating, but Jose wasn’t lowering his guard. He’d seen too many instances of feigned compliance.

Did the dude have explosives strapped to his chest?

And where were the guys who dealt with hazardous waste? The last thing he wanted to do was inadvertently open the things.

Carefully, he crawled into the truck. “Keep your hands in the air.” Gun leveled, he gestured with his free hand in case the guy didn’t understand.

Brick edged closer. “Need help?”

“I’m good. It’s tight in here.” Crouching, he studied the containers, his skin crawling and his mind buzzing with distracting images of Stella. Why the hell had he left her while she slept this morning? “We’re just going to keep the truck locked down until the military hazmat dudes arrive.”

As if conjured by his words, the guys in hazmat suits jogged forward looking like something out of a Ghostbusters movie. Damn, wasn’t that an irreverent thought when he knew deep in his gut this was it? A no shit life-or-death moment. Yet he hadn’t looked into the eyes of the woman he loved this morning.

He’d faced his fair share over the years—parachuting into war zones, crawling through shaky earthquake rubble to save a couple of kids, the list went on and he remembered every mission, every face. They’d all stuck with him. But he couldn’t even imagine the kind of hellish brain stash he would have to wade through if anything happened to Stella today.

He waved the guy out of the back of the truck. “Careful. Hands up.”

The man’s eyes darted wildly, like a captured beast.

No. No. No, damn it.

“Brick…”

They’d all worked together long enough, words weren’t needed. Brick and Fang grabbed the guy’s arms and Jose patted him down, forcing himself to stay calm, nerves level in case he found explosives. They had bomb guys. They had everything thanks to the high profile visit.

And… nothing? “He’s clean.”

From inside the truck, one of the hazmat guys shouted, his voice muffled. “Please clear the perimeter. Our meters are already pinging. Decontamination stations are already being set up.”

Already pinging?

Jose exhaled hard. Okay. Bad. But it could have been so much worse. They’d made it before those containers were unleashed on the crowds on the other side of the building.

Bubbles and the Saint hauled the two fake baker bastards from the front seat. Jose grasped the elbow of his prisoner, wind tearing across the concrete stretch, wind that could carry lethal gasses for miles. The gusts slammed harder, whipping his clothes. The wind tore the cloth from around the detainee’s face.>Chapter 11

The world was seriously frickin’ conspiring against her.

Stella sat stuck at a computer screen looking at Predator footage of the melee outside her hangar. Someone had set off firecrackers just as the vice president’s wife stepped off the plane.