Shane called up the memory of the area map he’d glanced at as he’d driven from DC. From the passenger seat, Alan had pulled up the map on their dashboard screen and reported in their locations to Harris and HQ.
The trees and twisting road unfurled before him now in a clear, thermal image. Abandoning his wound for the moment, he gripped the wheel with his left hand and tried the Suburban’s radio. The signal was still being jammed. But the vehicle had a transponder that was the newest technology and supposed to be impervious to interference. Harris would be calling out the troops any minute. They’d soon be out of touch for too long.
Shane’s mind spun. They’d followed all their protocols for a pop-up. No one had followed. How the fuck did they find us?
As he sped around a slick corner, he shook his head. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting Rafa back. He clutched the wheel, his nostrils flaring. It was every agent’s worst nightmare to fail, but heavy underneath it was an agonizing fear that he’d never see Rafa again—a gut-clenching despair that was about so much more than the job.
But the thought of how terrified Rafa would be poured more iron into Shane’s veins, chasing away any other emotions except his conviction to get him back.
“If they wanted to kill him, they would have already.” Shane’s own voice sounded distant. He spoke again, trying to ground himself. “He’s alive. I’m getting him back.”
The fuckers had headed farther into the West Virginia backwoods, and they were only minutes ahead. But they thought Shane was dead, and in the dark and rain, they wouldn’t see him coming. He focused on his breathing, clearing his mind. Slowing just a bit, he opened the protection box and took out the M-16. He didn’t know who had cut down Alan and stolen Rafa.
But it was going to be the last thing they ever did.
Chapter Fifteen
Dark. Can’t see.
Blinking, Rafa struggled to open his eyes again. Why couldn’t he see? Where was he? His pulse raced, head aching as if he’d had too much to drink. The remnants of a harsh chemical singed his nose and lingered in his mouth as he swallowed over and over, terror mounting.
Through his grogginess, Rafa jerked his hands up to his face, slamming his elbows into hard metal as he did. His panic amplified in the confined space with a jolt of hot terror. He pressed against his eyes, confirming that they were indeed open.
But there was only blackness.
He was curled on his right side, and his shoulder and hip were jammed against the unforgiving metal. His heart pounded so hard his eardrums were practically vibrating, and the metal surrounding him might as well have encircled his chest, squeezing like a boa constrictor. A scream tore out of his dry throat as he flattened his palms on the metal wall a few inches in front of him. His harsh pants filled the dank air.
He was in a box.
Kicking his curled legs, he cried out as his feet hit solid metal. The rubber soles of his oxfords squeaked as he dragged them across the wall. The box wasn’t even as big as a coffin. He couldn’t stretch out. Holding his breath, he wriggled around onto his left side, feeling for the wall there. In the blackness, he searched the smooth surface and pushed at the lid above with trembling hands. It didn’t move even a fraction.
Hyperventilating, he cried out again, thumping his fists against the lid.
Have to get out. I’m blind. Can’t breathe! Fuck! Help me! Jesus, please!
Rafa’s body seized, and he barely managed to avoid pissing himself. He was hot all over, a sickening flush that dampened his hair and trickled down his spine. He gasped through his mouth, kicking again and pushing against every surface he could reach, trying to swallow his screams.
Trapped. Dying. No no no no no!
He tasted salt as tears streamed down his face. The air felt thin, and his lungs burned. How much oxygen did he have left? Was he buried alive? Was he going to die like this? Where was he? Where was Shane?
Shane.
Sucking in a jagged breath, Rafa remembered. Gunshot. Shane jolting and dropping to the ground like a marionette with cut strings. An arc of blood from his head.
Is he dead? Please don’t be dead. Please, no.
Rafa’s sobs consumed him in the tiny space, filling his ears, tears and snot coating his face. Like a Vine video on a loop, he saw it happen over and over in his mind—how he’d stood there uselessly, frozen as Shane had fallen.
How he’d watched him die.
There was nothing in Rafa’s memory after that. Until now, in this box where he’d suffocate before long. Now he saw a flash of Shane’s surprisingly broad smile, and the way his cheeks creased and his stony face softened. He heard an echo of Shane’s husky chuckle, and the bursts of real laughter that had rang out sometimes. The way he moaned softly when he tasted something he liked. How his lips had felt against Rafa’s in the kitchen, and the slick heat of his tongue as the kiss had deepened. The way his face had lit up when he talked about surfing and the sensation of catching a wave—of soaring.